Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts

Thursday, February 12, 2015

CAN YOU KEEP YOUR HAIR DURING CHEMO?

(Copyright 2015 TheBigCandMe)
I'm woefully behind in blogging. Six weeks into 2015 — and this is my first post.

I'm jumping in today to talk about a topic I have absolutely no experience with: Hair loss during chemo. 

Though I didn't have chemo, I feel the need to become knowledgable about a certain aspect of it. My good friend R. was diagnosed with ovarian cancer last week. She is still reeling from the diagnosis, still recovering from the (very) invasive surgery, still bereft about the thought of losing her cascading hair. 

So I did some research on Cold Caps...

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As we say so long to 2014, here is my wish for us all in 2015:

May you have...
  • The strength to say NO to the things you don't want to do
  • The confidence to say YES to the things that you do
  • The wisdom to know when it's just the fear talking...

Monday, December 8, 2014

CANCER IS MY INFAMY

(Copyright 2014 TheBigCandMe)
Four years ago today, December 8th, 2010, cancer called my house. (Actually, Dr. S. called; he gave me the news here.) 

Fast forward two years, and in an attempt to put a Six-Word Memoir face on the beast that is breast cancer, I wrote these six words on this blog: "Cancer called. Wish I hadn't answered." 

Do I still stand by those words? 

Friday, February 28, 2014

CYBER SUPPORT

My first blog logo, circa April 2011
It's been nearly three years since my first blog post hit cyberspace. It was April 2011, and I was in the thick of my frustration, anger and sadness following a breast cancer diagnosis. If I didn't write down what I was feeling, I thought my head would explode. Blogging became a natural way for me to process my cancer "situation."

I wasn't always aware of what I was dealing with; enlightenment often came after I hit the "publish" button. Writing is weird that way...

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

A BLESSING AND A BLUNDER

© Emma Keller
Once there was a writer named Emma Keller who posted a very disruptive article last week on The Guardian  website about a highly regarded breast cancer blogger named Lisa Bonchek Adams. (I have written about Lisa many times on this blog.)

The article in question has since been retracted by The Guardian "pending investigation" — but you can find it here! (Oh, the wonders of the internet, where nothing ever really disappears…)

Continuing on...

Monday, November 4, 2013

KVETCHING CORRECTLY

Who among us hasn't experienced the awkward moment when a well-meaning person utters something inane (or insane) in response to our discussing our cancer treatment or diagnosis (and/or our mental, physical or emotional processing of the two)? You know, the verbiage that doesn't stay inside their head but is inappropriately spilled out onto yours. And you, as the cancer patient, are left feeling unheard, misunderstood, and thinking, Did he/she really just say that? 

Friday, September 6, 2013

3 REASONS FRIENDSHIPS FADE POST-CANCER

(Copyright © 2013 The Big C and Me)
I wrote a blog post back in January 2013 about how our relationships change at various points during our cancer treatment, how the demands on our time changes, and how this can leave us feeling invisible. It struck a chord with many, so I thought it might be important to post again. Maybe you (or someone you know) can relate...

Monday, July 22, 2013

RENN'S TOP 20 BLOGGY IDEAS

(Copyright © 2013 The Big C and Me)  
While I've been busy not blogging, I've been amassing a large number of potential blog posts. Some are half written; others are merely a headline. Some describe experiences I've had yesterday; others occurred long ago. All include insight gleaned from my breast cancer experience. 

This bulging list of ideas overwhelms me...

