Stages and Steps

I was talking with someone today and I realized how many stages and steps you go through from the time someone first tells you that you have breast cancer onward. It's an interesting journey. Thought I'd share.

I first found the lump at my mother's house, in the shower, while I was visiting in February. I didn't say anything to anyone until I came home. I told my husband we may have a problem, as I had found this 'thing'. Thing. Couldn't bring myself to use the word lump. I knew I had no insurance and a mammogram etc. wasn't gonna be free. So I started searching the web and found a grant available in NYS.

After a mammo, then an ultrasound, then a biopsy, I was given the news I pretty much already knew somehow. March 15, 2007, it's cancer.

I went into a void, a black hole, a silent black hole. Cancer. Just the word alone makes people's brains screech. Although, truth be told, all the progress they have made in this area, almost makes this a 'chronic condition' you live with and don't automatically die in a week from. But you couldn't tell me that.

When we returned to the surgeon's office....OK, let me back up. I'm sure this guy is a great surgeon, he comes highly recommended, but he makes me a nervous wreck, he's a fatalist, and paints the blackest picture he can stroke. The 2 times I was at his office, I had panic attacks. Maybe he does it on purpose; go completely overboard so anything less is gravy. Dunno.

But on that visit, I was half hysterical, crying, couldn't breath, sweating, he made it all sound so bad. I was dying, I knew it. Again, all I could think of was my husband, my mom and my cat. Dying. Just bought a house, dad just died, now I'm dying. He told me he would probably have to perform a mastectomy and assorted other horrors I don't even remember. One thing he did say. He was convinced I needed a mastectomy. THEN he examined me and said, hmmm, well, maybe not. Now I was convinced he goes overboard.

I left his office like a shell of the person I once was. I lost interest in everything. I didn't want to decorate my house, clean the house, leave the house, get out of the bedroom, didn't CARE about the house, just sat like a lump for days, void of thought, blank mind, shock I guess is what it was.

Once I got hooked up with my oncologist, he decided I needed scans of all parts of my body. This is by far, hands down, no contest, the most stressful, terror producing, thing I ever experienced. Waiting for the visit to hear the results of the all the scans; organs, bones, ultrasounds, you name it. I had a panic attack before he even came into the room. They couldn't take my blood pressure because I was a wreck. I wore a crucifix and had a rosary wrapped around my wrist, as I had during all the tests. I clutched my poor husband's arm and hand, as if I was drowning. Then the words came. "The scans look good". No sign of cancer anywhere, in fact you're pretty healthy, all things considered.

You have no idea what the word relief means until that moment in your life. I cried, clutched my husband, saw a ray of hope that I actually may live. That was the first moment I thought I could live.

Now we are 8 weeks down the road. I absolutely believe I'm going to live. I have interest in my home again, I have interest in doing things again, going to yard sales, going out, we went out to dinner the other night, summer events are gearing up in the beautiful Adirondacks. I made the dreaded appointment for the port catheter for the chemo, as my arms are destroyed. And the biggest of all, I'm telling my mom Sunday. I feel I totally have the courage to tell her, she will see I look the same, I'm upbeat, chemo is working. I believe the key is people react the way they see YOU are reacting. If I was dragging my sorry ass around, crying all the time, unable to get out of bed, people would feed off that. Yes, I feel tired from time to time, I'm taking something for the acid reflux, I have a wig, I make amends to get through it. Make life as normal as possible. Yell at the TV, bitch about Bush, plan to get this or that for the yard, talk about the flowers, what to do this summer, can we get my mom up here after treatment, life goes on.

When you first hear the words, you're dead. In your mind, you're dead. Write your will, get an insurance policy, kiss everyone good bye, have a last meal, and sail off into the sunset. But as time goes by you see you're NOT going to die. Yes, you're sick, but you get treatment, you continue to watch it like a hawk, have follow up scans, tests, etc., but you ain't dyin'. But you cannot tell that to anyone who hears those words. No matter what you say, they are convinced they are dying.

They have to do it themselves. You go through the stages, until you're at where I'm at now.