RING MY BELL

It’s 4:30 a.m. I just woke up. And I, Temple Latrice Lee, am alive.Yes, alive and it’s a really big deal. I’m sure there are those who were betting against me, maybe even Dr. Schustenberg when she told me 18 months ago, that I had stage III breast cancer. But today I’m cancer free and ready to ring that dang bell.

You’re probably wondering how I got to this point. Well so am I. I mean for real, how does a 32 year old woman who looked perfectly healthy and felt perfectly fine until that life changing week, end up being diagnosed with cancer.

But one thing is certain, cancer came along at the most inconvenient time.

Everything was falling into place for me personally and professionally. I had just been offered a huge promotion at work, the position I thought wouldn’t happen until I had been with the Foundation for at least 10 years. But one day seemingly out of the blue, Marlene O’ Reilly, the Director of The Children’s Programs, announced she was retiring.. She and her husband were buying an RV and traveling around the country, to visit campsites in all 50 states. She recommended me for her job, but I was still surprised when Henry Randolph, the Foundation’s CEO, invited me to lunch and presented me with a contract and an extremely lucrative benefits package.

I walked out of the club that day, well let me rephrase that, I floated out of the club with a million things running through my mind. Of course I told Henry I’d like a few days to think it over, even though I knew I would say yes to the job, the salary and those benefits. Ya girl ain’t stupid. This had been the kind of job I dreamed about when I switched my major from Economics to NonProfit management after my freshman year of college.

This job excited me because I’d be in charge of millions of dollars the Foundation grants to children’s programs throughout the Southeast. Two days later, I officially accepted the job and signed my contract. And to celebrate, my 5 closest girlfriends planned an elaborate dinner for me at what’s supposed to be the hottest new restaurant in town.

I was on my way out the door to meet them when a sharp pain hit my side, so sharp that I almost collapsed. And then it started to throb. The pain soon passed, so I proceeded with my celebratory outing with the girls and had a great time for a very long time. I woke up the next morning and realized late nights at 22 and late nights at 32 are entirely different worlds. My beautiful African print headscarf was around my neck, one of my boho braids was stuck to the fluffy mink lashes on my left eye, and my head felt like a jackhammer had moved from road construction on I85, straight to my brain. I was grateful one of my girls had arranged for my limo ride home.

And then I realized the throbbing on my side had returned with a vengeance and had now traveled to pain in my hip as well. I tried to get out of bed and fell face down on my beautiful mahogany hardwood bedroom floor. And it hurt.

I reached for my phone to call my parents. Yes, I know you’re thinking I should have called 911, but blame it on the pain. I couldn’t think straight. I must have sounded pitiful on the phone because they arrived in 15 minutes in what is usually a half hour drive. They obviously forgot that I was face planted on the floor because they spent several minutes arguing about whether they should take me to the urgent care clinic down the street or take the 25 minute drive to the actual hospital, before deciding on the latter. On the way, I sent a group text to the sisterfriend group to let them know what was going on and promised to update them as soon as possible.

I’d never been so glad to see a hospital emergency room, and after an unbearably long wait, I finally saw a doctor who asked about my pain level. 50 out of 10 I told him as he examined me and ordered a couple of tests and bloodwork. I should have known something was up when they decided to keep me overnight. I convinced my parents to go home for the night and return early the next morning. And trust, that took a lot of convincing. When I finally checked my messages, there were 27, all of them from the sisterfriends group, except for one. It was from Garrick, a promising candidate to become my boyfriend. We met at the gym and the after workout smoothie date turned into lunch the next day and a four hour dinner later that same evening. Tonight was supposed to be date #4 to celebrate my promotion and his award as lead architect for one of his company’s biggest projects this year. On paper, he checked all the boxes on my ridiculously long list, so I was looking forward to finding out if he was too good to be true. So obviously I had to cancel our date. I sent a short and to the point text to say I needed a rain check because weird pains landed me in the hospital. I even sent a photo in case he thought I was lying. He offered to stop by to visit, but since I was exhausted physically and mentally by this point, I told him I’d check in tomorrow, confident that I’d be released and on my way home. I spent the rest of the evening texting, then facetiming with my five besties and explaining they didn’t need to storm the hospital to rescue me.