Saturday, June 23, 2012

SURVIVING AN MRI

Whew! Been a busy June. I've squeezed doctor, hair and nail appointments, cross-country travel (my first flight since my diagnosis and yes I overcame a lotta fear that I might swell up which thankfully I did not and I also did not set off any TSA alarms with these freakishly old tissue expanders I still have, thank you very much), a high school graduation, lots of time with family, and meeting wonderful new (and old) friends — all while providing my mother with a lot more care than she has required as of late. Problems with her upper spine have her in pain and unable to lift anything heavier than a paper plate.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)
So this week, I took her for an open MRI (she is terribly claustrophobic.) Afterwards, the technician asked if she had been in a car wreck. WTF? She's never had blunt trauma of any kind; her doctor suspects degenerative disk disease. We find out on Tuesday — that's when my sister and I take my mom (along with a copy of her MRI and radiology report) to see her immensely handsome neurosurgeon, Dr. H. (What a pleasure it is to rest one's eye on a good-looking man while stuck in a medical office. I'm just sayin'.)

I'm also just sayin' that's why I haven't had time for The Blog. Back in April, when I was posting daily as part of the WEGO Health Activist Writer's Challenge, I had ideas aplenty (despite only a smidgeon more time). This month? Lots of thoughts are fighting for space in my cerebral cortex — but nothin' is jellin', Magellen. 

Back to the MRI. Like my mother, I am terribly claustrophobic. But I have tricked myself into thinking I am somewhere else when I have an MRI and am able to breeze through it with less anxiety. You can, too! I'm re-posting some tips I wrote last August on how to make it through an MRI. Maybe it can help you, or someone you know. 

HOW TO SURVIVE AN MRI

You can survive an MRI (or any other uncomfortable procedure) while feeling calm and cool and even collected. I've got it down to a few simple steps:
1) Breath deeply while you're waiting (after changing into that cute little gown) and then waiting some more. Don't let your mind wander into the worry zone.
2) Don't be overly ambitious when you walk into the MRI room. Keep your eyes and mind focused on walking towards the machine. Try not to think of anything else in that moment. Do not look around the room.
3) Lay down as instructed and close your eyes immediately. This is key. Get comfortable. Listen to the tech's instructions, but whatever you do, do not open your eyes. If they will let you, wear a fabric eye mask without metal. Or tie a bandana around you as a blindfold (that way there's less pressure to keep your eyes shut).
4) Think about your favorite place that is relaxing and joyful to you. For me, it's being at the top of a hill I regularly hike to. I imagine how it feels to stand, feet firmly on the ground, arms stretched out to touch the wind. I notice the sun and how warm it feels on my face. With the breeze comes the fragrance of eucalyptus. I listen for the sound of birds and hawks above. BTW, while you are imagining the many details of your favorite place, the MRI will commence. Whatever you do, no matter how many times they ask you to move or they move the machine to reposition you, keep your eyes tightly shut! Focus on your breathing; it should be slow and rhythmic as you relax into whatever pleasant experience your mind is conjuring up for you. (I used this same technique as a pre-surgery meditation here.) 
5) Sing a song in your head. This helps to counteract the banging and clanking of the MRI machine. Imagine being in your favorite place and singing a great song to the wind. Sing it over and over again. Before you know it, the technician will be telling you it's over — the MRI, that is. 

Remember: If you can't see that you are closed in,

you can tell your mind you're anywhere!


Friday, May 11, 2012

BLOG ENVY

Three things happened this week that birthed this blog post.

First, I was catching up on my blog reading when I checked in on Jan from Mourning Has Broken; her post title caught my eye. By the time I was done reading it, my emotions had run the gamut. She had shared a secret she'd been harboring for years, and was so brave in revealing her truth that I couldn't comment quickly enough! This is what I wrote:

  • "When I first started reading this post and saw the words “blog party,” I thought oh, this is going to be a funny post. As I started reading I realized it was serious — but I thought you were telling the story of the girl in the video. THEN I finally realized you were telling your own story. And then I watched the video. And now I want to give you a great big hug and say you are AWESOME and brave and amazing for sharing your secret! So proud of you!! And so sorry you have suffered with this disorder on top of suffering with BC and lymphedema. It ain’t fair. Truth be told I think we all have idiosyncratic behaviors that we use to keep our anxieties at bay. Some people drink too much. Some eat too much (as you have described). Some have compulsive routines that bring a measure of calm to a very topsy turvy world. Some are hooked into being drama queens. Some people exercise too much. Oh, the list goes on. The important thing to know is that we’re all just trying to cope. And you are definitely not alone. I suspect you have helped more than one person with your sharing today. Good on you!"

