December Diagnosis

   It was December 2, 2017. Let’s just jump straight to the point by mentioning that I am very in tune with my body, and for some reason, “the girls” just didn’t swing the same way that day, per usual, upon stepping over the shower ledge while entering the shower. Something was not right. My axillary area seemed thicker and heavier, hence, preventing the swing. As I continued showering, I was able to detect a hard, plum seed sized lump within that area. “Oh fuck!,” I said out loud to myself. “I really don’t have time right now for this shit!” Not that anyone else does have time or deserves to have “IT”, but I instantly knew at that moment, that I had cancer.

    Yes, I try to remain optimistic, but my family hereditary left much to be desired. My father endured bladder cancer many years ago at only thirty-eight years old. He had recently been diagnosed three months earlier with another type of cancer, for which I had been researching and trying to help support him through. My mother had also fought breast cancer, so I had tried being proactive by getting my mammogram only a year and a half prior. Apparently, I belonged among the dense breast population of women in which that mammogram missed detecting it at an earlier stage. My children were young- six and twelve. My husband, Todd, had only just opened a new branch at work, and I had also been recently and quickly promoted at my own job as well. Saying my family and I were already busy and stressed out was an understatement. I knew that I would have to call my doctor to make an appointment, only for her to confirm there being a lump, without being able to do or say anything further about it. I asked the office if they could make an imaging appointment right away instead. No such luck. Thus began the suspenseful and hellish journey. I proceeded about my business while the intrusive “what if’s” and “who’s going to” thoughts invaded their way inside my brain until my appointment two short, yet very long days later.

    “Yes, I definitely feel what you’re feeling, and you indeed have a lump there, but I can’t tell you anything further without imaging,” my doctor announced at my appointment, just as I had suspected. I was now going to remain in additional suspense of what I already knew, for another eleven days until my diagnostic imaging appointment on the 15^th. I probably should not have agreed to that date as it was Todd's birthday. I had planned for a celebratory dinner out, but it was the first date available to receive concrete answers to the questions that were plaguing me.  December 15^th arrived as a dark, dismal, cold and snowy day. I went to work, and then arrived for my appointment. Allow me to digress for a moment by mentioning that my entire career had revolved around death as a licensed funeral director, embalmer, and hospital autopsy organ eviscerator. This entailed both reconstructing the emaciated shells of former vivacious, human remains that cancer and its “treatments” had destroyed, to removing cancerous organs from the deceased for pathological study as well. My background unequivocally armed my already uniquely, overactive mind with an additional set of disturbing mental ammunition that heavily influenced my opinions on the matter.  Clearly, I had witnessed and experienced enough in these realms to know that I never wanted to find myself or my loved ones in this position, yet here I was, now sitting in a waiting room awaiting tests that would determine which side of the statistics I would be on.

    The orders were for a mammogram, with an ultrasound to follow, only if there were any abnormalities present. As I remained seated in the waiting room, another younger woman walked in and sat nearby. She was obviously a cancer patient, but she looked vibrant and healthy in her colorful, flowy turban. “Yep, that’s probably going to be me soon,” I thought. “And if life is going to be giving me lemons, then I’m going to make lemonade by rocking colorful turbans much like she is doing. I will purchase wigs of several different colors; maybe even give some of them different, fun personalities?” Or, so at least I thought at the time. My hair loss woes fantasies were interrupted by the sound of the tech opening the door as she announced my name to come on back. At first, the mammogram procedure was just as uncomfortable as usual, yet still occurring normally, per recollection of my past experience. Suddenly, however, it wasn’t anymore. Generally, technicians are not allowed to tell you anything during or after testing, but this would be the first imaging that I’d ever had in my life where indicative words were being spoken by the tech. Well, that, and I was instructed after the procedure to take a seat in the changing room to wait until the ultrasound tech was ready for me.

