The pause

There's a lot of business to take care of when you're dealing with cancer. And every time you make a new phone call, you have to remind yourself to leave ... the pause.

I had a dermatology checkup scheduled before I found out about the cancer. But then when all the carcinoma crap got going with appointments popping up left and right, I figured I should cancel the dermatology appointment. It's not as important right now as the other appointments are.

So I called the office and got one of the ladies at the front desk.

The conversation went like this:

"Hi, I need to cancel an appointment," I said.

"Okay, what's your date of birth and name?" she asked.

I told her.

"Do you want to reschedule the appointment?" she asked.

"Eventually, but I don't know when," I said. 

I didn't realize how cryptic that sounded until I said it out loud.

Before she could say anything, I said, "I just found out I have breast cancer, and the appointment are kind of crazy, so once that stuff gets more settled, I'll call back and make another appointment for my checkup."

She paused for a couple of seconds, then said, "Well first of all, I am so, so sorry to hear that. I hope that everything goes as well and as easy as it can for you. And secondly, call back whenever you have a better grasp on your appointments, and we'll get a time scheduled for you."

I got off the phone and felt kind of bad because even though she doesn't know me by name, I could tell that my rushed explanation was kinda weird. I didn't leave the pause that would give her the chance to say, "I'm so sorry about that."

So as I've had to cancel and rearrange more appointments, I've got the speech down pat. It's a little more generic.

It goes like this:

"Hi, I need to cancel an appointment."

They get my information and ask if I'd like to reschedule.

Then I reply, "I'm not sure of my schedule right now, but I'll call back when I can set something up. Thank you."

I'm an open book. I usually tell everybody everything, so I just need to reign myself in a little and realize that sometimes, everybody doesn't need to know everything. Make it short and sweet and move on to the next call.

Pathology

There's a lot of hurrying-up-and-waiting when you have cancer.

Something might be wrong, let's get you an appointment with someone else. Yep, something is definitely wrong, let's get you an appointment with someone who can tell us exactly what it is. Okay, so here's what's wrong, let's get you some appointments with some people who can help fix it.

And in between all the appointments, you get to wait on test results.

The surgeon told me that I would get a pathology report about three days after surgery. That report would say whether they were able to get all the cancer out. If they did, great. If they didn't, they'd have to go back and do more surgery.

Nowadays, with the technology they have, they can be pretty certain that they get it all, but there's always a chance that there could be more surgery.

And on a side note, I always think of cancer as this awful invader and thought it should be black and icky looking while surrounded by pink, health cells.

I got my pathology results yesterday, and there was good news and bad news.

The good news is that I don't have to have anymore surgery. Yay!

The bad news is that there was microscopic cancer in one of the five lymph nodes they took out.

The surgeon said they used to just go ahead and remove all the lymph nodes in that area. But patients had a hard time healing well and often had arm stiffness and limitations in movement, among other problems.

So now, they just ramp up the radiation or add in chemo.

I should find out sometime next week what our plan of attack will be for me.

Stay posted.

Done with drugs

I love Vicodin. This is my third surgery with Vicodin's help. It gives me just enough pain relief without severe grogginess. I can be pain-free and still function.

But there's a sure sign for when I should stop taking it. This happened after my appendectomy, my knee surgery, and now my breast cancer surgery.

It's the dreams.

For the first few days, the drugs work really well. Then, for some reason, I start having the craziest dreams you can imagine.

It's like my pain receptors are saying, "Hey, we don't need that much help anymore. Send these drugs to her dream center." And it becomes a psychedelic party!

Last night, I dreamed that was staying in a hotel in Las Vegas with my parents, and this freak show circus came through. All these performers were doing crazy stunts and tricks, and I got totally sucked in.

They beckoned for the viewers to come along with them, so I joined their caravan. They were on giant boats that were rolling along the road until we came to a shallow river, then they all just set afloat. And all of the spectators were scattered out among them.

We finally arrived at this crazy, crooked house. From the outside, the floors looked seriously uneven, like several feet difference between the depth from one side to the other.

And it was the same inside. It was severely uphill or downhill as you walked from one side of the room to the other.

The performers were getting packed up to move on to their next stop, and I realized that I didn't have my shoes. While I was searching for them, I also realized that I didn't have a way to get back to the hotel and my parents.

I went around asking, and someone told me that they provided cars to take people back to the hotels, so I told them to wait for me while I looked for my shoes.

As the big boats got back on the river, I finally decided to just leave without my shoes. But when I got to where the return-to-Vegas cars were supposed to be, they were gone.

I woke up trying to figure out how the heck I was going to get back to where I needed to be.

Crazy, right?

So last night was my last Vicodin. I also have some prescription ibuprofen, so that will be tonight's choice.

I hope saner dreams await me.

