Another Milestone…

Yesterday was another milestone in my life…a return to work (school) two weeks and one day after M&M&M Day. My colleagues and friends were so generous with their support and compliments. Some were surprised I was back; others commented how “good” I looked; others were surprised that I made it through the whole day. My continuing complaint (a small one, all things considered) is the damn camisole. I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right. I hope I can get back to a bra pretty soon. It makes me think of those poor women in the 1800s or whenever it was that they wore those laced up corsets. I’m sure the camisole is not that uncomfortable, but it’s also not that natural to me. Today was my second day back and even better than the first. There was a double baby-shower after school today. We have a population explosion of babies at our school this year. Today’s shower took me back to a day in March when we also had a double baby shower after school. On that day I got a call from a friend who is a doctor who managed to get a copy of the results of my biopsy. At around 3:00, she calmly said, “I’m sorry. It’s cancer.” Until that moment in time, I still had hope that I would escape membership in the Cancer Club. After all, the biopsy could have come out differently. The lump/mass could have been a mistake as I thought it was the first day I discovered it. Couldn’t it have been something that I could take a pill for to dissolve it and have it disappear? Couldn’t it have been some latent infection from nursing babies? All moot/rhetorical questions…we all know it wasn’t anything simple…it was (calmly) cancer. Following that phone call, I went to the teachers’ lounge and joined in the double shower festivities. No one could have known the news I had just received or possibly have guessed such a thing from my countenance. Inside, I was wondering what on earth I was doing sitting there celebrating the pregnancies and future family members, when life for me could be slipping away. Of course, since then, I’ve come to realize that, for the most part, cancer is not a death sentence any more (probably depending on where it is in one’s body). But today did take me back to that day. That was the first actual acknowledgement that I had cancer, and the circumstances will probably remain a memory for some time. Like, for you older folks, what were you doing when you heard that JKF had been shot, and for many more, what were you doing when you heard about the World Trade Center? Those become moments frozen in time. I don’t want anymore of those in my life. Next week I will meet with the oncologist (really never wanted to have one of those) and hear the results of the PET/CT scan. I have an on-going argument with Susan and Krista that I want to go alone. For every other doctor’s visit, someone has gone with me, especially if bad news could come out. I know that’s the smart thing to do; that’s why I did it before. At some point when a doctor is talking to you, you lose focus on the details of what he said, and you can’t think of all the right (or wrong) questions to ask. Krista said, “We’ll talk about it later.” Susan will not take, “No” for an answer. Let’s see…when I went back to the cardiologist months ago to hear the results of my stress test, Krista and John went with me. Dr. B. said that I didn’t pass the test, that I had a 20% chance of having a heart event (interpreted by me to mean attack or stroke) within the next six months, and that I needed an angiogram. It was hard to look at Krista’s and John’s faces as they received the news at the same time I did. I didn’t have a heart event in the next six months, but Dr. B. did control my life for quite some time. I paid out-of-pocket to have a coronary CT scan to prove to him that I didn’t need an angiogram, but he said I still needed it. While I was retracing my medical steps and going back through my Primary Care Physician for a referral to Dr. B. and also stalling on the angiogram (which scared me out of  my wits), I one-upped Dr. B and got cancer instead. He would not approve my going off aspirin for the biopsy, but they did it anyway. Then, no doctor would perform any surgery on me until I had the angiogram. So, Dr. B. got his way. I had the angiogram, but he was on vacation so one of his colleagues performed it. I was cleared for surgery. Back to the children and their responses to my medical updates. Although we already knew that I had cancer when I went to get the official news from the surgeon (soap opera doctor) because my friend had already checked it out, the news seemed to be traumatic for Susan. She and Krista and Joe went with me. The soap opera doctor never said the word cancer. He said lump, surgery, lumpectomy, mastectomy, lymph nodes, margin of tissue, etc. Finally, I said, “Are there cancer cells