    Once again, even among the usual small talk banter from the ultrasonographer, there were the indicative facial and verbal expressions that were suggestive of a greater problem than I had initially realized. So much, in fact, that the radiologist herself, who had read the mammogram imaging results, personally stepped in the room to inform me that not only had my one, decent sized breast mass been confirmed, but I also had two more masses located in my lymph nodes. Even without having had a biopsy yet, all three masses displayed strong characteristics of being cancerous. The additional icing on the cake centered around the lymph node involvement and how much more grim my prognosis could be if it had spread further beyond that. The surgical oncologist, wow…… surgical oncologist, just happened to be in the building at the time. I was told that I could change back into my clothes to be taken to meet her when I was ready. That was quite a lot to fathom and process while I was changing! Okay, I guess I was not just officially diagnosed with cancer, yet it was strongly appearing as such, and I now had to go discuss this with a surgical oncologist! I reached for my winter coat and thought about how I still needed to pick up marshmallows on the way home for my son’s school hot cocoa party, Todd's birthday dinner, the Christmas shopping I had yet to begin, Christmas cookies, cards, my kids, work, my kids, my kids again, and my whole family. I suddenly began to cry. I don’t know why because I can’t quite describe what I was feeling. I wasn’t sad. I would perhaps say numb, shocked, pissed, uncertain and slightly overwhelmed.

    As numb as I was, however, I will never forget the waiting room while meeting the surgical oncologist. It was small, cramped, and dark. Very dark. There were skylights, but they were covered with tinted screens. It also seemed to be snowing more viciously with increased wind. The sky seemed to have gotten much darker and uglier than when I had arrived, just as this situation was symbolically unraveling. It was a welcome surprise how young and beautiful the surgeon was when she entered the room. Although she was comforting, kind and I knew I needed to eventually meet her, I, at that moment, had just been hit with some devastating news that I was trying to process. I couldn’t engage in much of a conversation, let alone physically write any information on the paperwork that I was handed on a clipboard to complete. Hell, I don’t think I could properly recall my address of fifteen years at that time, either. The surgeon realized this, took the clipboard from me, and wrote the information for me instead. At the end of the appointment, she stared me straight in the eyes as she assured me that they would take very good care of me. She then gave me a hug. As much as she seemed sincere and believable, I naturally had a lot to question as well during that evening and entire next week until my biopsy appointment on the 22^nd.

    Seriously, I questioned EVERYTHING. At dinner that evening, I was outwardly trying my best to be present in the moment of Todd's special day. I honestly did notice and appreciate how the restaurant owner prepared custom meals to satisfy our sons’ picky palates, but it was still impossible not to gravitate towards bothersome thoughts that were hiding behind my smiles and sips of wine. What if this was the last birthday that I shared with my husband? If I died, would he keep the plastic boat that I cleverly used as a prop to present his birthday gift in, or would he throw it away? Was this going to be terminal or curable, and how sick was I going to get? Maybe I really didn’t have cancer and the biopsy would reveal something else non-life threatening? Could I still work? Could I still perform my motherly and wifely duties? Would my family be repulsed or scared of me aesthetically, situationally or perhaps, both? Would my friends still be my friends? I glanced around the room to observe all who were dining. I wondered what they were currently battling or may have battled in the past. I noticed several people who were in their golden years, and wondered how they’d managed to reach that age without getting cancer. Maybe they had actually had it in the past, but beat it. I wanted to make it to that age some day, too. Was I going to? I thought back to a month prior when ignorance was bliss and I knew nothing of what was now occurring. I also noticed some younger, carefree ladies chatting and laughing over their dinner and wine. I yearned to be that again as well, but couldn’t fathom if a future was going to exist or what it might entail at that time. These thoughts all occurred during only a couple hours at dinner! Every subsequent day thereafter did not disappoint in the categories of emotional, spiritual and mental fuckery. Seeing happy, healthy, elderly people walking their dogs, attending my children’s school Christmas concerts, writing out Christmas cards, cancer deaths at work and so many other happenings evoked some sort of deep thought, realization or question that didn’t serve me well, but I could not escape them. I still needed more answers that were dependent upon my impending biopsy procedure.

