I am a writer.  I’ve always been a writer.  So it is no surprise writing is a balm, in this less than healthy time of life.  I am keeping a diary and will blog it occasionally.  Why?  Because I exist.  At least for now.  I’m here.  And, I am a writer.

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Breast Cancer Diary Excerpt

Yesterday I went downtown for a fancy MRI, (read 3D) of the breast area. Since it was at 4, Robert and Gavin came with. The MRI ladies even let me look at it afterward. Too bad I was so drunk on valium I couldn’t really focus.

I don’t generally take valium, or any other type of relaxant. When they scheduled the MRI for downtown though, I had flashbacks to the one and only other MRI in my life. It was a lot like being scooted up into a condom….with the top two inches from my nose. I have to be in very tight quarters before I feel claustrophobic, but that condom shaped MRI machine did it. My heart raced so hard I was sure it would jump out of my chest and run screaming down the hall. My brain was calm though. It kept telling my heart to calm down, take deep breaths, not to be such a friggin baby. I literally white-knuckled it through that MRI and determined never to have another unless my life absolutely depended on it.

What? I still have PTSD from it. ~sniff~

So this time I asked for valium. I expected the condom with just one opening, but wouldn’t you know it? The MRI machine this time was open at both ends! Pffft. No problem, I didn’t need the pill at all, but too late, already swallowed!

So afterward, I tried really hard to focus on the images the non-condom MRI created. It looked to me like just the lump, no lymph involvement. But what do I know? I pointed to the biggest spot and said, “Is that my lump?”

Radiology lady said, “No. That’s your heart.”

Buwhahahahhaha.

We went to Logan’s Steakhouse afterward and I drank the best cold beer I ever tasted. Yes, I know. Don’t mix valium and alcohol. It was a small one, (the beer not the valium, tho it was pretty small too) and it tasted oh so good! The salmon? Yum. I slept in the van all the way home set to the background of one of Gavin’s running monologues.

Robert is scheduled to be in Georgia next week. He wants to leave Saturday. I told him to GO! PLEASE GO! Seriously, he needs to think about normal things instead of dwelling on this cancer situation.

As I wobble between whether to get a lumpectomy or mastectomy, I seem to be getting confirmation that a mastectomy is the right thing. How? Yesterday for instance.

I walked in to the Kettering Medical building and went to the information desk. I asked where MRI is located as well as admissions (paperwork needed signed). An older lady, probably in her mid-60’s, said, “I’ll show you.”

She placed her hand on my back and directed me where I needed to be. On the way, out of the blue she says, “Four years ago I had a lumpectomy, took a year and a half of chemo. Now they’ve found another lump.”

Despite the easy going feeling (thank you valium) I thought it odd she chose to share that bit of information with me. I mean, this wasn’t a breast cancer hospital. It’s a medical center which caters to everything from broken arms to childbirth. How did she know I was there for a breast MRI? Is breast cancer patient now invisibly stamped across my forehead? I didn’t give my name. I just walked in off the street a little numb from valium and within a minute this nice old woman, with her warm hand on my back, told me she might have breast cancer again.

Having breast cancer is a lot like becoming a mother, at least socially. When I first became a mom, doors I never knew existed, suddenly opened to me. Other women who before might give me a head-to-toe once over and then ignore me, suddenly struck up conversation. This was especially noticeable since a combination of the chip on my shoulder and my potentially husband-distracting appearance kept women at arm’s length. (I’m really not as conceited as that sounds. This is not a personal conclusion. I only know these things worked against me because a lot of my friends NOW didn’t like me at first. And they aren’t shy about why.)

When the motherhood door of socialization opened, beaming brilliant light from heaven, (ok it might not have beamed from heaven, but with a husband who was often gone and no female friends, suddenly being seen and encouraged to engage? Manna.) I realized there was a whole culture within a culture I never knew existed.

Breast cancer has its own door; except the beaming light of heaven is conspicuously absent. It’s not like finding the door to a new entertainment room; maxed out with all the best equipment you never knew existed in your house. It’s more like finding out there is a basement below the basement, and inside there is a culture within a culture. The door squeaks open on tired hinges, but the people inside really don’t wish for more company. The more selfless ones hope the “in” door never opens again. But once cracked, they look up from scarred bodies, bald heads, pale faces, a destruction of everything our culture deems as beautiful.

They look up with hope, hopelessness, and most heart breaking of all, encouragement from misshapen bodies. Like a prisoner in a movie set in a 1700’s dungeon, squatting on a dirt floor, with a single filthy bread crust clutched to her breast. When you’re shoved into the cell she isn’t exactly glad to see you, but breaks the meager bread crust in half, and lifts it toward you.

You cringe back because, well, ew. Who wants that nasty old bread? I just got here and I’m not hungry yet; still have enough fat on my bones to sustain me; still enough fight to struggle against the guards, rage against the disease. But I know, in the pit of my soul, that one day, and much sooner than I expect, that weak, pale, sickly woman will be me.

Sure that’s a macabre way to view it, and I’m sure it will offend more than a few (though that’s not my intention). Women with breast cancer come in all shapes, sizes, attitudes, and experiences. But right now, to me, no matter how good they look, how smart they are, they all seem like beggars on a dirt floor trying to scratch out a few more days of life. And sometimes they seem to have a sixth sense and recognize future inmates, whether the future inmate knows the secret handshake or not.

As the woman at the medical center put her hand on my back, told me about her cancer, I didn’t know what to say.

That’s a lie.

I didn’t even think to comfort her. I’m not at the comforting others stage yet I guess. It doesn’t come natural to comfort strangers. Maybe that will change. A couple years in the dungeon will likely change more than my appearance, and that, more than the actual cancer, evokes a dim heavy dread.