C’mon, Let’s Play!

On January 12th, I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. Whoops! Didn’t see that coming! I took the call from the doctor while in a craft store, supporting my cell phone with my left shoulder while looking at a lovely sky-blue sparkly flourish (that’s a squiggly thing for you non-crafters). After the requisite pause to process the news, I calmly said, “Okay, what are the next steps?” I immediately switched to professional project manager work mode. Something went wrong. Let’s define the work to be done and take the next steps. The doctor and I briefly talked about the immediate next steps and I ended the call, left the store, drove home and told my husband. “Well, I got the call. It’s cancer. Oh, and I have to go grocery shopping.” “What? What the heck’s wrong with you? You’re going grocery shopping?” My husband was convinced I’d lost my mind. He was acting like a normal person and expected me to do the same—be upset, for example, but I wasn’t. I believe that the numb spots near my amygdala were partially why I was so calm and without fear. For the moment, I was processing the information, figuring out how to get used to the idea that I had cancer. My plan, or better yet, my decision, was to research, assess, and of course, take action to get it resolved as soon as possible. I focused on taking action because this thing was obviously growing way too fast. I arranged for a surgical oncologist and until I met with her, there really wasn't any more for me to do. I made sure my freak-out mechanism stayed in park for the time being because I knew that getting all crazy about this was the last thing my poor body needed. The surgical oncologist described the cancer as a HER II positive, solid tumor, about the size of an egg (boiled, not fried). She said it was an aggressive type of cancer. No surprise there, since I noticed the lump within six weeks of my annual checkup. It was wild that it came on like that, but I was now prepared to make things happen fast because if I waited too long that thing would be the size of my head. I thought a lot about the fact that my mother had breast cancer. I learned that hers was different from what I had and therefore, the treatment would also be very different. Hers was slow growing and she must have had it for years by the time it was diagnosed as stage 4. But Mom got through it all and she was in her 70s. I was not that old, I’d be fine. I truly believed that, because mine was brand spanking new and we were on top of it right away. Funny thing by the way, when I had the mammogram done the tumor didn’t show up in imaging. It was huge and didn’t show up. The technician found it as she was prepping me for the x-ray, but the x-ray looked great, a perfectly healthy breast. The doctor who read the x-ray and the technician’s note about the large lump that was there despite what the image showed sent the letter recommending I go to the local breast cancer center to have an ultrasound. It showed up there, big time, and I was diagnosed from the biopsy taken that day. I had a great team than included a surgical oncologist as well as an oncologist that managed the treatment plan and a doctor to oversee radiation. It was a standard protocol for a lumpectomy: two separate chemo treatments over 20 weeks; the surgery to remove the lump; and 7 weeks of radiation treatments. I have to say that during that first round of chemo I did freak out a bit. When I finally lost it, it was because I thought that my husband hated me and wanted a divorce. I concluded this because he barely responded to me when I talked to him and was always so quiet and distracted. I was at the kitchen table one morning, newly bald and sporting quite the shine there in the sunlight, and asked him some silly, unimportant question. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even acknowledge that I'd spoken to him—again. I burst into tears and asked him through the sniffles and dribbles if he wanted a divorce. I could handle all this sick stuff, but I couldn’t handle losing him. Well, he practically yelped with, “What? Are you crazy? What the hell are you talking about? Why would you even think that?” Turns out that divorce wasn’t on his mind at all; he was freaking out in his own way but trying not to upset me. Funny how those things happen. He didn’t think it was so funny but looking back I can’t help but chuckle a bit. Not only was I seriously ill, but yikes I was now there, 24 hours a day! He was semi-retired, driving a school bus on a split shift and had been having the house to himself most of the day for years. His whole routine had been just chucked out the window. (“Honey, hope you enjoyed the cruise because now I’m home 24/7, in your face with cancer—Ta da!”) I think at first, he was wondering how long I would be around. He was really concerned that I might die. As for me, I didn’t give more than a few minutes to the idea of death. No worries there. We would kick this thing. Mom did it with the cards stacked against her and some pretty archaic treatments; I would do just fine. I believed this at my core. I wasn’t trying to believe something, or repeating affirmations to change what I was really thinking. I just believed it and didn’t doubt it. And, I didn’t think about thinking about it, I just moved forward. I simply knew what I knew. In my earlier years at Baxter as a lab technician, I worked on a disposal medical device that delivered chemotherapy. That experience helped me grasp what was happening now. Any time I thought about working on that chemotherapy delivery device, or caring for my mom during her struggle, I heard the lyrics “I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down and still somehow…” I was simply determined to face it all head on. For example, when I found out that I would definitely lose my hair because of the type of chemo I would be taking, I decided to shave my head. From my research, I knew that hair loss was one of the biggest concerns for people going through chemo. To me, the horror was more about having clumps of hair fall out and sporting random bald spots looking like some sort of apocalyptic zombie. Well, "it is what it is,” so I decided to ask my beautician, Beckie, to shave my head. I, of course, needed to exploit the opportunity to play with it, so I asked her to first give me a Mohawk. I have to say, I looked pretty cool. I’ve got pictures.