I'm sitting in the lobby of the cancer center, waiting to see Dr. D., my oncologist. I will soon learn four crucial pieces of information:
1) My BRCA test results
2) My Stage
3) My Oncotype Dx score
4) Whether or not I need chemo
Husband is with me. In a moment of tenderness, he asks if I am OK. "I can handle anything Dr. D. has to tell me." Husband is as surprised to hear me say this as I am! In the months since my diagnosis, I have researched, read, lived and breathed breast cancer. I’ve been in touch online with countless women with a similar diagnosis. And it's because of these women that I am able to sit in this waiting room and feel a solid wall of strength supporting me. These ladies have my back. I'm really not afraid. Which is a pretty darn good way to walk into an oncology appointment.
Dr. D. is a man of few words. He looks me straight in the eye and answers every one of my questions.
2) I am Stage 1B. Because my tumor was 3.2 centimeters, it pushed me from Stage 1A (where the size limit is 2 cm) to Stage 1B. Still, it's great news; I am over the moon! Waiting for that number affected me on such a deep level that I don't even think I was fully aware of it. I just know that in that moment, I feel relief for the first time since I was told I had clear lymph nodes.
3) My Oncotype score is 16. That means I have a 10% risk of distant recurrence — and puts me at the high end of the low-risk group. There are 3 risk groups: low, middle, and high. If my number fell anywhere in the high-risk group, I would be given chemo; if it fell anywhere in the middle group, chemo would definitely be weighed as an option; but because my number fell in the low-risk group (albeit the high end of the low-risk group), studies have shown that chemo may do more harm than good.
I had an intuitive feeling about this; I have felt all along that chemo would do my body irreparable harm. Hearing Dr. D. tell me I don’t need chemo is a huge, huge relief. (Not to mention that it validates my intuition.) Husband is visibly relieved.
5) I don't need radiation. Even though I had a double mastectomy, I might still have needed rads had my tumor been closer to the surface of my skin; but it thankfully was not. (Another major plus.)
This is all good news. So why don't I feel better?
Dr. D. hands me a prescription for Tamoxifen, a hormone blocker I'll be taking for five years before switching to a post-menopausal hormone blocker for another five. Then he adds, "See you in six months."
Say WHAT? Don’t I need to be monitored more often than every six months? How will I know if the Tamoxifen is working? Am I supposed to be checking myself? How do I do that? I don't understand! Wasn't I just diagnosed? I need more hand-holding. I'm not ready to let go just yet.
I leave Dr. D.’s office feeling completely untethered. And not in a good way.
It takes me a good long while to process and allow myself to fully feel the power of Dr. D.'s words. I have been suppressing so many fearful and negative emotions since my journey began that when I hear good news, my reaction is still one of denial. Crazy, isn't it?