    When biopsy day finally arrived, Todd and I told our sons that we were going to go run to the bank. I had been pre-instructed by the staff that “this wasn’t going to be that big of a deal, I wouldn’t need anyone to drive me home from the procedure, and I should be able to work afterwards.” Easy for someone else to say who wasn’t getting the procedure done themselves. All the changes, the thoughts, my future, or lack thereof, for the past 20 days, were lying at the fate of this procedure’s results! This is where the shit was or wasn’t going to get real. I looked up at the pink, flowery ceiling light covers. I had always wondered if they would soothe me if I ever had a difficult procedure like this. They didn’t. I realized that this  was probably going to be the beginning of looking up at many medical institutions' ceiling lights, needles, tests, and God knows what else. As the radiologist was stabbing the needle through my tumors, the awkward small talk continued. She asked if I’d made my Christmas cookies yet. I responded, “yes,” but wondered if I’d be around to bake any more the next year. I also asked her if there was anything else that the masses could possibly be, such as lipomas or some sort of fat globules. She struggled to respond.  She appeared as though she badly wanted to tell me something- anything hopeful or positive, but she couldn’t find those words. She finally replied by telling me that no, it couldn’t possibly be anything else except cancer, but they had been fooled only a couple times before.

     I had three masses to biopsy. One was rather difficult to harpoon. The radiologist compared the scenario as trying to pierce a floating olive with a toothpick. After each biopsy, someone had to apply their full body pressure on me for ten minutes to prevent bleeding. As I do not like to be confined in any way, and there was no escape from the reality of literally being trapped in that moment, it was excruciating to bare. I was absolutely screaming inside, yet wearing my strong mask externally, as women are used to doing, to shield their loved ones from their own pain. I desperately wanted to see Todd. I wanted to be held and be the one shielded, but the procedure lasted well past an unexpected, two hours.  I wondered what Todd was doing while he waited for so long, but I was taken to be further smashed and bent around like Gumby in a mammogram machine. Not pleasant at all after multiple biopsies, and also unexpected. I then had to sit alone and think some more in another room while I waited for the radiologist to confirm that the mammogram images were sufficiently taken. When I finally exited into the waiting room to find Todd, I noticed that his eyes looked pink. He’d been up to the counter several times asking what was wrong. He had texted a friend to ask the same as if he’d know. That may have been the moment shit got a little more real for him too, as opposed to the “Nuh uh, get out of here”, denial response that I had received from him when I first told him of my lump discovery. He was also amazed by the number of people walking in and out of that office who might have been dealing with the same nightmare that we were. I’m glad that he had insisted on driving me that day because I wouldn’t have been focused on driving by the time I left. We arrived home and I laid down on the couch for a bit, where the boys, who had no idea, were simply being boys. They playfully jumped all over me and my terribly sensitive area. I did go to work that evening as well. I was definitely uncomfortable. I had some ice packs on my wounds, and was told not to lift anything over ten pounds, but of course I did because I was still hiding all of this from my coworkers as well. Todd surprised me with a special box of chocolates as an after dinner work treat- another sign that he was probably beginning to realize the gravity of this predicament. Other than those minor details, the staff was correct. It really wasn’t a big deal!

    I was told that it would be four to five days, due to the holiday, until I would receive a phone call from the surgical oncologist with my results. Todd and I had decided to take the boys to Florida the day after Christmas for a vacation. I realized that this meant that I was going to receive the news while on vacation, but I also realized that I probably needed to take this vacation to enjoy with my family before I was either too bald, too sick or too dead to do so. I knew I needed to get on that plane! I had no longer arrived in Florida and propped my feet up, poolside, when my phone rang. Although the phone call, indeed turned out as expected, it was still a completely different feeling to have someone give me the official three words diagnosis of, “You have cancer.” I had heard my dad ask other cancer patients how they felt when they were presented with those words, and thought, “Why would you ask that? How do you think they would feel?” Upon hearing them myself, I then understood. Once you’re in “the club”, you just unfortunately know, and I was now joining my dad on a simultaneous cancer journey together. My December diagnosis had officially occurred. My whole world as I knew it, had already changed for the entire month leading up to that day. Somehow, I had thought that I might, perhaps, gain some sort of closure to be able to move on with a master plan from all that I had already endured, once I received this answer.  Little did I realize, as brutal as December had been, it was merely a precursor to the hellish physical, spiritual, emotional, family and mental nightmare that was yet to come and ultimately change my life forever.