Fear, Friends & Pulp Fiction

Week 3 A.D.

Almost immediately after my first appointments with KU, I received a call from my Nurse Navigator to schedule a biopsy appointment. I would go in on Friday, December 12. Only one week out. They aren’t messing around. It’s half alarming and half reassuring. I tell myself it’s as if they all know something I don’t. Is it that bad? Can the cancer spread that fast?

This week was jam-packed. I was grateful for the distractions and also kind stressing out because I had just been off for vacation and Thanksgiving, now Christmas was only a couple weeks away. Between trying to wrap up end of year projects before everyone starts taking time off, trying to finish up Christmas shopping and planning my Christmas cooking/baking grocery list, I had enough to keep my anxiety focused on anything but cancer…but anxiety will always focus on what you don’t want it to. That’s how it works.

Jillian was still a focus of mine. We had expected she would be able to return to school after a few days post-septoplasty, but she still had mild bleeding and her face was still in pain almost a week after. Her ENT did say that the stents stitched in her nose were lower than normal due to the additional repair to the cartilage near the tip of her nose, and therefore it might cause additional discomfort. She described it as her teeth feeling bruised. Yikes!

Monday, they would be removing the stents and apparently, teens especially, tend to pass out if they haven’t eaten. And it could be a little rough if you aren’t regularly flushing the nose with saline.

As any good mom would do, I nagged at her all weekend, the night before, and provided a solid morning nag for good measure. She assured me she had been rinsing and showed me her protein bar she grabbed for the car ride, along with a major eye roll.

If I’ve learned anything about my dear, eldest daughter Jillian, it’s that she prefers to learn things the hard way.

In the ENT office, Jillian shared with the nurse that she ate only two bites of her bar. Clearly frustrated, the nurse grabbed an emesis bag, just in case. She reminded, no – scolded Jillian, that teens often faint or get sick without food. I was quiet. Let her learn. At least the nurse gave her some numbing spray before the procedure began.

The doctor came in cracking some booger jokes while adjusting her chair height. Then he got up in her nose with tiny scissors to cut the stent stitches in the right nostril. Reminding her to breathe, he then clasped on to the stent and pulled. She squealed. I stopped breathing.

He paused before attempting the next nostril, checking to see if she would get sick. Now, my kid is normally pretty pale, but she was almost translucent at this point. Breathing heavily, her eyes were watering. She was trying with everything in her not to cry.

“I’m really hot.” She muttered.

The doctor tilted the chair back and lowered her a bit, clearly worried she was about to pass out. The nurse grabbed her wet paper towel.

Suddenly I started feeling hot. Then flushed. I realized I was starting to have a “mini” panic attack. I grabbed my water bottle that I carry with me everywhere, and began sipping small, cold sips. Starting to feel dizzy, I kept blinking hard to try to re-focus. Remembering my mindfulness techniques, I began rubbing the top of my leg and wiggling my toes. I wondered if the doctor had ever had a parent pass out.

I worked to snap out of it so I could talk to her, helping to remind her to breathe, just as I was trying to.

“Ok kiddo, three more seconds of terrible, and then you’re done. Ready?” I asked. I felt so bad for what she was going through. And I needed to get out of that room ASAP!

Five seconds later, she was done. Hallelujah! For the both of us. I thought, “Dear baby Jesus, how the hell am I going to get through cancer when I can’t even sit in a room when a procedure isn’t even happening to me?”

I shuttered at the thought of this dreaded biopsy coring needle for the upcoming biopsy. I imagined it as a six-inch long, thick ass needle getting stabbed in my boob. Like the one they jab in Uma Thurman’s character in Pulp Fiction when she overdoses.

At work, my team’s three-day annual strategy session was coming up Tuesday through Thursday. When I wasn’t helping Jillian, I had been preparing for these three days. I was planning the workshop modules, prepping materials, organizing daily energizers with prizes, and making some poster art to guide the concepts.

Out of the three days, Wednesday was the craziest day. We had an awards luncheon for disability inclusion, followed by our end of year celebration for our employee resource group members. There would be holiday shopping from local businesses, as chosen by the employee resource groups, food and networking and some prizes. Because my team oversees the employee resource groups, we were thrilled to all be together in order to attend and support our group leaders.

I’m an introvert. Everyone seems surprised when I say it. I am. Networking (socializing) takes a lot out of me. My cup is filled after I do it, and yet my battery gets fully drained too.

I’ve been to this annual celebration a few times before, but this night felt different for me. Maybe it was because my emotions were already heightened, given my cancer circumstances. I talked to people almost nonstop throughout the night and I’m pretty sure I hugged every person I spoke to. I would consider myself kind of a loner, because of my introverted tendencies, but what I came to realize that night is that I am part of a pretty large, and pretty fantastic community at work. I guess it had never dawned on me until this night, just how emotionally meaningful my connections with these people are to me. There is a genuine kindness and caring that we have for each other.

It takes me a long time to trust people and make emotional connections with others. I don’t always know if we’re really friends or just acquaintances. I tend to assume acquaintance, it’s easier and my feelings don’t get hurt. Coping mechanism, maybe? And I realize that I often keep people at an arms length away, which prevents me from having deep friendships. Hence, why I’ve created a life that almost solely revolves around my immediate family. It’s safe. Probably a convo I need to have with a therapist.