That's a cancer surviver for you: Strong, brave, and not afraid to tell the truth. (To read Jan's revealing post, click here.) I continued on with my blog reading.

Next, I popped in and out of a number of blogs (you know how that goes: One blog leads to another, and another...) before I landed on a sweet little one that (again) caught my eye: "Things I'm afraid to tell you." Intriguing title. Sounds like what Jan just did. I keep reading.

I quickly learn that blogging has gotten too pretty, too perfect, and too polished (not my words, but those of other writers). In fact, a movement is underway to bring more honesty to the blogosphere

More honesty? Really? Again, I think of Jan's post. And I keep reading: A group of bloggers have challenged each other to be more authentic by writing about the stuff they don't normally discuss on their blogs. You know, the things they are afraid to tell you.

As I'm sure you guessed by now, these are not cancer bloggers. 
So what's this 'movement' all about? Blog envy. It's (apparently) a real thing. Bloggers see beautiful things on other beautiful sites and have a misperception that the blogger has a beautiful life too — free from the many things that make us all human. Bloggers want to see that their fellow bloggers aren't perfect.
Well come on over to Cancerland! I'll show you a community of bloggers that is not shy about sharing its dirty laundry. Heck, it's why we're here in the first place! Our blogs are our attempt to make sense out of cancer, purging our minds of the darkness that hides within its cracks and crannies. 

Yes, I had a good laugh at the humor of it all. But don't get me wrong — I mean no disrespect to anyone out there who is blogging about something other than cancer. (Talk about blog envy — I wish I wrote about travel, not tissue expanders!) We need those kinds of blogs too: The ones focused on the pretty things, the ones we go to in order to forget (for a moment, anyway) our troubles. They're all important. It's just that I had no idea that "blog envy" existed. 'cause I have never felt it. So I decided to leave a comment. And here is what I wrote:

  • "This is my first time visiting your blog (I followed a link to 'Things I'm afraid to tell you' and landed here). I feel compelled to leave you a post. I started blogging after a breast cancer diagnosis, and honesty is the backbone of my little corner of the blogosphere. I am stitched into a supportive, witty community of cancer survivors who tell it like it is every single day. No holds barred over there. No one afraid to tell their truth. There is transparency aplenty. And talent. And humor! Lots of humor. Really. But I had no idea that it wasn't like that in other web niches. Never really thought about it before. Kinda having an AHA moment over here — seeing a benefit to cancer I never noticed before. Thank you!"


I felt a great deal of honesty and transparency in leaving my comment. Maybe one person will check out my blog and discover some of your blogs too. We never know the ripple effect that one toe in the water can create. (Ever hopeful am I.)

Lastly, I read a brilliant post by Suleika Jaouad, who writes a column in The New York Times about her experience as a young adult with cancer (in Suleika's case, it is acute myeloid leukemia). The title of her article also caught my eye: "Posting Your Cancer on Facebook."

Whoa. Talk about truth telling. I don't share in that way on Facebook. That's my cancer-free zone. I'm just not comfortable talking about all my 'stuff' to all my peeps when all of them probably don't really want to know all the gorey details. That's why I have this blog. If you are a regular reader, you're not afraid of my truth or my cancer. And that makes me feel safe. Facebook does not feel safe to me in that regard.

Suleika was deep into chemo when she decided to finally "come clean" on Facebook. She writes that it felt "inauthentic, even dishonest" that her FB profile did not reflect her current reality as a cancer patient. I have to give her props; I'm just not ready to do it. 

And that's not blog envy. That's just the truth.

(To read Suleika's revealing post, click here.)


Amended to add: The Huffington Post has picked up on this "truth-telling" phenomenon (aka, TIATTY). OY. Too bad no one mentions cancer bloggers...