The surgery

Well, that part is done.

The surgery is over, and the surgeon said it went as well as it could've.

So ... whew!

I had to be at the hospital at noon Thursday. I walked into the admissions office, she asked my name, and away we went. I barely had time to hand my phone off to Jeff.

I donned the lovely gown and hairnet and then pulled on those sexy neon yellow non-slip socks.

One nurse came in to ask a thousand questions, then another one came in to start the IV. I didn't tell her that I'm hard to stick, and that they never get IVs on the first stick. I didn't want to jinx her. And dang if she didn't get it on the first try.

"You are my superhero!" I told her. "They NEVER get it with one stick."

I think I added work to her plate, though, because the other nurse said, "Well I know who I'm calling from now on when I have a hard time with an IV."

The anesthesiologist came in to do a nerve block under my arm. He signed my arm to let everyone know that he had been there and done his work.

Then the surgeon came in to offer his signature to where he was going to work. I probably shouldn't have said this ... or admit now that I did say it, but I couldn't help myself.

I looked at the surgeon and smiled and said, "You know, the last person to sign that boob was Eddie Van Halen, and your performance better be as good as his was."

The surgeon looked up at me and paused a few seconds and said, "I LOVE Van Halen!"

I was glad the he 1. saw the humor in what I said, 2. has a sense of humor and 3. loves the band I was crazy over for years.

All in all, it wasn't a hard day. Everyone was really responsive and nice. I was sent home with a compression wrap that looks more like a 1970s tube top. It is cute, though. It's light pink with bright pink and white flowers. So that's something.

I have good pain drugs, and my great friends and family have supplied all the food and supplies we could possibly need right now.

So it's going really well.

All the ducks

Everything is moving right along. I had a pre-surgery COVID test yesterday, so I have to stay sequestered until the surgery.

The next step is the seed implantation Wednesday afternoon, then the surgery Thursday afternoon.

But it's all the little stuff that has almost taken a chart to remember.

Make sure you have a sports bra that opens in the front. And believe me when I say that because of what the surgeon called my "ample tissue," they're harder to find than you'd think. 

Also wear a button-up shirt. I can't remember the last time I wore a button-up shirt. I would've been before March 2020, that's for sure. Nothing but comfort clothes when you work at home.

Also, wear shoes that don't lace up. I'm assuming all of this is to make it easier to get me dressed to go home after the surgery.

I'm sure I'll be a total fashion plate while I'm at the hospital — lovely gown, yellow or brown non-slip socks and one of those lovely stretchy paper head coverings. Quite fetching!

The pre-surgery paperwork says not to shave after Monday. And don't wear deodorant, powder or lotion the day of surgery.

Wash with a medicinal-smelling soap the night before surgery and the morning of surgery. The paperwork said I could use a "scrungie." I'm assuming this means a bath pouf, but where in the world did they get the word "scrungie" ?!

Take any morning meds on surgery day with just a sip of water. Yet I can drink clear liquids until 11 a.m. the day of surgery. That one is a little misleading.

No food after midnight. Which of course makes me want to sneak in some ice cream at 11:50 p.m.

Bring a picture ID and insurance card but nothing of value.

One person can be at the hospital (this will be Jeff), but nobody can come back in the pre-surgery area.

Be there at noon, surgery at 2. Who's going to entertain me if Jeff is sitting in the waiting room?!

All of this stuff makes sense, but I almost need a flow chart to keep it all straight.

Let's hope by Thursday morning, I have all my ducks in a row!

Conversations

Everybody who knows me knows that I can carry on a conversation with a stop sign. I love to talk to people.

And you wouldn't believe how many people I've met in the past few weeks.

I always trade stories with the phlebotomists when they draw my blood because I was a phlebotomist during college. They always think it's funny that I was a phlebotomist and an English major. They expect me to say something in medicine or science.

I told one of them that I thought it was pretty ironic that taking blood was my job during college, but my husband is terrified of needles. She said, "That's when you keep a syringe at your house and if he doesn't take out the trash when you tell him to take out the trash, you say, 'Don't make me get my needle!'"

A pre-admission nurse and I were talking about how hard it is to get our husbands to take our cellphone texts and calls.

She said her husband never answers her, but if she doesn't answer him immediately, he gets frustrated. I told her Jeff puts his phone on vibrate and then wears baggie shorts so that when it does vibrate, it's not close enough to his body for him to feel it. "Men!" we both said at the same time.

One young woman's dad has hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a genetic heart defect I was tested for this spring and summer. I do have it, but it's not bad. I have to take a medication, and get checked regularly. Her dad didn't have symptoms until he was older, and the case was the same with my dad. Daddy was 79 last year when he had a stroke caused by HCM. That's what prompted me to talk to a cardiologist and get tested.

