The primary word coming into my mind these days is “surreal.” I don’t feel sick and I can’t even feel this tiny tumor that’s causing all of this fuss, so it’s really, really, really (and typically writers don’t like using words like “really” and “very” because there are so many others to choose from) hard to identify with the phrase I keep saying.
I have breast cancer.
Just doesn’t fit.
I have a friend I love completely. For more than three years, I’ve watched her suffer through the most brutal attack of cancer, which, of course, started in her breasts. Every single day, cancer steals from this 40-something-year-old’s lifestyle, family and joy. And yet she retains her grace and her kindness, always looking for the best around her.
She sees my Facebook posts, texts me from out of town, and she wants to know how she can help ME?! ME? Oh my gosh! Can I tell you how embarrassed I was to share my good prognosis with her? I did share, because I didn’t want to add to her worries. Being worried about me when she’s fighting for her life is the kind of person she is.
I’m too humbled to cry.
I don’t feel sick. I can’t even feel this lump. I feel fine. Really.
Then today happened. I made the appointment for my lumpectomy.
I shared about our meeting with the surgical oncologist on Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning we met en masse with the medication oncologist, Dr. S., who will be my hub for the next decade as I’m guided through the medications (ie: Tamoxifen) that will keep my cancer from visiting me again. (I love Dr. S.! Any doctor who offers his first name to me gets an instant fan.)
At this appointment, we got more information about me and this. I’m positive for both hormone markers, which is a good thing as it enables Tamoxifen to be a long-term preventive measure from recurrence.
(BTW, I don’t believe in free lunches; there’s a cost for everything in life. It’s hard for me to be comfortable with the thought of taking this wonder-drug for the next decade with the only side effects being those I’m about to encounter naturally as I quickly approach menopause. I wonder what problem will I be told comes with Tamoxifen in five years time, when our chemists have more data to analyze?)
Tamoxifen aside, I will do what I’m told, which is lumpectomy followed by radiation, and chemo is still possible.
In the course of 24 hours, I’ve said or written these words too many times to count. Every time, I feel like I’m back in my reporter’s brain, reporting facts that are completely separate from my reality. This is someone else who will have to handle these procedures. Not me. I’m fine, remember?
My lumpectomy happens on Aug. 22. I make the arrangements by phone, asking my questions and taking my notes. Then I text Stephen the time and place. And I start crying. Just a little.
I’m at work and I have an incredible amount of support around me. I call one blessed and trusted friend and ask if I can visit for a short while. As I’m walking over to her end of the building, Stephen texts me back. Am I okay? Mostly I answer, because that is the truth. But he gets it. And she gets it. This is becoming real, even if I feel fine.
I’m not scared of the procedure. I swear that’s the truth. I’ve had much worse, trust me. No sane person wants to be cut into, though. For just a second, a milisecond, I feel sorry for myself. Then I think of my dear, sweet friend, who keeps her soul intact when all else is failing in her body. For her, and for all of those others who don’t have a “good prognosis,” I can’t indulge in pity. It’s just not right.
God never promised fair. He doesn’t give perfection. (How boring would that be?) I also don’t believe that God sadistically inflicts pain, at least not since the Old Testament days. I do believe that He receives us, comforts us, offers us alternatives to our earthly challenges. That’s my faith and hope at work and it does help.