Sunday, April 29, 2012

LOS ANGELES RIOTS

WOW: Day 29 of the WEGO Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge. Almost to the finish line! I'm told brevity is a skill worth honing and today I am to tell you a story in just six sentences. Here goes:


India's Oven, on Pico Blvd., was a casualty of the Los Angeles riots.
(Copyright © The Big C and Me)
Exactly 20 years ago today, I watched the Los Angeles riots unfold from my second-story apartment, where I could smell the fires burning all around me — from Fairfax and Pico to Olympic and La Brea. 

Having just completed training as an emergency room volunteer, I grabbed my little blue and white uniform and headed to the hospital — where I found a scene straight out of the movies. 

I spent six hours comforting shell-shocked patients who had been injured by everything from glass to bullets to bricks. Afraid to go home, I left my car in the hospital parking lot and caught a ride to a girlfriend's house with an elderly gentleman (also an ER volunteer) who happened to live near my friend on the other (far safer) side of the hill. 

We sped through the empty streets of Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, past midnight, past the newly imposed curfew, afraid of being pulled over by the cops or, worse, coming across who-knows-what-kind-of-trouble. 

The three of us stayed up late drinking long-forgotten booze at my friend's kitchen table while trying to process the dramatic and historic civil unrest we had witnessed.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

GET THIS PARTY STARTED!

One morning, just days before my surgery, I am sitting in my BFF’s kitchen. But this is no ordinary catch-up, chill-out visit. It’s much more personal, educational, important — dare I even say enlightening.

BFF has invited her friend "E." to join us for coffee. E. is a breast cancer survivor. She had a bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction — the same surgeries I am about to have. The entire process, from soup-to-nuts, start-to-finish, took her nearly two years.

That is a very long time.

I’ve known E. for awhile; we see each other at holiday and birthday parties (she and BFF have kids close in age). But I have never had a conversation with E. about breast cancer. Not that I didn’t have an opportunity; I saw her several times while she was undergoing reconstruction, and although I always made a point of asking how she was doing, she always made a point of saying she was fine. I never got the vibe that she wanted to talk about “it” — particularly at a party. And since E. makes a sinfully delicious dirty martini (complete with huge, juicy olives stuffed with bleu cheese), she would always then say, “Want a drink?”

It was soon after my diagnosis (in the same phone call, if I recall) that BFF suggested I call E. But I never felt comfortable picking up the phone; not exactly sure why. Maybe it was because E. never seemed open to discussing BC. Maybe it was because I didn’t know her very well. Or maybe it was because I was the one uncomfortable about opening up. (When my plastic surgeon’s office gave me the cellphone numbers of two women who recently completed their reconstruction with him, did I call them? Nope.) I guess I was afraid to hear all the details — the good, the bad, and the very, very ugly.

But as my surgery date creeps closer, I begin to crave face time with someone who has walked this path ahead of me. I want to benefit from their hindsight. Thankfully, during one of my repeated rants in the midst of all this cancer crap, my BFF had heard me loud and clear and took action, just in the nick of time.

So here we sit, we three women, and now I can’t stop talking to E. about breast cancer! I ask her everything I can possibly think of regarding pre- and post-mastectomy surgery and recovery. My notebook is crammed with questions, from the most mundane (if I can’t bear any weight on my arms, how am I supposed to drag myself out of bed in the middle of the night to use the bathroom?) to the more technical (what size were your tissue expanders? Did your surgeon use a biologic?), to the absolutely, utterly personal (are those [surgeon-created] fipples? Wow!). 

E. answers every one of my probing queries. And slowly but surely, my pre-surgery jitters begin their final fadeout.

The highlight of my meet-and-greet that will forever be seared into my brain is the fact that E. shows me her boobs. Yup, she shows me the money, honey. And they look freakin’ fantastic!  Here's the thing: When a woman is about to undergo the removal of two of her most cherished (and visible) body parts, finding another woman who looks just like she hopes to one day is nothing short of inspiring. Seeing how splendidly medical science can piece us back together (after using their many weapons of mass destruction in the OR to tear us apart) is not just reassuring, it’s downright life affirming. It makes me realize I will get through this. I will look whole again. If E. can do it, so can I.

