This was the day that sent me into a hurricane. Yeah, the breast exam early in the month, the car accident and the mammogram/ultrasound each building into the storm that would unleash as of 8.24. The tempest waves. The gale force winds. The chaos of a blinding storm.
The hurricane landed and I was floundering at sea.
The breast biopsy. The concerned radiologist. The projected bilateral mastectomy. The assurance of a call the next day that would confirm everything. Everyone involved hoping for magic and miracles. Everyone involved reflecting on the wretched likelihood. Everyone involved knowing without knowing.
The drive home that day was strange. I was all bandaged up tightly and I was in pain. My soul in pieces. My mind in another world. My girls didn’t know yet what was going on as they had their first weeks of school to be focused on. How do I hug them without giving it away that I had an invasive medical procedure to confirm that which my gut already knew? How do I interact with them when I want to disappear so that the reality can’t find me? How do I ignore my nature to be authentic when I’m not ready to speak out loud what I want to keep hidden? How do I know what to do next…I’ve never had to walk this road? Chris and I were quiet. There wasn’t much to talk about. What do we cling to when the reality (one we vehemently wanted to wish away) was obvious? Oh, so many questions. So many trains of thought. So much desperation for the eject button, the escape routes, the rescues. But the escape never came. And the price of surviving is high. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, though the reality is allthesame brutal.
This Day in 2018:
A MACK Truck
Today has been so hard.
My OB/GYN is totally on board for me to have a hysterectomy and oophorectomy. I’m grateful for that. She doesn’t do them so I have to jump through a few more hoops and have a couple of surgeon consults to schedule it, but we’re moving in the right direction.
That said, I met with her in the same room that I was in last year for my breast exam. And I had to do an annual exam (which always sucks no matter what). And for some reason she hasn’t seen any of my medical records so I had to take her through the trauma of this last year. She cried. I cried. We talked about my girls and Chris. And at the end of the appointment she said, “I will never forget that day.”
…..Interesting choice of words coming from a doctor that last year said, “Well, I’m not concerned…….” I’m guessing she was totally concerned and just didn’t want to (or couldn’t) be the bearer of the worst news I’ve ever received in my life. I think she knew, deep down, something was very wrong but couldn’t say it.
But, to be true, I knew it, too.
After my appointment it totally felt like my day was over…time to go home, time to resume other tasks. Then I’d remember that surgery was a couple of hours away. Another surgery…more vulnerability…more IV’s…more standing naked in front of a man who draws all over my body and talks about the good fat that I have….more consents…more nurses…more general anesthesia…more recovery…more being knocked on my ass and forced to sit in this effing cancer chair.
This afternoon and evening have been astronomically difficult. The intensity of the emotions I feel is hard to describe. Right after I got home I felt a new deep anger. Loathing. Ire. I hated my story. I hated my body. I hated this life.
At the same time of this anger, I felt the most broken out of all of the other things through this. Strange being that this is the ‘putting-me-back-together’ phase… I want out of this broken body. I want to take it off and give it away. I don’t want to look down and see more devastation. I don’t want to remove clothing so I have to see the reality that lies underneath. I don’t want to see more unfinished products. I look like a train wreck and I’m not happy with anything I see. “Slow and steady wins the race,” my surgeon said today. Turns out, though, that ‘slow and steady’ is torturous.
And the pain. The significant pain. ……………….”Hit by a semi”…………
Hit by an effing semi.
This Day in 2019:
8/24
Another anniversary day… they are just so strange. My whole being felt ‘low’ today and I couldn’t shake it. This morning, while I was getting ready, I remembered two years ago when we were up early and out of the house to go to my biopsy appointment. And I remember the fear that consumed me that day. And I remember thinking that I knew what was going to be found but so desperate for my gut to be wrong. I remember checking in. I remember them calling me back. I remember the sweet nurses that got me situated. I remember the bed they had me lay on with my boob hanging down so that the biopsy machine could do its job. I remember feeling so vulnerable and hated everyone touching me. I remember the sting of the numbing medicine. I remember that once they were done with mass number one, they moved to mass number two. I remember then that they told me they had to biopsy a lymph node, too but that that procedure was going to be different. I remember that I was laying on my back on a different bed, shirtless again, with many people touching me. Again the sting of the numbing medicine. Again the fear that my gut was right on. I remember them binding up my chest and introducing me to the nurse navigator that I would work with over the next couple of weeks. I remember going into a little office with my new nurse navigator and the radiologist…and him saying, “I’m very concerned it is cancer. And my recommendation, once we get the official diagnosis tomorrow, is a double mastectomy.” I remember leaving there grieving the loss of parts of my body because I knew the call I would get… I also remember feeling desperate to get the cancer off. And I remember the tension that I felt that day – take them so I can live but don’t take them because they are part of me.
