Mid-life was holding me at the throat. I was mid-divorce, halving precious time with my children, and moving out of my marital “family” home. We put the house on the market the exact week that interest rates skyrocketed. The sign collected dust out front. My dad was ailing, my non-religious mom announced a new commitment to Jehovah Witnesses, and my two teenage boys were navigating high school and the post-divorce new life. The empty-house depression I experienced when they were with my ex was unbearable.
In preparation for my end-of-the-year, half-century birthday and upcoming change in health insurance, I dutifully scheduled all of my preventative tests to get them done and over with.
The squeeze of an annual mammogram is bad enough. I am sure it was developed by a sadistic male with a torture chamber in his basement. I work close to a breast center. I took a lunch break and headed over. Squeeze, breathe, squeeze, breathe, get dressed, go back to work. One test out of the way.
I went back to work and the cluster of life. My Aunt called; I think I need to see a doctor. I went to her house. She did not need a doctor; she needed a hospital. She “did not want to bother anyone with her problems because everyone is so busy.” Unfortunately, she was not wrong. The poor woman was suffering in silence. She had no children, and her siblings were not able to help. I did what I could. She was admitted to the hospital that day.
I got a phone call. “You need to come in for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.” What a pain in the ass. I have fibrotic cysts, and this has happened before, so I did not worry. A week later, I trudged back for a diagnostic (as opposed to a screening) mammogram. Squeeze, breathe, squeeze, wear paper gown, wait, cold gel, probe, and hmm’s. “Just to be safe, we want you to come back for a biopsy in a week.” Shit. Really? I don’t have time for this.
Mid-life shit relentlessly continued to pour down. Texts from ex, emails from lawyers, calls from my aunt’s doctor, mom’s cat is dying, dad is weak and fell again. “Mom, can you take me to so-and-so’s house at 8.” “Do you think you can paint the walls before the next showing?” Twelve emails asking for such and such contribution to what used to feel like an important project. “By the way, we need you to chair a committee.”
By this time, I was thankfully seeing a therapist. On my way to a much-needed session, my tire rumbled, then popped. I crumpled on her couch. I can’t do this.
On biopsy day, I was called to my aunt’s hospital room. She was delirious. I talked to the case manager to sort out the hospital discharge. I needed her financial information. How do I find this out? I spent an hour digging through her phone and belongings. I then ran to 2 meetings. My mom planned to meet me at the breast center. I walked over as I had infuriating texts with my ex about the settlement agreement.
Squeeze, squeeze harder. Hold. My chair was lower than it should have been. I was suspended by my right breast. Surely, the clamp will be released soon. The techs debated if the image on the monitor was just right. Tears streamed down my face. Is there any way you can adjust my seat or am I supposed to be this low? “Oops, sorry.”
I got notified of the results before my doctor had a chance to see them. Have you ever read a pathology report? Normal ones look scary. I received a call. “You have pre-cancerous cells. We want you to see a breast surgeon just to be safe.”
A case manager called. Aunt Jo is getting discharged to rehab. Wait. What? My aunt is worse than when she came in. Do you expect she is going to get better? “No.” Um, so do you think she will die in the next six months? “Probably.” Do you think Hospice is better? “Yes”. So, do you still think she should go to rehab? “Oh, ok, we will keep her in the hospital and consult palliative medicine.” Happy to do your job, doc. No wonder hospital length of stay is problematic. She went to Hospice and died a few days later. I took time off to sort out her stuff.
I continued to have back-to-back meetings. I continued to deal with the house and the settlement agreement. My mom told me she was planning to attend some Jehovah weekend retreat. My dad and I drank wine and cried together because we heard that my estranged brother tried to commit suicide. We will never see him or his beautiful child ever again. We know this and it hurts.
I saw the surgeon within 2 weeks. “This is likely stress-related pre-cancerous cells that need to be removed.” Seems about right. I’ve been under a lot of stress. We scheduled the lumpectomy after Thanksgiving. My first Thanksgiving in the new rental. My parents, boys, and friends were there. It was a great time.