in there?” He said, very much like the other doctor who told me first, “Oh, yes, it’s cancer.” When I told him about the angiogram thing, he said they would call Dr. B.’s office and try to get them to speed up a date for it so I could hopefully get clearance and move on to breast surgery. Susan would not let us leave the office until we found out if they were calling and what they would find out from the cardiologist’s office. If you knew Susan, you would know that she has had her own medical issues; and you would not expect a lot of sympathy or empathy from her. She would be someone I would not expect to become emotional over the cancer diagnosis, which we already knew about before he said it. Also, to interject another short story about my family dynamics…when I discovered the lump in my breast, I did not rush to tell anyone about. I really didn’t think I could say the words. For the previous four months, Susan had constantly badgered me about getting the angiogram. What was I doing about it? Who was I calling? When was I going to have it done? Well, one day, Susan, Kathi, Krista and I went for coffee. Susan started again, “Have you called the doctor to schedule the angiogram?” Being slightly irritated, I responded (not very nicely and I’m not proud of it). “Actually, I found a huge lump in my breast, and I think I’m going to have to take care of that first.” In education we talk about the multi-dimensionality of the classroom, the simultaneity…the teacher might say something to a child on one side of the room that overheard by a child on the other side of the room will bring tears to his eyes. This scenario was much like that. When I addressed my answer to Susan, quiet tears rolled down Krista’s cheeks. Susan basically told her to stop crying right now and then demanded more answers about what I was doing about this latest development. After coffee, as we all walked out to our cars, Krista and I ended up in proximity to each other; we both started to cry. Susan came over and once again told us to stop crying. So…what a surprise while waiting in the surgeon’s office for them to call the cardiologist, who tears up? Susan. Go figure. I looked at Krista, pointed to Susan, and said, “What’s this?” There was more bad news from the soap opera doctor following the lumpectomy in the hospital. He told me (while I was in an anesthesia hang-over) along with some configuration of my family that I would guess to be Joe, John, and Krista who were at the hospital all day and Susan, who came from work, that I had much lymph node involvement and that he had removed many of them and that I would next need a mastectomy. For a few moments I knew what he had said and understood it. As Susan, alone, approached my bed/cot/guerney/stretcher in the recovery area, we both cried. Krista reported this to Joe and John and said Susan was going to be out of the loop if she didn’t stop crying in front of mom. Interestingly enough, I forgot this information when I went home on that Thursda
y. I felt that people were talking like I wasn’t done and things hadn’t gone that well and there was more to come, but I did not consciously remember that information. That is, until Sunday afternoon when Susan mentioned that I was going to have a mastectomy. I don’t think I showed any surprise when she said it, but when she left, I questioned Teresa about it. So, my family, from Thursday to Sunday knew that I needed a mastectomy, pretty much suspected that I didn’t remember or know that, but no one old me. The reason behind all of these stories is to support my stance that I don’t want anyone to go with me to the oncologist next week. I know my feelings are not going to be honored or accepted by some of my children. Here’s the part that’s hard to explain.
Above and beyond anything else in this world, I am a mother. I’ve invested a lifetime in that position and role in life. It defines me and makes me what and who I am. I can take any more bad news about me. I can hear it, try to absorb it, and try to bear it. What I can’t take or bear is having to sit through another encounter with another doctor and try to ignore the looks on my children’s faces, masking their true emotions, as they hear more bad news about their mother. Do I expect bad news from the oncologist? Do you think I’m being pessimistic here? Jay would probably say so. Joe would say so. I disagree; I’m being realistic. Chances are there may be more bad news. Would you want your child to hear it with you? Wouldn’t you rather digest it first, get used to it, and explain it in your own maternal fashion? If it’s good news, Joe and I have been saving a bottle of champagne to open the first time we get good health news (the champagne’s getting old). We can pick up another bottle on the way home from the Cancer Institute, and everyone can come and celebrate together!