Close Encounters of the Cancer Kind

“What do you mean I have cancer!?”  This is the type of thing you see on TV or hear about affecting other families. But not me! Boy was I wrong!

My husband had been bothering me for months to go get a mammogram; “Go-get-a-mammogram; GO GET A MAMMOGRAM!” He had felt a lump in one of my breasts. I hate mammograms. So, because of work, my daughter’s upcoming wedding and every kind of excuse I could think of, I didn’t go. Finally, my husband made my appointment and dragged me to the radiologist. He had to promise me a “special” lunch in order to bribe me. It worked!

    I should have known it was a bad sign when they had to do the mammogram twice and took forever to complete the ultrasound. This backed up my schedule and the rest of the day was very stressful. It was noon when I left the radiologist, by 4 p.m. that afternoon, our primary care doctor was looking for me. You know something is wrong when the doctor refuses to talk to your husband about the situation.

  The doctor just read the radiologist report that sounded like this: “somewhat suspicious” . . . “highly suggestive” . . . “exceedingly questionable.” I hate guessing games! What ever happened to “absolutely” . . . “undoubtedly” . . . and  “heck yes!”

I had no words. Me? “Is it curable?” I asked. What I really wanted to say was, “Am I going to die?” But the cup is also half full, right?  He gave me a broad spectrum of possibilities and what the future would bring. “Chemo,” “radiation,” “mastectomy,” “the end of MY world as I know it,” seemed like all I was hearing. Have you ever been listening to someone that is telling you something shocking or surprising and all of a sudden things become surreal, your brain tunes out and your ears start ringing? Well, that’s what happened to me.

My next step was to see a Breast Specialist. He walked in the door and told me how sorry he felt to meet me under these circumstances. Okay. I wasn’t that thrilled either.  Then he looked over to the monitor on the wall that had an image of my left breast.

“Oh my,” he uttered. “That’s not good.”

             “Are you sure?” I asked. “Maybe you want to try a second guess?” But no way. He wasn’t going to second guess and on my way to a biopsy I went.

Ooooooh, the biopsy. That was fun. Do you remember giving birth?   Okay, it’s not that bad, but when someone has to stick a knitting needle in a very sensitive area of your body, that’s never a good thing. So the doctor injects me with “numbing nectar” and starts pocking around.

“Hmmmmmmm,” he said to himself.

Hmm? “Is there a problem?” I asked. What a question. At this point, I thought I’d tell him my dirty little secret. “Ah, doctor, when I had my two biopsies 15 years ago, all the doctors told me my skin was like hard rubber and it was very hard to penetrate.”

“Yes, I see that.”

Okay, now he knows. Full disclosure. I feel better.

“Nurse . . .  get me the drill,” he said almost in a whisper, but I heard him. The “Muzak to put you to sleep with” wasn’t loud enough! A marching band couldn’t have been loud enough!

 I felt my stomach churn and my heart beat speed up. “Okay,” I said to myself, “this is a respected and experienced doctor. He knows what he’s doing.” I convinced myself of this fact.

Then he had to open his mouth. “Have you ever been to a dentist?”

“Yes, why?” Drrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllll!

And I passed out. I heard trumpets (it could have been a song by Chicago) and a soothing angelic voice calling my name. “Cathy. . . Cathy.” It could have been the angel of death for all I know.

 I finally woke up and it was all over. Or was it?

“Hmmmmm.”

Again with the “hmmmmm?”

“Does this hurt?”

“No, ouch!”

He was pocking around the left side of my breast. That’s right, my lymph nodes.

“I think I want to take a sample from this spot also,” he told me.

“Oh, okay.” I felt like telling him, “How about you pry open my mouth, reach down my esophagus, go through my rib cage and take the sample out that way? I think it’ll be easier.”

He started giving more “numbing nectar” around the lymph nodes area.

“Don’t worry, this one won’t hurt as much.” Of course it won’t. Because HE’s not going to feel it.

“This one is not like the other,” he told me as he prepared the knitting needles of death. “It’ll make more like a popping sound.” POP!

Oh, what a relief. It doesn’t sound like a drill. . . it sounds like a gun!

And POP! I almost smacked the doctor in the face. “You didn’t feel that, did you?” he asked me.

Oh no, of course not. It’s everyday I let someone harpoon me on my side!

“Well, you weren’t supposed to feel that.” Aren’t I the lucky one.

It finally was all over. I was waiting for the nurse to give me a lollipop for being such a good girl. Root beer flavored if asked.

When it was time for me to get up and leave, I looked over at my husband who was sitting in a chair tucked away in the corner. Funny, he didn’t say a word throughout the whole time. Then I saw why. It seems that this little “pinch and poke” session didn’t go over too well with him either.

We just held on to each other and walked right out.