One imaging tech complimented me on the monogrammed baseball cap I was wearing at their office that day. She loves monograms, too, and we talked about how Southern it seems to be.

I told her that I saw a quote from Reese Witherspoon that said, "My rule is, if it's not moving -- monogram it!” I can support that.

At the place where I got the ultrasound on my breast, they required patients to wear masks they handed out. But as I wore mine sitting in the waiting room, my face started itching, and I started sneezing. So I got my own mask from my pocketbook and discreetly put my own mask on with the one they handed out on top. It was hot, but I was more comfortable and following the rules.

The ultrasound tech was wearing a different kind of mask that everyone else in the office. And she said those masks make her itch, too.

I take it as a challenge to smile at people and strike up a conversation. I love to see how fast I can make a connection with them by finding something we have in common or shared experiences. 

It makes me happy. I hope it makes their days better, too.

And just so you don't have to look it up, the heart on the left is normal, and the heart on the right has hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It means that the wall between the ventricles has a bump on it. It can cause bad blood flow through the heart and a-fib. Luckily, mine isn't very thick, so a medication is all I need.

A little needy

 After 18 years of marriage, I still love hanging out with my husband. We still get into deep conversations about things, and we laugh ... a lot!

But throughout our relationship, we've always kept our own things going.

He loves car shows and playing golf. He plays on fantasy baseball and football teams. 

I spend time with my girlfriends — shopping and eating out, and talking, talking, talking.

So it's been an odd experience for me lately to feel so needy for Jeff. I've always WANTED him around. But lately, I feel like I NEED to have him around.

Any time he leaves the house, I feel a little pang of ... I don't really have a word for it.

I know he's coming home. I know I'll be fine while he's gone. I just don't want him to go.

Jeff and I met because we worked at the same newspaper. He was laid off back in September, but I wasn't. It's been hard to work there without him. I'm mad at the company, but I have to continue to do my best work — for our readers if for no other reason. It's odd to feel betrayed and loyal at the same time.

Although, I think the pandemic has actually helped in that way because I haven't had to be in the office without him. It makes me wonder what it will be like when he gets another job, and we work in different places.

I have to say that I don't like the neediness I'm feeling. I'm a strong, independent woman who is just fine on her own. I had decided not to do the whole marriage, family thing until Jeff came along and screwed up all my plans!

So this is a new and weird feeling for me.

The card

Two of my friends and I have a conference call every few weeks just to catch up, and of course, as soon as I told them about the cancer, a call was scheduled.

We got the serious stuff out of the way, and then I assured them that I was ready to laugh.

And that brought us to them telling me I had to be sure to use The Cancer Card. So we riffed on how I could use this whole thing to my advantage. 

"I'm sorry. I can't work overtime. I have cancer."

"I'm sorry, I can do the laundry. I have cancer."

So I thought I'd try it on my husband.

When I cook, he cleans the kitchen. And when he cooks, I clean the kitchen.

So the other night, he made spaghetti, and you know what a mess that can make. So I loaded everything I could into the dishwasher, but the noodle pot and the sauce pot have to be hand washed.

So I walked into the kitchen, and Jeff was looking through some mail at the table.

"So I guess you're expecting me to wash these pots?" I asked him.

He just looked at me.

"You know I have cancer, right?" I said.

He looked at me for a few seconds, then said, "Yeah ..."

"Dang, dude! That's cold!" I said to him.

Well THAT didn't work like it was supposed to! But we did get a good laugh out of it.

One of my friends who lives a few towns over was coming here for an appointment one weekday afternoon. She asked if I wanted to meet her for lunch, and of course, I did. And the restaurant she suggested isn't usually crowded on weekday afternoons.

She texted back and said, "I'm buying your lunch. No arguments."

I texted back, "But ... but ... but ..."

And she texted back, "You have cancer!"

And I laughed and laughed.

My mother-in-law was visiting, so I told her about our text conversation and said, "Can you believe that?"

And my mother-in-law said, "That's good. See what else you can get her to pay for!"

So I wouldn't seriously use The Card. But if it'll get a laugh, I'll throw it out there for sure.

It's all coming together

I got a call from the medication team yesterday. They needed to see what medications I’m on, to know the local pharmacy I use and to ask about allergies. I told the guy the medication, and he said, “That’s it?” like he was surprised. And I thought, “Dang, dude! I’m only 53!”

Then today, I got a call from a social worker. She was just checking in to make sure I have everything I need to start the process of de-cancer-izing myself.

She asked about my support team, which I am lucky enough to say is large. But I did confess that it’s hard to keep track of who I’ve told what. Her reply surprised me. She said very bluntly, “That’s stressful, and you need to not have stress,” and she suggested I use a blog to document “the journey.”

