April 22: "Something is suspicious on your film, let's do an ultrasound...right now"
April 22: "Something is showing up on your ultrasound, call your doctor because you need a biopsy"
April 22: "Let's not worry only if there's a need to...have a nice weekend"
April 28: "Your biopsy is tomorrow, the doctor does not want to wait"
April 29: "So are you sure you want me to call you on the phone with the results tonight?"
April 29: "I am sorry, your biopsy is positive for cancer"
Cue the record scratch. I am swimming in a deep pool of sludge called shock, but approaching the shallow end and headed for the stairs. Two weeks ago I chatted with my son about his 17th birthday. About his driving. About college visits. I was researching recipes for Easter. I was shopping for spring dresses for the girls. I was making appointments for manis and pedis and talking with my husband about summer vacation destinations. I was thinking about taking a class and looking for fulfilling part time work. I was patting myself on the back for losing nearly 30 pounds after countless hours on my elliptical trainer and meticulously writing down every morsel of food I put in my mouth. Oh yeah, I gotta get that mammogram. If there was ever a time when I felt time must have stopped, it's now.
Between the waves of hopelessness and numbness, I have not allowed myself too much time to think about breast cancer but I guess now I don't have much of a choice. It still feels so foreign to even say it knowing I'm referring to myself. And outside of clinical people I've only uttered the actual words maybe three times. "So, yeah, isn't it so nice out? Oh well by the way I have breast cancer! So, did you get your tickets to Bamboozle yet?" The veritable emotional roller coaster is exhausting and I want to get off it right now. But before I'm allowed off I've concluded that this situation is really a deafening message sent from somewhere that I have some things to learn about myself and life. And maybe to share with others. There is simply no other use for all this craziness. What is there to gain from all this? It's going to be my job to find out. Heck, I didn't need a thing to get this gig. No fancy resume, no interview suit. Just a big 'ol mass on the left side of my chest I really wanted to believe was nothing but a nuisance so just tell me so please and let me get on with the rest of my regular life.
April 29: Gave Ed a long lecture in a parking lot after his incessant prodding for answers as to why he had to stay home from school to watch the girls. "Well, I have cancer. BUT DON'T YOU THINK FOR A MINUTE THAT I'M GOING TO ALLOW THIS TO GET IN THE WAY OF WHAT I NEED TO DO. I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE. By the way please don't squeeze me too hard, I'm a little sore."
April 30: Not one to feel defeated by the little nonsensical silliness of breast cancer, went to a dinner party hosted by good friends planned weeks before. Chatted with three fun loving couples, talked too much about personal finance and strange habits of teenaged boys but laughed and ate well. "Teresa, you look so well. It's those girls, right? They make you run." For nearly three hours, I did not have cancer. How long can I or should I keep up this gig?
May 1: Sat in a functional haze in mass but did hear the priest say something about..."We need to allow Him to carry us in our time of need, and then when we are able, help to carry someone else in need."
May 3: CT scan and nuclear study at St. Clare's. Will the radioactive dye they stuck in my arm allow me to scale the outside of the hospital like Spiderman?
May 4: MRI. Walked into the office 25 minutes late, almost expecting to be told they could not do the test because of my lateness. However, I learned that it's really hard to be mad at someone with cancer. I might be able to use this to my advantage! Walked out of the exam to my two girls watching Sesame Street in the waiting room and taking leaps off their couch, with a new coloring book from the tech. They couldn't have been happier. Please, please, I thought, please let them stay just this way for a long long time.
Follow up with the surgeon later that afternoon. I am uninterested in looking at my healing incision. The CT scan is clear. Do I dare allow myself to be slightly relieved? Talked in general terms about protocol. Chemo probably first, then depending on response, lumpectomy or mastectomy. Asked me to start to prepare for this possibility, but that reconstruction is a possibility too. And to call the oncology group. "You should be seen no later than next week." Appointment for next Thursday. Looking forward to a day with no medical appointments. Just to get back to the important tasks of life, planning meals, clipping coupons, withstanding twin toddler meltdowns in public, laundry. All the things I used to begrudge somehow now bring me some comfort in the familiar.
May 7: A quick visit to the family care physician group to update my situation. "You need a therapist." she says to me. Ordered bloodwork, gave me a hug and sent me home with a script for Xanax.
I hit the elliptical hard this evening. 5 miles in roughly 50 minutes. I feel the endorphins coursing through me. Healthy sweating with a pink glow. That "place" you feel when your body's cardiovascular system is working at the optimal calorie burning rate. The warming sensation of all your muscles working in concert with no hard impact. Rage Against the Machine pounding through my headphones. I can close my eyes with no fear of falling off. Like I'm running from something. I don't FEEL this cancer inside me. I can't SEE this cancer. I don't look like I have cancer. 50 more minutes, by body doesn't betray me. I pass on the Xanax and opt for 2 glasses of pinot in front of the TV for a re-run of Private Parts.
May 8: I am reminded what an amazing job I have in being a mother. The most gratifyingly wonderful and awe-inspiring pursuit that I have been blessed to enjoy for over 17 years. Worth the sacrifice of every last ounce of everything I have. Ed gave me a cancer healing cookbook. I told him I would cook some recipes for the whole family from it. He gave me a sour look. "Well just because you don't have cancer doesn't mean you can't eat something from the cancer healing cookbook." Only a 17 year old can be so endearing and thoughtful and such a moe-moe at the same time.
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