A year ago (to the day) I had my first mammogram ever. The breast cancer center was designed like a spa. I was asked to change into a robe and wait in a warmly lit room adored with plants and a water feature, all to a soundtrack of slow wind chimes and birds singing. It both calmed and unnerved me. I simultaneously wished all medical experiences took such care and felt uneasy knowing how much suffering likely inspired such a beautiful facility.
A year ago, I was visiting this strange ‘spa’ and my biggest worry was getting home in time for the nanny.
Quick cut to three weeks ago… I was getting a phone call from the same doctor who delivered my baby telling me ‘I’m sorry, you have stage 1 breast cancer.’ I flew to be with my mom right away but had to come back early when I was awoken by another phone call — 3 days after diagnosis — saying I had to come home immediately to say goodbye to my beautiful dog of 14 years. Sorry, I said I was going to try not to be too much of a bummer. This is all to say… THIS IS WHY I WILL NEVER ANSWER THE PHONE AGAIN.
Anyway, why am I so obsessed with the timeline? Partially, I think retracing my steps makes me feel like I’ll find a clue as to how this happened. But partially it also still doesn’t feel real. Four weeks ago I didn’t even have cancer. Well, you know, that I knew of…
Okay, let’s get those tits chins up and get to the good news! Yesterday, I met the most oncologists I’ve ever met in my entire life (which is 3). If you must meet with a million cancer doctors (or 3), you at least want to hear what these doctors told me.
It’s early stage! They caught it. This is good. I am one of the lucky cancer patients!
And this is more of the beautifully uncomfortable nuance of being human and feeling two opposing feelings at the same time. In this case, simultaneously feeling immense gratitude — while also still having frequent shower breakdowns (refer to previous post for actor portrayal) over what I’m about to have to go through.
Being told you have cancer but it’s early stages is sort of like being told, ‘Okay… there is someone in your house trying to kill you. But don’t worry! The good news is they are hard of hearing and they only have a knife.’
Again, please do not mistake my flippantness for lack of gratitude — of which I have so much. But one has to appreciate the strange irony of having the ‘good’ cancer.
I think this will be an interesting exploration to see what the best of the worst actually looks like. So far in terms of procedures it’s been…
- 3 mammograms
- 1 breast biopsy
- 1 MRI
- 1 thyroid ultrasound
- 1 thyroid biopsy (coming soon!)
Stay tuned for more uplifting content and animal memes.
Alright, that’s all a got for now. Part of this exercise is just doing it and hitting publish so if you’re still with me I’ll wrap up with a little in memoriam for the best good boy who ever lived.
I love you forever, Henry. I miss you so much it aches.
Leave a Reply