The social worker asked about how Griffin is handling everything and referred me to some places to get help for him if he needs it.

She asked about all the basics — do I have transportation to and from appointments, do I feel safe in my house, do I need financial help, etc. And again, luckily I was able to say, “I’m good.”

I’ve been so impressed with how everyone has communicated with everyone else throughout the process so far.

One of my friends told me about her sister-in-law who had breast cancer a long time ago. She had to make all her own appointments and figure out the steps for everything.

The medical community must’ve figured out how crazy and stressful that can get because I’ve been led through every step. I have three people I can call directly to ask questions instead of sitting on hold at the doctor’s office number. I was given a tote bag with a big binder of resources, support groups, procedure options and more, and a book about breast cancer.

I was frustrated when my surgery date was set three weeks away from the official diagnosis. But now, I realize that I have to do a lot in those three weeks. Namely, I had to meet my surgeon, my oncologist and her team and my radiology oncologist and his team. I have to have pre-surgery bloodwork and a COVID test.

The day before the surgery, I have to go have a radioactive seed inserted. This blows my mind, but they’ll insert the seed, and once they add a contrast before my surgery, the whole cancer area will turn a different color to help them identify it then cut it out.

So things are moving along smoothly, and I hope it continues that way.

I got a hot pink tote back with a ton of resources.

But it’s not CANCER cancer

I wanted to let people know what was going on with my health. Everyone who knows me knows that I’m pretty much an open book about sharing stuff.

So I went onto Facebook and created a post with the early details.  I wrote:

“Hello, friends. I have some health news I'd like to share. I started this year finding out I had a genetic heart disorder, but after much testing, I only have to take one medication, and keep a check on things. Next came a skin cancer on my scalp. That was fixed with a 2-inch incision, 7 stitches and a very, very bad haircut that still hasn't grown out! But this morning, I found out that I have breast cancer. I am faithful with mammograms, so it's a tiny spot (a little bigger than a green pea). They'll be able to take it out surgically, and I'll probably get by with just radiation after that. I'm not one for pity parties, so I just wanted to share this and ask for prayers and good thoughts sent my way. I go for a surgery consultation Monday, and everyone I've worked with so far has been super kind. I'll keep you abreast (see what I did there?) of the situation and how I'll be moving forward. Thank you for your support!”

The responses were overwhelming. Everyone was so kind, loving and encouraging. And I really appreciate all of it.

But an odd thing happened after I read the comments. I started thinking that “Yeah, I have cancer, but it isn’t CANCER cancer.”

My cancer is Stage 1A, Grade 2. That means that it’s very small and of medium invasiveness.

But when I think of cancer, I think of people with Stage 4 who have fought it for years and years and have had rounds and rounds of chemo. And that’s not what mine is. As crazy as it sounds, I almost feel like a cancer poser.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand the seriousness of this. And I will fight it with everything I’ve got. I guess I just don’t want to feel like a victim.

But just as I’ve told one of my friends for years, you can’t compare your stuff to somebody else’s stuff because there’s always someone who is worse off than you. But if it’s a problem for you, it’s a problem.

I need to take my own advice.

----

When I found out

In early July, I went to my lady doctor for a yearly checkup. As usual, I booked my mammogram at the same time. You know, get it all over with at once.

I told my doctor about all the craziness that was going on. In addition to the COVID pandemic, Jeff was laid off in September, Griffin was homeschooling for the end of fifth grade and the first half of sixth grade, and in April, I found out I had a genetic heart defect that led me to several months of tests. In June, my dermatologist told me that the weird spot on my head was basal cell skin cancer that required surgery and a fabulous half-shaved haircut!

So when I got a phone call that the tech had seen something unusual on my mammogram, I immediately thought, "Yep, that sounds about right. Bring it on."

I had extra imaging done, then a biopsy and was told that it was breast cancer. I don't remember having any kind of feelings at all. You hear about people saying, "When I heard the C-word ..." But I went immediately to asking what's next.

My emotions are often all over the place, but when it comes to health stuff, for some reason, I'm very practical. I loved being pregnant, but I didn't see the delivery as a magical moment. I saw it as a medical procedure to get my son safely into the world.

So I pretty much had the same thought about the cancer. I guess I see it as more of a process than a journey.

I was trying to explain the details of the diagnosis to Jeff, and I said, "I have invasive ductal carcinoma. That means that it started in my milk dud."

"Milk dud?" he asked. "The chocolate caramel candy?"

As soon as I realized what I said, we started to laugh. And it felt good. I hope we can carry our humor throughout this process. I'm sure we're gonna need it.

I was required to wear one of their masks, which made me sneeze, so I had my own mask on, then theirs. I'm also wearing a hat because my hair hasn't grown back from the skin cancer surgery. But hey, the good news is that all of my colors sort of blend.