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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CANCER CLUB (Part II)

Biopsy day arrives. The radiologist is right. It doesn't hurt! She takes four separate tissue samples using a large core needle that makes a clicking sound each time it captures my flesh. She comments on how relaxed I am, that I'm "in the zone." Wait a minute. Am I supposed to be "in the zone"? Why am I IN THE ZONE? As I lay on the exam table, I begin to realize this whole thing may be a bit more serious than I have allowed myself to believe. So I formulate a few questions to ask the radiologist when she returns to the room.

But she never does. 

Instead, the technician hands me an ice pack which I am to use 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off. She also mentions that I will be hearing the pathology results directly from my primary care physician — not the imaging center. I know this is code for "I'm sorry you are about to go out of your mind with worry while you wait days and days and days until you finally get your results but please don't call us, we can't tell you anything." Suddenly I am scared.

I decide to share my concern with two close friends, one on the east coast, one on the west. Both listen and calm me and tell me they are sure it is nothing at all. We make a pact, the three of us: No news is good news. “I'll call only if it's bad news," I say.

That evening, when my husband comes home from work, he finds me lying on the couch watching TV,  a thick scarf loosely draped around my neck to hide the ice pack still inside my bra. He suspects nothing. (I figure if this turns ugly, there will be plenty of time to tell him something.)

But I'm starting to act weird. I jump when the phone rings. I don't feel comfortable keeping this from him just to save him the worry. So the night before I find out my fate, I share my little secret. He is nonreactive, yet concerned. He says he is glad I waited to tell him. And it would have been OK too if I had waited until I actually knew. (Do I know my husband or what?)  

As expected, it takes days before the phone finally rings. My primary physician, Dr. S., is a very friendly, upbeat man, and I'm certain I'll hear it in the tone of his voice if the results are not what I am expecting. So I am thrilled when I pick up the phone and find his joyful voice on the other end.

Him: "Well, I have your test results!" 

Me: "Yea! I am so glad."  I slide my relieved body into the kitchen chair.

Him: "Unfortunately, it IS cancer." 

Me (long pause): "I was not expecting that."  Uh, wow.

He starts to rattle off preliminary findings as the hair on the back of my neck stands up. My face becomes flush. My hand shakes as I jot down the few words I manage to hear through the verbal assault that is pummeling my brain.

"Invasive ductal carcinoma." (It's the most common type of breast cancer; that's a good thing because the medical community has a lot of experience treating it.)

"Well differentiated." (Sounds bad, but generally means slow growing, so that's also good.) 

"Not a tumor." (It's a mass that looks like breast tissue but has cancer cells in it. That's also good. Still, I can't help but think of Arnold in Kindergarten Cop... It's not a tuma!)

"One inch in size." That's just an estimate. I will need a lumpectomy and a lymph node biopsy to know for sure what we are dealing with. 

I don't remember anything else, except telling Dr. S. that we can talk more about all this tomorrow — because, odd as it may seem, I had an appointment for a general checkup with him the very next morning. An appointment I made three months ago. Before any of this started.

Do do do do. Do do do do. (See Curtain of Dread to continue with my story.)

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