My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 3

So the biopsy is over. We have to wait one torturous week for the results.  I say "we" because it's not just me waiting. Surprisingly, I’m not really worried. I'm only 49. Way, way too young to have cancer. So the hubs and I both ignore the nagging thoughts running through our heads and discuss going out to lunch before heading home.  I’m reluctant because I am wearing my “I wish I was skinny” underwear. Normally, I would not go anywhere unless I was wearing my “I know I’m fat underwear”. But that’s another story for another time.  I throw caution to the wind. We haven’t been to the Draft House in a long time.  Is it too early for a really stiff drink – or two?
As the week progresses, the hematoma gets harder, and I have this purple, red and yellow mass hanging from my chest. It used to resemble a twelve pound bowling ball. Now, it looks like I went ten rounds with Mike Tyson and the only thing he pummeled was my boob. It’s very sore, and I have to watch which shirts I wear to work because the necklines on some of them show the bruising.  People that may have noticed didn’t say anything, but I’m sure those that don’t know what is going on are wondering if I recently went ten rounds with Mike Tyson. One of my husband’s friends came to the house to visit and hugged me so hard, I thought the hematoma was going to burst. But he really didn’t know, and I appreciated the hug.

Friday of the big reveal rolls around, and I’m back to the beginning of My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 1. I hear “cancer”, burst into tears, and my mind shuts down.  The doctor talks about pre-op procedures, surgery, and radiation treatments. The one good thing I do remember him saying was “probably no chemotherapy.”  This is happening way too fast. But based on the preliminary test results, we apparently do not have time to wait. My cancer is aggressive, fast growing and a bunch of other technical terms that no person in their right mind would understand. And since I’m not in my right mind at the moment, Dr. P. could be speaking Mandarin Chinese to me and I would just shake my head and nod like I know what he’s saying. Before leaving the office, I’ve signed a couple of forms, and the surgery is scheduled. Wow.

Of course the minute I get home, I’m on the internet…researching cancer, lumpectomy, radiation, and all the other terms on the pathology report. Is breast cancer always just called breast cancer?  Is there a technical term for this blob of lotion growing in my boob?  I found this great website www.breastcare.com that explains everything so well. Good thing it’s in English. Not sure I’d still understand Mandarin Chinese since my mind has returned to a somewhat normal state. The Susan G. Komen website is informative, but I found myself going in circles clicking on all the links.  It talks about chemotherapy before radiation. Interesting.

I have so many people to call. It was tough telling my kids….probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to tell them. Most kids think their parents are invincible. My kids are so young. There are so many more things I want to experience with them. My husband had already told his boss that if he returned to work, we got great news. If he didn’t, we got not so great news.  So by the time we meet our friends for dinner (it’s Friday night), they know. The looks, the hugs, the shoulder rubbing…I appreciate it all, really, but it’s almost more than I could handle at the moment. I’m still in the WTF and “why me” mode.

The next Monday, I ask my co-workers to meeting me in my boss’s office. I tell them the news…surgery, radiation, hopefully back to work in two weeks.  At this point, no chemotherapy. There's tears, hugs, everything one would expect from a great bunch of people I spend more time with than my family. Everything will be fine. That’s my daily mantra. Everything will be fine. The days roll by. My boss and his wife buy me some Shea Butter. For the scars and skin after radiation they say. Hadn't thought about scars. More and more people - at work, friends, neighbors - learn about the blob of lotion. More tears. More hugs. I have some really great co-workers, friends and neighbors. So many people come to me with stories about their breast cancer. I had no idea. I maintain a stiff upper lip and recite the mantra, everything will be fine. I try to clean up my work desk a little bit so it doesn’t look like a homeless person lives in my cubicle. I pass on responsibility for some things to other people; things that can’t wait until I return. Everything will be fine.