I drove home from the mammogram in a blur. I’m sure it was muscle memory that got me there. My throat was tight the whole way, but I have almost no memory of the drive. Besides a voice to text to my sisters.
“I might have breast cancer.”
The next step would be to get my results to my family physician. Then he would order the biopsy, which I return to the imaging office for them to perform. It would be an ultrasound-guided procedure using a cored needle, or something like that. I wanted to pass out just thinking about it.
As soon as I walked in the house from the garage, my husband, Zach, entered the main level from the basement. He walked over to me and the ball of pent up emotion I held tightly to in my throat spilled out.
I gained my composure in just enough time before all three kids staggered into the kitchen where we stood, like they always do after school. It was their last day before fall Thanksgiving break. For better or worse, I don’t love keeping secrets from them. So I matter-of-factly blurted out, “Well, your mom has breast cancer.”
“It’s really small. I’m lucky. They caught it early.”
I almost wasn’t sure if I said it this way to reassure them, or me. Or both. Like if I say it like it’s no big deal, then it won’t be.
My girls are teens and hate showing emotions as much as I do (a trait I hate that I bestowed onto them). They seemed to be pragmatic with the news.
“Surgery and you’ll be fine then?”
“Yep. Maybe a little radiation too they said.”
“Ok.”
My son is nine. I realized that he has no context of breast cancer. I don’t think he’s ever been exposed to it in his young life. He’s aware that his Papa Taylor, my dad, died from cancer, so my heart sank a little imagining what could be going through his head. It couldn’t get worse than what has already run through mine.
As I stress-packed for vacation that night, I imagined every possible scenario for how this could go. That’s what anxiety does to you (feel free to read my previous posts to learn more about that old gift). The biopsy would come next, I suppose. What if they’re wrong and it’s not cancer. What if it’s worse? What if there’s more cancer? What happens if it’s growing fast? Is resistant to treatment? Will it get metastatic? How long do I have left? What if this is my last family vacation?
Anxiety not only ponders those questions. It imagines how my life would be living through any of these feared outcomes. Bluntly put, anxiety is a lying bitch. I know that. But she continues to torment me anyway.
Our flight to Florida departed at 6am the next morning. Luckily, I was mentally exhausted from the gymnastics going on in my brain since the mammogram and passed out almost as soon as I hit my pillow.
I fell asleep wondering how soon this would all happen. Tomorrow was Friday which means the weekend was coming up, then Thanksgiving, so I shouldn’t expect immediate action. I would have to practice patience and just try to enjoy vacation.
Easier thought than done.
The weekend in Florida was full of softball, but by Sunday afternoon the games were over and vacation mode could officially begin. But, I thought about the cancer growing and spreading in my boob. Every. Freaking. Day. Like literally, I’m looking out onto a beautiful beach horizon and thinking, “I’m literally dying a slow death right now.” Because if this thing stays here, it will kill me. It’s hard to find peace while your murderer is present with you. In you.
Monday afternoon my physician’s nurse called. She’s an older woman, who I’ve talked to many a time due to my regular visits for thyroid checks. She’s always been nice enough, but today, on this call, she sounded like a concerned grandmother. She was slow speaking and softer with her words. She asked where I wanted to continue treatment for the biopsy. I had an option?! I almost forgot I had a choice in my healthcare. Zach and I had already discussed hospitals for care. He had fantastic treatment at KU Medical Center for his brain tumor (benign, and a story for another day), so that felt like the right choice. When the letters, “KU” came out of my mouth, I immediately questioned my choice.
“Do you think that’s a good place for this kind of care?”, I asked.
“They provide great care there.”, she warmly responded. “I’ll send them the order. You’ll hear from them soon.”
I did savor and cherish every moment with my family though. My God, I really did. Eventually, time had seemed to slow down. B.C. (before cancer), I had scheduled a family photo shoot on the beach. My family hated the idea, especially because I bought cute Santa and elf hat props for Christmas card photos. But it was perfect. Sunset was amazing. Water was peaceful. It was cheesy, and it was sweet. It was us. I tried to burn these images into my brain, in case I’d never have another chance to relive them. My fear was loud.
I hated leaving Florida. But it was the day before Thanksgiving and I was eager to kick off the holiday season with the parade and cooking and Black Friday shopping. I almost got lost in my thoughts about the order in which to start cooking our various Thanksgiving feast dishes the next day (thank God I did all the shopping B.C.), when I was interrupted with a phone call. It was my Nurse Navigator from KU. Another gentle voice to soften the blows of cancer. She explained the next steps would be to schedule more imaging. Looks like I better get used to exposing my breasts to strangers. The hospital policy before treatment, is to have imaging from their own equipment for diagnosis (second opinion…ok). We’d also schedule a consult with a doctor in the Breast Cancer Center.
Just then, calls to board our return flight home went on the intercom. We hung up, with the promise that she would call back after Thanksgiving for scheduling.
So, keep it together and get through the holiday.
Midlife Mamacita 