Get It Off Your Chest.
Get It Off Your Chest.
26 days since my doctor said “you have cancer.” Over the phone she said “you have cancer.” In her defense, it was a Thursday and she was away and didn’t want to wait until the next week when we would find ourselves in her office. In the same office where she told me I was pregnant. In the same office I cried in for 30 minutes in a post partum haze. In the same office where I learned I had miscarried. In the same office where she told me my second baby was going to be a boy, only to find out weeks later it would be a girl. For this news, I didn’t even make it to her office. She told me on the phone and I keep hoping that like the sex of my daughter, she’ll call back and tell me, “cameras were wrong. You’re fine!” But that call still hasn’t come.
My husband and I have been together for 10 years. That’s 10 years of really great sex. We connect that way and always have. When we don’t see eye to eye, we dive into each other and somehow we find our common ground. When our relationship finds itself on the struggle bus, we never stop having sex. Like Plato described by Stephen Trask as sung by John Cameron Mitchell, “we wrapped our arms around each other, tried to shove ourselves back together, we was making love.” Ok a silly reference to be sure, but how silly is it really? We are two beings who are meant to walk through this life in the bodies we are given and if we can feel whole for even 30 minutes out of a day, 10 minutes, 30 seconds, isn’t that worth it?
Cancer. A screenshot of some jargon a radiologist noted. Call and make appointments and send them your biopsy slides. Get moving, because now’s the time to battle. The day Dr. Johnson called, I was home. Getting ready to do laundry on a morning when my 20 month old daughter was sick so I already planned to stay home with her. I dropped my son off at daycare and returned home to what I thought would be an uneventful day. My husband was in the shower getting ready for work. Phone rings. No caller ID. This is Dr. Johnson and I have the results of your tests. I’m so sorry. It’s cancer. And as I crumple to the floor with my head in my hands she tries to reassure me that the best doctors are in NYC and nowhere in her reassurance is “you’re going to be fine.” There is “it’s small” and “thank god you caught it yourself” and just write down these doctors and here is my cell number and ahh! It’s like I turned transparent and everything she said just floated straight through my body. We hang up.
My husband comes out of the shower in his towel and walks towards me. Tears flowing down my face. My daughter sitting on the mat next to me playing with her small pink house as if nothing happened. And I tell him. He doesn’t cry. He never cries. But I could tell his heart skipped a beat. He holds my body and says I have your back. I’m not going anywhere and I will be here through it all.
Cancer. A screenshot of some jargon a radiologist noted.
It’s been 26 days and I still don’t exactly know what the plan is or what the rest of my life looks like, but I have to believe him when he says he’s going to stay. In the recent past, I’ve struggled with basing my happiness on the presence of someone else and I know now that my struggle is learning to be happy on my own. And I can do it. I just don’t want to. So now I fear every day that this cancer will make me a sick person and it will make me so unattractive that no one will want to be with me. I think that just comes with the territory so I try to keep that to myself. Not wanting to put that out into the ether.
Two months earlier, a small lump made it’s appearance known. It was teeny. Next to the armpit. I had my period, I thought it would go away. When it didn’t, my OB confirmed it’s small. It’s probably a lymph node. You need a mammo and an ultrasound. When I called to make an appointment in the lobby of my OB immediately following my appointment, they told me there were no appointments for a month. How can that be? If it turns out to be fucking cancer, I’m supposed to sit on it for a month? No. That’s not how I function. Made her check for immediate appointments. Found one. It’s in 30 minutes. All the way downtown. Think you can make it? Yes. I will make it. I get a cab. Realize that will take longer than the subway. Pay him $10 for the 8 blocks he drove me. Get out jump on the train and get to the imaging center just in time to wait for 40 minutes. Get a mammo. Wait another 40 minutes. Get more imaging done. Wait another 40 minutes. Have a doctor take me into her dark office and tell me that I need a biopsy. Because it looks “insert medical jargon here”. No idea what she said. Only that I needed a biopsy. Scheduled it for the following week, walked out the door and proceeded to cry.
I knew nothing at that moment, but something felt like it was beginning. A cycle of doctors and trying to understand. Called my husband sobbing on 15th street. When he asked if I was ok, I said no but I’ll walk it off. So I walked. Went to work. Cried some more. Went home. Was a mom. Went ot bed. Walked through motions until the biopsy.
Next week, at the biopsy. Thanks for being on time. You have a $734 copay. A what? Did you mean $70? No. $734. It’s part of your deductible. I was holding it together until I heard that sum. Then the tears started to come. I don’t spend that kind of money on the daily let along on a dumb medical procedure that might result in absolutely nothing. Husband texts, stop worrying and just do it. Money doesn’t matter. Yeah right. It matters. But off I go to get pricked with needles. Couple numbing ones and then a probe to take the images that will ultimately tell us it’s cancer.
After the biopsy, it’s on to another mammo. Where the tech says, don’t worry. It looks way better than last week. It’s definitely nothing. You should be happy. So there ya go. I walk out of the biopsy going, it’s nothing. That was Tuesday. Doctor called on Thursday.
It was Easter yesterday. While my daughter napped and my son flew an airplane outside with grandma and grandpa, my husband and I snuck upstairs and snuck one in. I’m never ok with that anymore and yet, these days I fear that there will be a day that comes that I’m not interested in sex or with an altered chest I may not want any touch of any kind. So I’m ok with it. It was good. And we were quiet. And we giggled like when we were in our 20’s. So maybe cancer brings out some good. But all I wish for anyone is good sex. Not cancer. Please don’t misunderstand.