Of course, everyone showed up bright and early the next morning. Mama and Daddy arrived first, followed by my girls: Maya and Andrea about 5 minutes after my parents, then Kim, followed by Rhonda and then Violetta, last and late as usual. They all waited with me for what I thought would be somebody coming by with discharge papers. Instead, a doctor with her intern or maybe it was a resident tagging along, came into the room and suggested everyone leave except for my parents. She explained that one of the many tests showed something suspicious on my hip, so I’d need more testing, but she was concerned that the something suspicious was cancer. I’d like to give you details of everything that happened next, but I can’t. The next 48 hours are a big blur. I remember the shocked look on my parents’ faces, my besties shocked and crying and the doctor mentioning several other tests and the name of an oncologist, who is a personal friend of hers.

You know how they say sometimes when something traumatic happens to you, it’s like you’re out of your body, looking at what’s happening to a person who happens to be you? That’s how I felt for the first few days, going through an MRI, PET scan, heart scan and CT scan.

I finally felt back in my own body as I sat in the oncologist’s office, waiting to meet Dr. Belinda Schustenberg. I chuckled to myself, thinking about how we broke the news to 89 year old Grandpa Lee. Maybe it’s his military background, but he immediately went into action mode and told me to find a Black oncologist, so I wouldn’t be the victim of the health disparities he’d read so much about recently and had known to be a medical fact for all of his Black life. I had to show him a photo of Dr. Schustenberg to prove to him that she’s indeed a Black woman.

I really like Dr. S. She was detailed and brutally honest. My official diagnosis was breast cancer that spread to my lymph nodes and bones, stage III. She said I was in for a tough fight because this was not a case where cancer was caught early. I was too young for routine mammograms, which may have caught it before it spread. I also had triple negative breast cancer, which affects more younger women and more African American women, and it’s tougher to cure. And in that same conversation, she laid out the treatment plan: a double mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiation. I thought I would pass out. And I was grateful that I had not allowed Mama and Daddy to come with me to this appointment. I did that by lying. I told them my appointment was the next day, same lie I told the girls. I left Dr. S’s office and immediately sent a group text, asking the sisterfriends to meet me at my parents’ house later that evening, I still had to figure out how to tell my younger brother, who was working for the Centers For Disease Control, stationed in Burkina Faso.

It’s hard to explain why I wanted to go to the appointment alone. I just wanted to be laser focused on my diagnosis and treatment plan without everyone else’s emotions, just mine. And there was Garrick. I had no idea how to include him in these conversations, if I should at all. We’d only been on three dates, but it was clear a potential relationship was possible. But first, I knew I had to explain everything to my family and then the circle of besties.

That meeting didn’t go so well. The parents, the best friends, everybody was upset, mad and distressed that I lied about the appointment and went alone. I specifically remember Kim asking how the hell I thought going alone was a good idea. Then, she turned to Mama and Daddy and apologized for cursing in front of them. I had to try hard to suppress laughing at that. I realize that in some way, excluding them hurt their feelings, and that still weighs on me. My brother took it hard as well. He wanted to end his job assignment early and come home, but I insisted that he stay and tried to reassure him that I was going to beat this cancer beast.

Garrick was another story. I met him for breakfast a few days after the family and friends come to Jesus meeting. He too was shocked and had a million questions about my prognosis. I was honest. We made plans for dinner the next night, but he texted early the next day to say he was working late on a big project assigned to him after his award on the last one. He said he’d called the next morning to reschedule dinner. I never heard from him again. It hurt and was disappointing, but in a way, I guess I can kinda understand. Taking on cancer with someone you’re just getting to know is a big ask, too much of an ask for him I guess. I did text him twice and he never responded. Violetta deleted his number from my phone, while she said some choice words about him, his mama and his future children.

Telling everyone at the Foundation was another heartbreak. I was so excited about my new role. They were understanding and supportive, but the reality was I wasn’t sure if I’d physically be able to do the job. They promised to hold it open for me, which I think legally they had to do.

So exactly two weeks after my first visit to Dr. S, I began chemotherapy. My treatment plan included two drugs every three weeks for three months, then another drug every week for three months. The non-treatment weeks were designed to give my body time to recover. One of the drugs is nicknamed The Red Devil, and I know why. It was hell. They gave me an anti-nausea drug, but it didn’t work. The first few days after chemo were shall we say, less than pleasant, days of nausea, fatigue, bone pain and general discomfort. Andrea, who was always good at organizing stuff and paying attention to detail, organized the sisterfriends, so one of them was always with me on chemo days, driving Mama and Daddy to the appointments, delivering food, bringing gifts and generally making sure we never felt alone. I am eternally grateful for them.