So after explaining her entire reconstruction to me in great detail (including her complications, which I obviously have blocked out because I can’t for the life of me recall what they are), she casually reveals her "booby" prizes: two symmetrical, incredibly natural-looking, 36DD “foobs.” And they are amazing.

I have been so focused on the deconstruction part of my journey that I haven’t really thought all that much about my reconstruction, even though it is occurring at the same time, on the same table. Today, in the safety of BFF's kitchen, I allow myself to go there. Not only does the experience with E. help soften the mental blow of my mastectomies, but it forces me to truly face what I am about to go through. 

(Copyright ©2011 Rennasus)
These two hours, spent over a cup of hot joe with a woman I hardly know while she shares her most intimate details with me, are not just a bonding moment or a necessary evil or even a way for me to face my internal music; it's all of those things. But more importantly, these two hours are about the sheer force and monumental power of sharing a life-altering experience with another human being who knows exactly what I am feeling, fearing and denying.

And it is this moment that makes me finally ready to climb aboard that hospital gurney and get this party started. Surgery, here I come!

Saturday, June 4, 2011

VEGAS MELTDOWN

To put you in the mindset: I'm in Las Vegas with my two BFFs for a rhythmic gymnastics meet (the daughter of one of my BFFs competes). I am nervous about my upcoming lumpectomy, so this weekend is a welcome distraction. The first rhythmic event is tonight, and we're all really excited. After breakfast, we spend the day walking around The Strip and end our outing at Serendipity, where we wait 45 long minutes for their famous (and fabulous!) frozen hot chocolate. 

We return to our hotel to shower and change. And since I am the official "makeup artist" today, I also apply eyeshadow and lipstick and sparkles to my friend's daughter's pretty face. In the adjoining room, I hear my cell phone beeping. It's now 5:30 PM on a Friday night and my surgeon, Dr. A., has left a voicemail. This is very odd. I've got 10 minutes before we have to leave for the competition. I rush to call him back.

Good news/bad news. He has presented my case before the hospital's tumor board and has called to tell me the consensus is in: I need an MRI of both breasts before I can have surgery. And that's not all. Due to the location of the cancerous mass, my nipple must go. Which means more than half my breast must also go. Which means I likely will need a mastectomy — not the lumpectomy I am scheduled for in five days.

Dr. A. and I had previously discussed this very possibility at our last appointment, and I told him then that if I wind up requiring a mastectomy, I want a bilateral. Remove 'um both, remove as much future worry as possible. And give me some matching, reconstructed boobs. Now he agrees this is the best plan of attack, but the MRI will tell us precisely what we should do. So I need to get that scheduled. In the meantime, will cancel next week's surgery.

My head is swimming. My BFF knocks on the door to say we have to leave. I plead for five more minutes. (I realize this makes the kid potentially late, but I don't know what else to do.)

Dr. A. also adds that I need to see a plastic surgeon for a consultation. Can he recommend anyone? I ask. He gives me two names. But something doesn't feel right. I pause, then say, "If this was your wife, who would you send her to?"

"Does your health insurance let you go out of network?" Yes. "Then if it was my wife, I would send her to Dr. C. He's an artist. We've worked together before. I'll call and tell him about your case, but you give him a call on Monday." 

In the span of 15 minutes, I've gone from mentally preparing for a lumpectomy to probably needing a double mastectomy and a plastic surgeon. This is way too much to process.

Yet my little entourage awaits. So I swallow my fear, force back the tears and step into the hotel elevator. I smile at our little gymnast, but my BFFs can see there's trouble in my eyes. Somehow, we get through the next hour talking about routines and hula hoops on the way to the meet before leaving her with her coach and teammates. We have exactly one hour before the festivities begin. One hour to cry over my beer and dissect my need for a bilateral mastectomy in a nearby pub.

