DR. A. & DR. J.

I have a second appointment with a surgeon at the cancer center. I walk in and immediately feel I don’t belong. There are old people everywhere; patients waiting with adult children or grandchildren or young “nurses.” Only one other couple looks to be around my age; her husband is filling out her forms. She looks anxious. First timer. Just like me.

My husband and I wait an hour; Dr. A. finally enters the examining room just as my cell phone rings. It's my mom. I haven't told her I have cancer yet. I tell her I can’t talk. Now I’m spooked. (She has exceptional intuition, my mother.) 

Dr. A. patiently explains the procedure he will do for me to remove my cancerous mass: a lumpectomy. He'll also be doing a sentinel node biopsy to determine if my cancer has moved into my lymphatic system. Breast cancer spreads via the lymph nodes; during surgery, a blue dye is injected near the cancerous tumor, and the sentinel, or first, lymph node that takes up the dye is removed and examined under a microscope. If the sentinel node tests positive, that means my cancer has spread and Dr. A. will take out additional lymph nodes. And that also means I’ll need chemo. (Note to self: If my right arm hurts upon awakening from surgery, it's not good news.)

Since I have family history (my sister had breast cancer at the age of 31), Dr. A. asks if I have had a BRCA — the DNA test that analyzes mutations in a pair of genes responsible for some breast cancers. Yes, I tell him, and I should hear back in a few weeks. He is pleased but stresses that I shouldn’t wait until I get the BRCA results back; I should schedule the surgery as soon as I can, to "get it out of there." He’s right. It's been more than three months since I had the "bad" mammogram. I need to get it out of there.

Dr. A. has answered my dozens of questions patiently, thoughtfully. I trust him and want him to be my surgeon. I talk to one of his nurses about setting up a date for my lumpectomy.  She explains they need approval from my insurance company before I can be put on the schedule and this could take a couple of weeks. I leave not knowing exactly when surgery will be, but happy to at least have a plan. Having a plan means having control.

After our consult, a social worker asks if have any questions for her. Uh, how do I know what I’ll need emotionally when I haven’t gone through anything but anxiety yet? My BP is good upon arrival (125/75); but I can only imagine what it is now. I take her card.

On our way out, we run into a physician that my husband knows very well. This is awkward. Dr. J. is one of the doctors who treated my husband’s late wife for breast cancer. So there is a lot of history here. Since I have taken such great pains to keep my diagnosis from everyone, I am absolutely terror-stricken that my news will now be leaked — and not by me. 

But we try and play it cool, my husband and I. Dr. J asks us twice: How is everything, how is the family? We nod fine, fine. But it is obvious things are not fine. Pause. My husband fesses up: "We’re here because she has breast cancer." I quickly add, "and we haven’t told anyone yet.” Then the tears come. Dr. J. tells me not to worry, he won't say a word. Doctors are supposed to keep these things secret, right? Yet I know in my heart of hearts he will go home tonight and tell his wife that my poor husband now has had two wives with breast cancer.

By the time we get into the fresh air my head is pounding and I am starving. We head to a deli for a bite to eat. 

On the drive over, I call my mother but avoid talking about where I just was. (I will tell her soon enough, just not on the phone.) My husband and I sit down in a booth at the back of the restaurant, and I order cabbage soup and half a corned beef sandwich. My husband puts his hand on mine, a tender gesture. I pull away. "Don’t!" I snap at him. "I’ll start crying and I don’t want to lose it right now!" I hold it together but do a lot of staring off into space during lunch.

We get home at 3 PM. I put on my pajamas, close the blinds, crawl into bed with my dogs and watch House Hunters for 2 hours. Then I fell deeply asleep.

This is getting real now. 

My time is no longer free. 

I fear this cancer has spread. 

I don’t want to lose my hair. 

I can handle pain but I’m getting afraid. 

I tell myself to be glad for moments of happiness and fun and clear thinking — they help offset the ugliness that I know will bring me down if I'm not balanced.

I’m trying very hard to level the playing field.

(See Operation Wigout for the next installment.)