The surgery was a few days later and went well. We got an offer on the house. Awesome. Things are FINALLY looking up.
Ping. I got a notification from MyChart during work. Invasive ductal carcinoma. I work in the medical field. I know carcinoma is not good. Maybe carcinoma means something else now, right? I took my report to someone smarter than me. He validated what I already knew with sympathetic, dewy eyes. No. It’s pre-cancerous. Stress-related. I have been under a lot of stress lately.
The doc called and left a message that night, “Please bring a support person to the office with you.” Well, fuck.
I pause now to provide context.
Have I told you how happy I was to finally leave my loveless marriage? I met someone who made me feel incredibly appreciated, feminine, and sexy. Despite the shit show that was happening in my life, I felt alive. I was having the best sex of my life.
Un pause.
I took the day off and a dear friend went with me. The doctor brought us into her office. “You have breast cancer. Here is what to expect: another surgery, possible chemo, definite radiation, medical menopause, 5 years of hormone suppression with subsequent vaginal dryness, decreased libido, mood swings, and hair thinning. Here is a sparkly pink pen and support group information. You will hear about your surgery date from our secretary.” She was not cruel. She was matter of fact. She did her job. I can’t imagine it’s an easy one.
This is what I heard, “Happy divorce! This is the end of your femineity and your sex life.” I double-checked with my friend the next day. She told me I was wrong and reinforced the above message. Apparently, she was in on the conspiracy.
This cannot be happening. I put on two sports bras to run. I can’t hurt my fresh surgery site because it was apparently still broken. Fido and I left for three miles. I therapeutically cried to process everything. Thank God for my legs. I can do this. It was caught early. Celebrate the positive. At mile 2.9, a dog came out of nowhere and scared my chihuahua mix. I tripped over him in the middle of the street and fell right onto my chest. This was my rock bottom. Fido barked frantically at potential helpers; his leash wrapped around me. Someone was screaming like a maniac. “THIS HURTS. I HAVE CANCER. I HAVE FUCKING CANCER. I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE. I CAN’T DO THIS.” It was me. I can’t imagine what I looked like.
Two sets of dog walkers and two cars of people stared at me. They were logically trying to figure out how to get around the 20-pound guard dog and get the screaming lunatic out of the street. I crawled to the curb, bawling like a toddler as I attempted to free my legs from the leash. A calm, kind voice began to ask me questions to snap me out of hysteria. I shamefully apologized for my insane behavior as I hobbled to her car. She did not pass judgement (or she hid it very well).
That night, I cried myself to sleep. My son opened my bedroom door, hugged me, and told me he loved me. He then told me that the cat knocked over and broke the cookie jar. The dog ate the homemade cookies.
The house sold at a much lower price than expected, but it sold. The holidays came and went in a painful blur. My insides were black. If I had energy, I would have stopped fighting. I would let myself sink and never come back up. I could not afford it, but I planned a ski trip with my children over the New Year. It was worth every penny. The surgery was scheduled the day after we got back.
I can do this.
I was told I would get some sort of a dye to identify which lymph node to remove. I would have a blue tint to my skin. I envisioned an IV dye and my whole body would be bluish. I was called into a CT scan room and a young man started to ask me questions. “Are you post-menopausal?” I don’t think so, but not sure. “Are you pregnant?” No. “When was your last period?” I don’t know because they just took out my IUD. Maybe July? “How do you know you are not pregnant?” Because I’ve only had sex with someone who had a vasectomy. “Hmmm. We should do a pregnancy test.” Why? Between the possible chemo, radiation, and abrupt menopause, anything that is in there will not survive, so don’t worry about it. He looked stressed at this point. He said, “I need to write something down.” Just put that I am post-menopausal. He looked relieved. “Do you have any questions about the dye”? No. “Great. This will just sting a little.” He put the needle into my breast. Holy shit. There is no IV. He is literally injecting dye into my breast. How would I know to ask this? WTF! I turned my head away; tears filled my eyes.
