Bad news
This morning I was awakened to the telephone. It was just after 7 am, and my doctor was calling. That can never be good.
She said, "I need to see you today. Can you come in at 11:45am?"
It was as though the center of my body assumed more gravity and everything came into sharp focus. I said I assumed it was bad news. She said, "It looks like cancer."
I woke Kathy up and told her the news. Maybe I was supposed to cry or something, but deep down inside, I felt like I already knew this, and now I just wanted to know what was going to happen next. It sounds strange, me saying that after I thought it was a cyst last week, but I knew.
Four and a half hours later, while waiting in the exam room, I opened a magazine that had a sidebar about advances in breast cancer treatment. It talked about a new test called the Oncotype-DX that examines genetic markers in the tumor tissue and more accurately suggests a prognosis. I thought it was very convenient for Marge and Norm to give me relevant reading material while I waited, so I could be engrossed instead of worrying. It really was fascinating stuff.
My doctor walked in and gave me a big hug. I felt her compassion rolling over me, comforting me. She didn't want to be telling me this. She said me that the cytologist who drew my FNA was upset that she had led me to believe I was fine, when in fact she hadn't yet examined the second draw. My doctor received the results on Friday and had been unable reach me in person. Wisely, she chose not to leave me a phone message that I could agonize about all weekend long. She confessed that she was up since 5 am this morning, knots in her stomach, waiting until it was late enough to call me.
How many people have a doctor this thoughtful and this caring? I felt very blessed.
She went over the test results and showed how we really don't know much as of yet. She pointed out that I could have caught this at an early stage and it may be small, so we can hope for that. My next step is to see a surgeon. I suggested I see someone closer to my home and she looked at me very seriously. She rested her hand on her chest and said, "If this was my breast, I would want to go to UCSF. They are a leader in breast cancer research. Don't take chances with this."
She asked me if I wanted a prescription for Ativan and I looked at her blankly. Do I want one? Am I anxious? Will I be? I have cancer…I have cancer. She said, "Wait, I'll get you the prescription and I'll be right back."
When she came back, we talked a bit more and then she gave me another hug. I had the numbers I needed to call to get an appointment at UCSF, so I headed out.
I contacted some friends to let them know. Two of my close friends wanted to talk to me on a three-way line and offer their support, but I have to say that I wasn't really in the right space for that. I felt like I was talking for their sake, because I really wanted to be drawing inward to think.
It is hard to explain how I already knew. If you've had something like this happen to you, perhaps you know. There is an absence of shock and an intensity of focus, that is hard to explain. I had my deliberate, carefree time last week in between having the fine needle aspiration and getting the results. Now it is time to get on with things.
The phone was glued to my ear all day. I kept calling UCSF, trying to get an appointment with a surgeon. The appointment scheduler was out of the office, of course, and it was unclear who could help me or if I needed to register somewhere first. I didn't get anywhere.
My conversation with my sister was comforting. When your mother has had breast cancer, I think you are always waiting for news like this—at least, we were. And of anyone, she was most affected by my news, because I'm sure she thinks that it could have just as well been her. I know my sister sensed my longing to be able to turn to our mother for comfort, but it's been nine years since her death, so we turn to each other.
I'll be honest; I didn't really feel like calling my father. I felt I had to, though, because he had been leaving me messages, asking for his "long lost daughter who fell off the face of the earth." I knew he wanted me to send him DVD of photos from the wedding. I hadn't been able to create it yet given the long hours I had been working on the other house. I have spent hours retouching the photos and preparing them, I uploaded them to a service so that he could order prints, but I didn't yet prepare the directories of JPeGs and TIFF files or burn the DVD. It's not like he didn't have the photos; he just didn't have the files.
So I called him back and told him about the cancer diagnosis. He told me he would pray for me and did his commercial for God, and then…he asked about the DVD. He asked if I got a full length photo of him and his wife together. He asked when I can send this out.
I felt speechless. What do you say to a father who responds to your cancer diagnosis with that?
My sister reminded me to call my brother, and I was glad that this was my last call of the evening. My brother has been through a great deal in the past year and he has revealed himself with more sensitivity as a result. He was very generous with offers of assistance and compassion. I was reminded that my siblings are very good people.
So, it's off to bed for me, and tomorrow I hope I will get the surgeon appointment that I want. I want to get moving with this. It's like anything else in my life: once I know the situation, I want to gather the information I need and start taking action. I don't want to worry until I know what to worry about.
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