The next day is spent in a stifling hot, noisy gymnasium watching dozens and dozens of  girls perform complicated floor routines to very repetitive music. We are sitting in a crowd of parents and children — certainly not an environment where I can break down the way I need to. I probably should have stayed at the hotel and ditched the meet, but the thought doesn't occur to me until I'm already inside the crowded gym. Besides, it feels better to be surrounded by my friends than be alone with my thoughts. So I suppress my emotions and put on my  "everything's OK" game face. But everything is so not OK.

But eventually I crack. It happens before the final event. I have a hot flash and feel like I'm about to implode from the heat. I can't find enough air to breath, and can no longer hold "it" in. I leave the gym abruptly, wade through the throng of spectators and slip outside where the air feels cool. And I start walking. I pass a playground with seating, but there are kids playing, and I can't deal with their screams. It is I who wants to scream. 

I wander over to a senior center next door and sit down on a cold bench. I'm finally alone — and so numb and overwhelmed I can't even cry. I just sit there and stare into space. 

I needed this weekend away with my best pals before I head into surgery. And if I had waited until Monday to return the surgeon's call, I might well have had the carefree time I was envisioning. But once that fateful call was answered, all bets were off; I lost emotional control. And the road trip quickly morphed into an exceedingly stressful, solitary nightmare on wheels. I call my husband. I just want to come home.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

MANAGING CHAOS

I have a surgery date. Yeah! The scheduler gives us one of the dates my husband requested. Guess it pays to slow down, keep your wits about you, and ask for what you need.

A sudden calm melts over me when I hear the news. I haven't felt this focused since before I learned my mammogram was weird. It's amazing how having "a plan" brings with it such a feeling of control. It's like stumbling on a well-worn trail when you've been lost for weeks in the woods.

But in order to keep my calm, I have to learn how to manage my chaos. I took cancer from an angry rolling boil down to a simmer by determining the who, what, when, where, why and how of my diagnosis. This not only gave me a path and a direction, but a sorely needed compass.

Once you figure it out, managing your cancer chaos gets much easier.

The who, of course, is your medical team — who will your surgeons and physicians be? Your life depends on your choice and their expertise; choose wisely. Make a list of every question you can think of (I found The 10 Best Questions for Surviving Breast Cancer, by Dede Bonner, M.D., to be very helpful).

Take someone with you to your appointment who is a great listener and note-taker, and afterward, listen to your gut instincts. Get more than one opinion if you feel unsure about anything. Remember, you know yourself and how you process things; this is NOT the time to shortchange yourself. Give yourself as much time as you need to think things through and talk things over with your trusted confidants. As my surgeon wisely said to me, "Your cancer has been growing for years. Waiting a few more weeks to make sure you are making the best decision for you will not make any difference at all in your treatment."

Ah, the what. Uncertainty is a killer of the soul — and cancer courts uncertainty with devilish and unbridled abandon. Waiting for results that reveal whether or not you have "The Big C" is excruciating and, honestly, the worst part of the whole dang process. 

Once you know what you have, you can proceed to the biggie, when — everything hinges on knowing when surgery will happen. Don't have any procedures you are not ready to have. Doctor's offices will work around your schedule. (See OPERATION WIG-OUT for more on that.)

Next up, where will surgery be? Once you know the hospital, you can start stringing all the missing medical pieces together and making sense of the cancer process. 

Last but not least (and forever shrouded in mystery) is the why and how did you get cancer? My friends, you will never know. But you'll still spend countless hours contemplating what you might have done differently. If only you had exercised more, eaten less, taken vitamins, lived in a less-polluted area, worked at a less-stressful job, had more fun, never used a cell phone, left a bad relationship sooner, started menstruating later, used a different antiperspirant, thought more positively, felt less negatively, meditated more, partied less, prayed more, worried less, slept more, feared less... blah, blah, blah. The list is, well, endless. 