I reveled in my realization of this emotional connection to so many of the people in the room because, essentially, these were all strangers whom I was lucky to cross paths with in the last four years as a result of the nature of my role. Most jobs in most organizations are not nearly as cross-functional as mine. I am beyond privileged and grateful to have this kind of exposure. Also, my job is extraordinary. It just is. My team and I work to ensure people feel they belong. We nurture our workplace culture, supporting the idea that we are all people who want to feel valued and deserve respect. We ensure humanity can exist and thrive in the workplace. So, perhaps, in this moment, I was feeling the fruits of success in our work.

As I mingled throughout the night, I ran into my former manager of nine years. I love this lady! We caught up on her adventures in grandmother-hood and I shared updates on my kids and Zach’s year (another story for another day). In my emotional joy, I felt the courage to share my news with her.

“…and I just found out I have breast cancer.”

I vividly remember the look on her face. Shock, worry, sadness. This is someone who’s been there for me when I lost both parents, welcomed a child, cared for my husband during brain surgery and recovery, and COVID!

She immediately hugged me, which felt good in that moment. But I also wondered, “Should I be sharing this?” It was a strange kind of second-guessing of myself. It was reminiscent of when you’re early on in pregnancy and you want to tell people you’re pregnant, but it’s bad luck to share news because you don’t want to jinx it. But it’s not like I was excited to share this news. It actually feels strange keeping it in, like it’s some big, dirty secret. And what would I be jinxing here? As if telling someone I have a mass in my right breast is going to surely make it cancer. Girl, two doctors and two radiologists have all but assured you it’s cancer. There’s no doubt you have it. And it’s not like saying it out loud is going to make it magically go away either – like suddenly I won’t have cancer and I’ll look like a fool for having told people. Maybe telling people with remind them that it can happen to anyone at anytime.

Thursday came and when I walked into our conference room to set up for the day’s work activities, one of my teammates shared that she had prepared dinner for my family that night. I was honestly so touched. Here I am, seemingly fine and able, but she had done this because she knew I was overwhelmed and anxious. This dinner would be one less thing I needed to do or worry about. I wondered if she had remembered me saying once that the worst part of my day is figuring out what I’m making for dinner. Ha! It is something I say often. In all honesty, the biopsy was the next morning, and I had been stressing out, so timing was perfect. The Pulp Fiction needle was going to stab me tomorrow.

Im not sure how much I actually slept that night. Biopsy morning arrived and I had sincerely wished I had some kind of anxiety med to take. Nerves were crazy high. I took ashwaganda gummies and grabbed a Nello SuperCalm ashwaganda lemonade packet, in case.

I. Was. Freaking. Out. Calmly, of course. Usually no one can tell when I’m deeply panicked. I have to act and remain calm in order to try to trick my brain that I am calm. Acting panicked makes me panic more.

We arrived at University of Kansas Hospital in Overland Park. New location for me. When my name was called, I had to go in by myself. It was in the women’s imaging area (i.e. no boys allowed).

I was escorted to a changing room where I donned a purple kimono. I tossed the Nello packet in my water, threw back a few big swigs, then took some deep breaths.

“You can do this. It’ll be fine. You birthed 3 damn babies!” I said to myself.

Like the Westwood location, this waiting room had a tv playing HGTV. I giggled to myself a bit. The irony of the stereotype is that I was entertained with whatever program was on.

About four other women were waiting as well. There was an array of ages. One lady I assumed to be a senior. A couple were probably in their fifties. The fourth I guessed to be about my age. She had just come in from the imaging area. She was holding some kind of plastic baggie but I wasn’t sure what it was.

My named was called. Here goes nothing.

“Just don’t pass out.” I thought to myself.

“Name and birthday?” A question I’ve now learned to answer automatically before speaking to anyone.

After getting height & weight, we went to a room for additional vitals. The doctor met us in there and walked me through the procedure. It almost seemed like a scene in a movie she was rehearsing with me.

“We’ll have the ultrasound locate the lesion in your right breast. Then, I’m going to ask for your official consent for the procedure. First, I’ll inject lidocaine to the region before making a tiny incision, where another injection will be given for deeper tissue numbness. We don’t want you to feel a thing.” She explained.

Oh thank God! I was flooded with immediate relief at the prospect of not having to feel this.

It was the doctor, radiologist and nurse in the procedure room, which looked like a regular ultrasound room. The procedure started exactly as described. I barely felt the first shot of lidocaine and felt nothing afterward. The radiologist kept me distracted with conversation while the doctor did her work. Turns out, she is neighbors with a girl on Jillian’s lacrosse team. Small world.

The doctor showed me the device she was going to use to take the sample, sans Pulp Fiction needle. It was spring loaded, so she explained that I would hear a loud snap sound each time she secured a sample, which would be about three or four times.

I kept my eyes closed the entire time, while still chatting. It was about 10 minutes all in. The doctor showed me the little purple circle on my side boob, where she glued up the half inch incision. It would be there for a couple weeks and fall off on its own.

Breathe. It’s over!

The nurse gave me my very own plastic baggie with an ice pack and care instructions and sent me back to the waiting room to ice the region. After about 10 minutes passed, I was allowed to get dressed, ice pack in sports bra, and head home.

Zach drove me home, where I took a Tylenol, and slept the stress off from the last week. I woke up about six hours later, feeling alright. Took another Tylenol to take some mild aching away, and carried on with my night, including a holiday ladies night paint & sip (no alcohol for me) with some gym friends.

Now, I just needed to be patient for the next three to five days for the biopsy results.