Shock and Awe

There are a lot of questions that I know people want to ask. I know because I've wanted to ask the same questions when it was someone else just diagnosed. How did you find it? What tests did they do? How did you react? What did you tell your kids? If there's one thing I've already learned from this experience it is that no two roads are the same. There are a lot of similarities -- tests, treatment protocols, the fear of the unknown. But each experience is unique. As I continue to process this thing -- in between school drop-offs, scout meetings, stomach virus cleanup, etc. -- I'll include a lot of those details, but I'll start with the beginning.

The timing of my diagnosis was all much quicker than I think we were prepared for. It was a blessing, in a way, that we didn't have to wait, although it seems strange to say that since we didn't think it was anything to worry about in the first place.  

Sometime over the Christmas/New Year holidays I felt something different. Something uncomfortable against my clothes. After feeling around I felt a small, hard, round mass about the size of a pea. Knowing that our life was far too perfect for such a thing I assumed it was nothing, but I made a mental note to get it checked out after the holidays. Fast forward a few weeks -- I called my OB/Gyn and they got me in the next week. It felt so awkward to even say "I found a lump" like I was some sort of alarmist hypochondriac. Honestly, the whole reason I even went in was because I kept thinking of how awful I would feel to let it go only to find out later that I have cancer everywhere. That thought process alone is pretty stupid, but that's what was going through my head.

So I went in, got the "It's probably nothing but let's get you scanned" deal and went for an ultrasound the next week (2/5/14). I knew something was up when after the ultrasound the radiologist ordered a mammogram and then a spot compression scan. Still, I thought, "So there's something there. Maybe something precancerous and they'll just take it out. It's fine."

Backing up, when these scans were scheduled they also scheduled me to see the breast surgeon the next day to get the results. My OB/Gyn had even said, "It's at the cancer center. Don't freak out about that. That's just where the clinic is." So I didn't freak out. I'm too young and healthy for this to be anything. There's no family history. This kind of stuff doesn't happen to us. It's nothing.

Walking into the cancer center is surreal. They give you a wristband when you check in, which I thought was weird because I wasn't a patient. I wasn't sick. Those people with bald heads, obvious scars, frail bodies -- they're the cancer people. Not me. I'm just over here stopping by to hear "it's nothing" on my way to lunch.

At the cancer center they have pagers like at Chili's, which I made a dumb joke about because I'm socially awkward like that. When my pager went off we walked back to an exam room and on the way Best Husband Ever (BHE) saw a nurse he knew. She was surprised to see us so he diffused the situation by making a joke that we were there because of my lumpy boobs. To clarify, I don't have lumpy boobs. It's just the one lump. That's how I knew it was odd. In the exam room we did all the basic questions and stuff then I changed into an exam gown -- weird because I could certainly hear "it's nothing" without taking my shirt off. 

Our chosen hospital is the teaching hospital where BHE did med school, residency, and where he was an attending doc before recently moving to the other hospital in town. It's what we know best though, and I needed to be "home" to deal with this potential scariness. Being part of the system has its advantages, like knowing who to see and how to make it happen. It also allowed us to waive off the resident during this time of mounting anxiety. I'm a big fan of medical education -- it's certainly worked out for us -- but sometimes a patient just needs fewer people to repeat things to. This was one of those times. I won't always feel that way.

After a few minutes the Kick A** Surgeon (KAS) came in. [You're welcome for that nickname!] She and BHE knew each other from residency so there was that initial "cool to see you but it sucks that we're here for this reason" vibe. I don't know how the topic came up but KAS and I realized that we grew up in the same area around Central Texas and could have very possibly been at the same country dance halls at the same time while in high school. So, so random but oddly comforting nonetheless. 

So KAS shows us the scans from the day before and points out a Mickey Mouse-looking spot (literally looked like a Mickey Mouse head) thought to be harmless and another much less harmless looking spot. "What are you doing for the next twenty minutes?" she asked. "Ummm...getting a biopsy?" Bingo. So they pull out the needles with drugs, swabs with brown stuff, and this biopsy vacuum thing that looks like a fireplace lighter. Still, no big deal. We'd look back and remember that weird biopsy that turned out to be nothing, right? 

That was on a Thursday (2/6/14) so we knew we might have to wait until Monday for the results. At that point I was feeling a little dishonest about not having told anyone else about what was happening so I texted my baby sister, Mel. I was going to see her later and didn't want to feel like I was keeping a secret. She responded with an appropriate "WTH?!" but I assured her it was probably nothing. That's why I decided to wait until we got the results to tell anyone else. I could avoid eye contact for a few days if I needed to.

I don't remember much about the waiting part other than it felt very surreal. Who sits around waiting for biopsy results? Not me! Cancer people do that and I wasn't a cancer person. But I did sit around. I couldn't bring myself to leave the house the next day. What if I was in the middle of a restaurant when KAS called? Luckily BHE was off work so we just went through the motions of the day until I noticed that I had a missed call and voicemail. It was KAS and she left her cell number. Cuss word. Maybe it's bad news. I went into the home office where BHE was and with shaking hands and breath I returned her call. "Well, it's not good news. It's breast cancer." Did someone just suck all remaining air out of the room??? I looked at BHE and shook my head as KAS said some stuff about more tests on the tissue and my next appointment. I don't even know really -- I just handed the phone to BHE so he could talk shop about his wife with the breast cancer surgeon. 

I sat down in the brown recliner, the one that used to be in our baby girl's nursery and was later moved to the office when she outgrew rocking. I couldn't breath. Normally I'm pretty quick to emotionally detach and move into attack mode when needed, but our now three-year-old baby girl, SJ, happened to walk in at just that moment. She climbed up in my lap for snuggles, as she always does, completely unaware that our world had just stopped spinning. I couldn't detach. All I could do was try to keep my crying quiet and not let the tears touch her. I hated what this would mean for her. I hated that her big brother, CB, would understand that it's scary and cry over it too. Our family, our friends, our neighbors, everybody -- I didn't want to make them sad. Not for me. Not over this. That is the feeling I will never forget. Not doom, not pain, not discouragement, but the sadness. They wouldn't understand that I feel fine -- until I don't. That nothing was different -- until it is. That it's "just a little spot." They would just be sad and scared. That's the worst part. When I was done crying I texted my sister again -- "It's cancer. Shit." And I don't usually cuss. I'm doing it a lot more these days though.