And then we went and bought a car because mine had been totaled 9 days earlier by a semi.
And then we went home and we weren’t ready to tell our girls yet, so we tried to act normal for the few hours we were together before bedtime. And as I laid in bed that night, tears running down my cheeks, I hugged my own body. Devastated. Scared. Angry. Confused.
As this day comes to a close, also having included post-op day 3 where I got to see what is under the body suit and bandages, my heart is holding much tonight. Looking back over the past two years is both painful and enlightening. I get to see all of the good that was woven into the pain. And as more anniversary dates hit me, I’ll try and remain focused on that.
This Day in 2020:
[Did That Just Happen?]
I felt distantly absent today. I also felt presently aware. I’m not wondering why, I know why…I just find it fascinating.
A breast biopsy is a dreadful experience. The reality of needing a biopsy appointment is, in and of itself, a soul-bruiser, one that comes with the starkest, deepest, sucker-punchy-est possibilities. And the waiting room air is heavy with that reality. Each step next is taking a step into a darker unknown…not only with the “what to expect from this appointment” but with what burden lies on the other side of the results – knowledge that, once known, can’t become unknown.
Walking back to the exam room, seeing a bed with a hole in it, quickly putting 2 and 2 together…my boob is gonna hang down outta that hole, I bet. How.dreadfully.humiliating. And the sinking feeling when my presumption is proven correct and in a matter of seconds, I’m painfully vulnerable with 6 different hands grabbing and pulling and adjusting while I work to disappear into a place far far away. Needles, cannulas, machines, sounds, images, words, expressions, instructions all while I lay there, simultaneously feeling hazy and hyper attentive, hearing everything but hearing nothing and not knowing which way is up. Just to be led to another room with another bed with another set up, with another 6 hands grabbing and pulling and adjusting. More needles, more cannulas, more machines, more sounds, more images, more words, more expressions, more instructions all while I lay there, simultaneously feeling hazy and hyper attentive, hearing everything but hearing nothing and not knowing which way is up….. Finally, after eons of agony, being wrapped tightly with gauze bandages, body in pain, soul laden with humiliation, there is another heavy-aired and deeply silent waiting room.
[‘Did that just happen?’]
The words of the radiologist yanked me out of the haze, “we will call you as soon as we know definitively but our recommendation is a bilateral mastectomy based on what we saw today and the sooner the better. We’ll hope we’re wrong but when you get the call tomorrow, your nurse navigator will take care of everything you’ll need. She’ll set up your surgery consult appointment and we’ll cross our fingers that they can fit you in immediately.”
A breast biopsy is a dreadful experience……it’s as if it was today.
I’m grateful for the gift of recalling memories (even if they are stupid-hard) and I pray my hindsight offers you insight.
All these memories, painful. But, thankful God opened doors for you for the surgeons, operating rooms, etc., etc., to get you in there and get the cancer out. As much as we prayed for a different story, we know God has a bigger plan for your life, even through the pain. Rereading your journey is hard and at the same time, healing. It tells me God is bigger than this disease, and He is using you in a MIGHTY way. Love you!
Thanks momma. ♥️ Love you.
From Ramana :
It is astonishing as to how you remember each minute detail, each moment, each feeling and each reaction for a medical procedure you have undergone years back. Your gift is in communicating all these to the readers with all the dimensions through such penetrating expression– more powerful than X-Rays. They make the reader integral part of your experience– even if he / she wants to escape facing it. As GMACHRIS says, God would not have blessed you with this unique talent unless there is a purpose , which could be achieved only through you.
When I try to recall my own Cancer-affected right kidney nephrectomy [ surgery] done in August 2006, all I can recall is my anxiety about the removal of the right kidney , which is the left one- instead of the wrong right kidney , by mistake ! I went on bothering the Team of Surgeons on the Operation Table about my doubt and asking the mode of their assurance– till they have me silent through anaesthesia ! Ofcourse , they removed only the affected kidney , but my worry continued– whether I can manage my normal life with single kidney. By God’s Grace, it is now already 15 years– my kidney has not caused any problem by itself– although my cancer has become metastatic in February 2017. Again God graced me with the capacity to bear it and have almost normal life – share experiences with others like you–and feel grateful for the new windows that have opened in my otherwise secluded living in India.
Dear Amber , May God continue to give all the resources to express yourself in such an amazing way, with sufficient physical and mental energy !
Ramana
Thank you Ramana. I always so appreciate your comments. And I can completely resonate with your surgery anxiety. The pure vulnerability of trusting your well being to the hands of others is like none other.