It’s peculiar. . .

When I think about my cancer story and all that is in it… When I go through it and tick off the big dates, the ones that hold the significant memories and life-changing moments… When I share with people the timeline of events… 

There is always one major event that always remains silent.

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It’s weird. . .

It’s not because that event is easy to forget. Quite the opposite. And in fact, it’s the event that is likely the main culprit to me feeling like you-know-what LITERALLY EVERY day. Yes, my mastectomy and subsequent 10 reconstructions and deconstructions absolutely do play a role in me feeling horrid. Yes, chemo, its poison coursing through my blood killing everything good while it kills the bad, rotting my immune system, leaving its forever mark on my most microscopic elements. Yes, radiation, its beams blasting apart the DNA of cells to destroy them, cells that may or may not be cancer who can know, beams that require lead-filled walls protecting all the others around me while I lay there in my entirety, exposed. Those all make sense. Wretched sense. 

But there is always that one event that remains silent.

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It’s strange. . .

When The Call came in and I was told I had advanced and aggressive breast cancer, I struggled to reconcile losing them—amputation of body parts is barbaric no matter how lifesaving. When I was told chemo was my only option, I spiraled in a depth of grief I’d never known before—pallid and bald…for my birthday…Thanksgiving…Christmas…a whole year…poison brutally stealing beauty right before my eyes. When I was told radiation was next, I couldn’t make it make sense—they told me not to worry and that even though radiation will negatively affect reconstruction, reconstruction would put me back together nonetheless. But it wasn’t true, what they told me. There is no such thing as being put back together.

But there is always that one event that remains silent.

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It’s perplexing. . .

The betrayal of cancer. Cells mutiny, these microscopic, little elements wreaking a havoc of such a magnitude to destroy something a million times their size. Proteins rebel, suddenly becoming curdled, deciding that instead of being good, they’ll go sour. Hormones go rogue, that which are supposed to promote health now advance death. Living in a body that has turned on itself is impossibly stupefying, what’s good anymore? What’s bad? Is it resilient for battling or is it weak for not being strong enough in the first place? Is it trustworthy or is it undependable? Do I celebrate it, or do I resent it?

But there is always this one event that remains silent.

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It’s bizarre. . .

This event.

This event that often comes with the medical profession’s exclamation of ease: “This will be a breeze compared to such-and-such.” “You’ll bounce right back after this one, trust me.” “We’ll have you in and out of there in no time.” “You’ll hardly feel a thing we’ve gotten so good at ’em.” “A robot can even do it!” 

This event that from the outside, no one would ever know occurred because it’s not obvious like an amputation or baldness or failed reconstruction. 

This event, that in my case is a complete lose-lose because no matter what I’m losing.

This event that among all of the loud clatter of cancer, is silent. Silent but potent.

It’s timing, astonishing. It’s trauma, annihilating: A year after my diagnosis, before my year of chemo was even over, in the middle of continued failed attempts at reconstruction thanks to radiation’s handiwork, I went in for an annual with my gynecologist. I’d gotten my period back (it came back with a vengeance), and well, I was due. A conversation turned into an internal exam which turned into an unexpected internal ultrasound which turned into an unplanned uterine biopsy (that effin’ hurts, BTW), which turned into my doc calling me one night (yes, night) that same week with this: “Um, Hi Amber. So, I will no longer be your physician. I have referred you to a gynecological oncologist and you are to call them first thing tomorrow morning and get an appointment. They know you’ll be calling and I’ve told them they must see you this week. Good luck. I’m hoping for the best for you. Bye.”

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It’s peculiar. . . 

That call.

A what-now? Gynecological oncologist? I couldn’t even say that right, all the letters and sounds jumbled. My head was a mess. My thoughts spazzed. My nerves zapped and zinged. My body trembled with white-hot rage then went frozen by fear then turned numb with sorrow. “….they must see you this week…”  “…good luck…”  “…I’m no longer going to be your doctor………….”  Wait. Hang on. Another oncologist? I haven’t even finished chemo for *this* oncologist. And I have an appointment next week with my radiation oncologist. I need a third oncologist? MORE cancer? No. That just can’t be.

I met with #3 the next day. Another conversation turned into another internal exam turned into another internal ultrasound and before he even cared about another biopsy, he said: “This ALL has to come out. Like yesterday. What are you doing a week from today? Oh, and don’t worry, it’ll be the easiest surgery you’ll ever have. Fingers crossed, pathology is clean, and you don’t really want it anymore anyways, amiright?!”

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It’s weird. . .

As much as I wanted him to be right, he was wrong. So. Very. Wrong.

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It’s strange. . .

For something that has wrecked my life (just as much as breast cancer, mastectomy, failed recons, failed decons, chemo, radiation) to be so silent. 

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Happy hysterectomy and oophorectomy anniversary to me. 9.19.2018. The day where I was emptied out of more body parts that I was born with. The day those body parts with were taken from me and thrown away. The day a robot removed a potential cancer that lurked deep inside.

The day where an “easy 25-minute surgery” would age me 30 years and shorten my lifespan by 5, or 7.7 or 10 (depending on which study you read).

The day where everything (and I mean everything) would change. More than it already had, if you can imagine that.

The day where, yet again, a decision made to preserve my life was also a decision that broke it beyond repair.

It’s perplexing. . .it is.

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I’m not without hope. Or gratitude. But I am without estrogen. And rogue as it was, I miss it.

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