I almost decided to skip the annual mammogram last year. The results always read the same and last summer's print articles argued against an annual exam after a certain age. The written word is gospel, so I happily allowed myself to be swept along the latest road to medical enlightenment - obviously, I didn't need a mammogram. I got one anyway, only because I had gotten into the habit.
It's fortunate that old habits die hard, because this one saved my life.
From the time you're notified that a second look is needed, you pretty much coast along, convinced that all tests, from the first ultra sound to the final biopsy will confirm that everything's normal, even while the technicians are communing with their diagnostic equipment in a series of beeps that translate into medical jargon. It doesn't become real until the word "cancer" is uttered and then, as you catch your breath from the first blow, they add the words "stage three."
What started out as a non-aggressive cancer had penetrated into my skin, automatically pushing me to a level I wasn't ready to comprehend, let alone deal with. Bless my no-nonsense surgeon.
I was given two options: a lumpectomy, followed by five weeks of radiation, and no guarantee that the cancer wouldn't come back, or a mastectomy. Visions of Sharon danced in my head, and my surgery was scheduled for the end of November.
How do you tell people that you have breast cancer? My family had to know, of course, but only a limited few at work would be informed. First, I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me. The choice of treatment was all mine and no one else's.
Second, I didn't want people looking at me with puppy dog eyes and telling me how brave I was. Believe me, I wasn't.
Lastly, I needed to focus my attention on the fight ahead of me. I didn't have the time or the energy to make someone else feel better about me. There are few times in life that being selfish is perfectly OK. This was one of them.
Eventually, word got around and my family, co-workers and friends began a prayer list that extended into several zip codes. Words of encouragement filtered through, but I'm afraid they didn't sink in at the time. "God never gives you anything you can't handle." I, at least, had the decency to wait until the person walked away before muttering, "I beg to differ." And when I was reminded that God did this because "He loves you," I'm afraid I countered with the argument that "it sounded like domestic abuse to me." I'm sure by this time, I've been forgiven for my less-than-reverent responses. I'm equally sure there will come a time when God will explain it all to me and I'll be able to confirm what I've suspected all along - He does have a sense of humor.
The surgery and recovery processes are not worth detailing, save for the fact that I met some pretty amazing people on my journey. To mention just a few, there was my visiting nurse, who had been through the same surgical procedure and recovery. Upon discharging me from her care, she handed me her home phone number with the words, "If you have to have chemo and need to talk or need encouragement to get through the day, call me."
I note a newly hired co-worker, who informed me that she was cancer free for 10 years. "If I can help, call me," she said, as she walked away reminding me that we were now sisters.
I can't leave out another co-worker who was diagnosed with cancer a few months earlier. Immediately after my diagnosis, I informed him that he and I would be walking the survivor lap in the next Relay for Life. It's a promise I mean to keep. A lot of people told me that attitude was the key to dealing with cancer, and if anyone can cop an attitude, it would be me.
After the mastectomy, I compared my new look to that of a unicorn, a rare and unusual creature. If anyone stared at me, they'd probably stare at a unicorn, too. I was soon ready to take up the fight and win. And then came chemotherapy.
It's important to mention that right before my treatments, my oncologist gave me the good news that my cancer was not stage three, but had been down graded to stage two. We were still going to go with aggressive treatment, but the bigger picture had just shifted. I was handed a miracle. Chemotherapy's side effects differ with each person, and since no two people are alike, I won't bore anyone with the details. I will say that, after the first treatment, I literally had my hand on the phone to call my doctor and tell him he needed to find a better way. Other days were better and I felt like myself. I projected my thoughts to the date of my last chemo treatment, then set up my screensaver to checkoff the treatments remaining until the final one. One more in February, one in March, two in April. I could do this.
Nothing prepares you for the hair loss. Not even an adorable wig from Raquel Welch's line. The night I shaved off the rest of my hair, looking in the mirror, it is the first time since this began that I feel like a cancer victim. Because I feel different, I think I'll be stared at and treated differently. Vanity, thy name is Mary Ann.
To cheer myself up, I came up with a list of five reasons why being hairless is good. The best one came as I lay my newly shorn head upon my pillow to sleep. I also set two goals for myself. One was a shopping trip to Victoria's Secret and the other was to walk in the Relay for Life. Victoria's Secret may have to wait awhile longer, but in my mind's eye I saw myself walking on that track. I may be a little lopsided, but my hair is coming back in curls. The best part is that I'm walking valiantly with all the others who have been stricken or affected by cancer and made their way out of the dark. I am one of them now - I am a survivor.
If you've every watched "The Actor's Studio," you know that the guest is asked 10 questions devised by a famous French host many years ago. The last question is, "If Heaven exists, what would you like God to say to you when you arrive at the Pearly Gates." That's an easy one. Many people think life is a series of tests that either make you or break you. I want God to greet me with a big smile, a small wink, and say, "You passed!"