If not getting cancer was as simple as not doing this or that (or even a combination of this or that), then the people that already aren't doing "this or that" wouldn't also have cancer! (And we would have a cure.)

As one who has swum in the wicked whirlpool of why, my advice to anyone struggling with a cancer diagnosis is simple. Save your energy for the positive things you can control. The entrance to crazy land lies just beyond the moment we are living in right now, so stay in this moment as much as possible. Oh, and make time for meltdowns.

Like a 12-Stepper, I have learned to dance with my cancer one day at a time. I make an effort not to get mentally ahead of myself. And in that small space, people, is where my peace resides.

What's next? Pre-op Road Trip!

Monday, April 11, 2011

CURTAIN OF DREAD

Oh My God, I am Going to Die. But don’t I already know this?

Knowing it and facing it: two very different beasts.

Cancer stirs up a big ol' pot of primal fear, that much we do know. And since our minds are programmed to go just a little bit crazy upon hearing the "C" word, it's off to terror town we go. Fight or flight? I’ll take flight please. Except there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. My senses are all kafloozy. If I could cook up doom, it would taste like today.

The word "cancer" ushers with it a crushing curtain of dread that never retracts. Draw back the fabric an inch and you'll find plenty of screams, tears, terror, tissues, less oxygen than is necessary to breath, dizziness, darkness (lots and lots of darkness), a bottomless pit and two massive fists trying to clutch at your throat.

Oh. So this is what it feels like to lose your mind.

For me, it happened immediately after I
hung up the phone with my primary care physician. 

I am in a cloistered place of abject terror, sitting at the kitchen table for what feels like forever (but in reality is actually only about 10 minutes). I remember putting my hand over my mouth (the way you do when you see or hear something so shocking you are unable to process it) and feeling dizzy. the instant I heard Dr. S. utter the word "cancer."

My body had turned into a knife: Every thought and feeling I had, every breath I took, hurt like I imagine a stab wound would. 

But something primal deep inside draws me back to the moment. I somehow gather my wits right there in the kitchen chair and suddenly sift through a mental list of people I should call to tell them I have The Big C. Obviously my husband tops the charts — but that must wait until tonight, as I can't bear to give him this news over the phone while he's at work. 

I set that desire aside.

Next up: My two closest friends, P. and K (the one on the west coast and the one on the east). We three met 30 years ago at a fraternity house party and immediately clicked. We've been through every life event imaginable together. Last week I told them that "No news is good news." I told them I would only call if the news was bad. They assured me all would be well. But this is news. Definitely news. Definitely bad news. 

I call P. at work but she doesn’t answer her cell. I don't leave a message, knowing she'll see that I called and buzz me back (remembering my "I'll only call if the news is bad" pact).

I move on to K. She is also at work, and doesn’t answer her cell either. ERGH! Didn't anticipate this. Can't just hang up though. I think for a second, then put a smile on my face (because I know this will positively affect the tone of my voice) and I leave K a lighthearted message: “Hey! Just calling to check in. Give me a buzz!” I didn't feel it was right to lay out the actual news in a voicemail. I couldn't do that. Call me crazy.

Then I curl up on the couch and wait. And wait. I feel like buckshot in a rifle on the first day of hunting season, waiting for a trigger finger so I can release this fragmented feeling of death.

An hour goes by and I am still laying on the couch, in a sub-catatonic state, when the phone finally rings. Whew! But it's neither P. nor K.; it’s my husband. Crap. Why did I answer the phone? I don’t want to lie if he asks me if I’ve heard from the doctor. Thankfully, he doesn't ask. That may sound weird, but he doesn't want to know the answer any more than I want to give it. So I don’t tell him the news that will soon spoil our dinner. Instead, we talk about what's for dinner.
 

Then I sit back down on the couch and wait for K. or P. to call. (To continue my story, see Hike Therapy.)

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