After my hair started falling out in clumps, Rhonda insisted on shaving it for me because her uncle Frank is a barber in Detroit. However, her attempt proves that barbering is not in the DNA. I saw so many blessings along my journey. I started calling them God winks. And He winked alot. The church mothers were here every week, bringing soups, healthy liquid concoctions and most of all prayers that I’m certain made the angels sit down and take notice.

Once chemotherapy was over, it was time for the next phase, the mastectomy. That was mentally tough. The worst part was the “buttinskys” who questioned why at 32 years old, I would allow a doctor to cut off my breasts. My standard answer was, “Because I want to be 33.” That usually shut them up. Did I want to have my breasts removed? Of course not. But Dr. S was great at explaining all the options that would increase my chance of surviving. And right there in her office, she took off her lab coat, opened her blouse and showed me her beautifully reconstructed breasts. I was stunned. Stunned that she was bold enough to show me and stunned that until this point, she never told me she once had had cancer. I left there with the name of her surgeon and an appointment later that week.

A month after chemo ended, I turned 33 and had a double mastectomy. And when I say I turned 33, I mean I had surgery on my actual birthday. I know, crazy right? In some weird way, I found it the perfect way to spend my birthday, fighting to see many more. After I recovered, I had radiation, then breast reconstruction using tissue from my back, because my surgeon said I didn’t have enough stomach fat. Thank you ma’am.

Then, it was time to see if this massive and detailed treatment plan worked. Dr. S scheduled me for a PET scan, CT scan and an MRI. The wait was almost unbearable. Dr. S’s office called and scheduled me for a 2:00 appointment. I loved the fact that she is one of those doctors who never keeps you waiting. That is until that day. The staff kept apologizing that she had an emergency at the hospital. Finally after two hours, my favorite nurse, Fran, informed me that Dr. S. wouldn’t make it back to the office to see me or the other two patients waiting. She promised Dr. S would call me later that evening. And then at precisely 6:07 that night, she called and asked me to put her on speaker phone, so my parents could hear. And she channeled her inner Oprah to announce, “Temple Lee, you’re cancer freeeeeee!” She then switched back to her professional voice to go into detail about the various test results. I didn’t hear anything else she said because Mom and Dad were busy thanking God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit and doing what looked like the Pentecostal holy dance at the same time, even though they are Baptists. But I did hear the part where Dr. S told me to come back to the Cancer Center the next morning to receive my completed radiation certificate and to ring the bell that cancer patients ring when they finish the treatment journey.

So here we are. I’m getting ready now. I’m wearing a hot pink blouse with feathers, too tight leather pants, a pink head scarf with sequins and bright pink lip gloss, because I can. This is one appointment I won’t be going solo. Mama and Daddy arrive at 8:30 to pick me up. Last night was the first night I’ve spent in my home in a year. Daddy grins when he sees my outfit, and even Mama who usually has something to say about my wardrobe choices, smiles with approval. When we step off the elevator, I’m overwhelmed. All five sisterfriends, Henry, the CEO of the Foundation, a slew of church members are all there, even Marlene, who flew in from her latest campground visit in Wyoming. Dr. S says a few words, presents me with the certificate and then it’s my turn. As tears well up in my eyes, I can only say I’m thankful and grateful and truly blessed. Then I turn to the wall, grab the clapper and ring the bell. The nurses cheer, everyone applauds and the sisterfriends tossed pink confetti.

As everyone is chatting and celebrating, I notice someone around the corner. I think he’s looking at us. I walk toward him and realize, it’s Garrick. What is he doing and why is he here of all places? Before I can quiz him, he speaks first, “Temple, congratulations. You look good.” “Thank you Garrick”, I say with the least amount of warmth possible. “What brings you here?” “My mom,” he says. “She just had her fourth cancer surgery.” I could barely get my words out. “I’m so sorry. When was she diagnosed?” He looked at me and paused several seconds before speaking. “My mom had texted me several times during our breakfast when you told me you had cancer. I didn’t want to interrupt our conversation, so I waited to call her back. She was in her doctor’s office and they’d just told her she has stage IV lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life.”

My heart sank as I hugged him without any adequate words to speak.