I had to wait for a special report from some lab in California to provide a risk number to determine if chemotherapy would be needed. It took 22 hellishly long days to receive the results. I need a score less than 15 out of a 100. May the odds be ever in my favor. It was a 14. This was a HUGE win. I can do this. Radiation did not sound like a picnic but seemed the lesser of the evils.
I tried to get intermittent FMLA because I did not know what to expect. The form kept getting kicked back to me for things like “your doctor’s signature is not readable.” I asked the doctor to sign it more clearly. “But that is my signature, I can’t change that.” I hope I don’t have bad side effects. Other people work during treatment, so I did to.
It turns out that you don’t just hop on a table and get lasered with radiation. There is a lot of planning and work behind each person’s individual prescription. Nobody tells you this. You learn as you go. I want this behind me. I needed to get scanned, tattooed, and receive patient education on how to care for my skin. It took over a month to do this before I could schedule my daily sessions. Her prescription was for 20 daily sessions. Finally, I can start planning. I’m getting closer to the end of this.
The genetic counselor called me to give me another diagnosis: Lynch Syndrome. This means I am at risk for a plethora of cancers, including colon, endometrial, skin, and brain. “We recommend you see a gastroenterologist, dermatologist, neurologist, and gynecologist. You should have a hysterectomy as soon as possible because the hormone suppression medicine also increases your risk for endometrial cancer. Tell your family members to get tested for this gene but wait until they get life insurance first.” Fuck. Seriously. Will this ever end? I guess I will squeeze all of these appointments in during work hours, go to daily radiation, pick up my kids on time, go to their activities, take my dad to the hospital, co-chair that committee, meditate, and take the me time that everyone says I need.
I sat on the table for my first radiation. My chest fully exposed, my arms over my head. I felt vulnerable. Scared. Silent tears fell. The technicians were friendly, kind, and upbeat. The first two weeks were not horrible, and became my daily routine.
By the third week, I became abnormally exhausted. I was irrationally emotional for reasons unknown. My radiation oncologist advised me to listen to my body, take time off from work, and to rest. Easy for her to say. Who is going to drive my son to volleyball after work? Who is going to leave work to take dad to the hospital? Who is going to pay my bills? Who is going to chair that committee? How will I take a real vacation if I don’t have vacation time because I used it to “rest” when I can’t even get approved for FMLA?
I was in the home stretch. One more week. My chest was red and raw. I dutifully applied the recommended creams three times per day. I asked my dear friend to come and ring the bell with me on my last day. I did that with my dad after his treatments and I have seen pictures on Facebook. I dressed in pink from head to toe on the last day. She left work early to be my support person. By that time, my irrational emotions were at their peak. I was relieved this part would be complete. I told her to ask the receptionist to allow her back when I was done. She was not allowed back “per policy.” What? Why? A mom just wheeled her daughter back here so I know support people can be here. “Sorry. It’s policy.” I begged, “please let her back.” My mama bear friend unsuccessfully tried to fight her way in. All I could do was cry. I cried hearty, sobbing, toddler-like tears. My last appointment and I could not thank or look the techs in the eye.
I officially hate pink. Fuck the pink outfit. I should wear pink like a badge of honor, but I don’t want to. Breast cancer mocks everything about femininity. It literally strips you of it. I support all cancer survivors, but I don’t know if I can embrace the pink. At least, not now.
I have since had a hysterectomy and started hormone suppression. I am in full blown menopause. I’m deciding if reconstruction is right for me. I am picking up the pieces of my life and modge-podging them together.
I used up all of my vacation time and have an upcoming trip planned with my sons. I am not sure how I will swing it, but I won’t give it up. Time is precious. I will make memories and move on.
I can do this.
