Last week, I got an unwanted glimpse into a world I hoped I would not be welcomed into -- cancer. It's a word that strikes fear into almost everyone, and I quickly learned I was no exception.
To be clear, while I have no fear of doctors, I very rarely visit one. In fact, I can count exactly two times in the 14 years I have lived here that I went to a doctor because I was sick.Once in 2002 when I had strep throat so severe it took me an entire day to drink one Sonic slushie. And once when I was pregnant with Reagan and had severe bronchitis (and truth be told, if I wasn't pregnant, I probably never would have gone).
I visited several doctors after an injury in 2009, and of course, there were plenty of doctor visits surrounding the pregnancy and birth of Reagan. I'm very good -- diligent, even -- about annual check-ups, but I'm definitely not someone who goes to the doctor for every bump and bruise.
This year, we experienced a significant, and unexpected, loss of income, while also experiencing a significant, and unexpected, increase in our bills. But when I noticed two odd-looking moles on my side last month, I didn't waste any time in calling a dermatologist, knowing that my co-pay would still be pretty high. Funny how having a child changed how I perceive health. I also knew the visit would most likely involve a needle (hands down, my biggest fear), but the fear of a needle is miniscule in comparison to the fear of having a devastating, and potentially fatal, illness.
The morning of my doctor visit, as I was getting ready, I found a lump. Small, movable, directly under my right arm. I would be completely lying if I didn't admit a wave of fear rushed over me. I waited a minute or two, then checked again. Yep. Still there.
I told myself over and over and over again that it was nothing. I didn't even plan to tell my husband, but he knew by the look on my face when I came downstairs that something was wrong. I assured him it was probably nothing, while I was frantically doing a Google search for "lump under arm."
I went to the dermatologist, who told me the moles I saw were fine, but there was a "sinister-looking" one on my back he'd like to remove. (Note: when they tell you the numbing shot is like a bee sting, it is -- if the bee is as big as a human. Seriously, OUCH). He removed the mole, and told me to call him on Monday for the pathology results.
To be honest, by that point, skin cancer was low on my list of worries. I ran some errands, periodically checking to see if the lump was still there. It was.
I told myself I would wait a few days to see if it went away, but, propelled by the fear of leaving my son motherless, I called that afternoon. Her nurse asked if I could come in the next morning.
"Can't we wait a few weeks to see if it goes away?" I asked, hopeful. She said, "Oh no, dear. We don't wait when a lump is involved. When's the earliest you can come in?"
I made an appointment for the following Monday. In hindsight, I should have changed my plans and gone in the next day, because the five days I had to wait for my mammogram and ultrasound gave me way too much time to figure out how advanced my cancer was, what radical treatments I could have to eliminate the cancer cells that I imagined multiplying inside of me each day, and figuring out how I would take care of a child while recovering from the surgery I was sure I would have to have.
Over a romantic birthday dinner for my husband Saturday night, we discussed what the potential treatment options would be. (I know, I have a knack for romance). By Sunday, I vowed to not do one. more. Google. search on the perils of lumps under the arm. I totally ignored the fact that only 4% of lumps in women turn out to be cancerous. I became consumed with the fact that there was a deadly disease taking host in my body.
Monday morning we all went to the hospital together. I had to have a mammogram and ultrasound, and they said they would give me the results that day. It occurred to me that I would find out within the next few hours if I had breast cancer and skin cancer, so it would either be a very good or a very bad day.
Once I got to the hospital, within one hour I saw five different people. I have to say, each person was nicer than the last, and, for a place that undoubtedly doles out plenty of bad news, it was one of the calmest, most serene places I have ever been. They even had a coffee bar! Oh happy day for me.
The office was directly across from the radiation wing, and I realized I was on a floor I sincerely hoped I would not become accustomed to. I looked at the other women, and wondered what their story was. Were they here for a routine visit? Or were they already on a painful and scary journey? I tried to read their faces, but most just smiled politely and returned to their magazine.
As I was sitting, waiting, I received a voice mail on my phone from the dermatologist's nurse. It wasn't urgent, she assured me, but she did need to talk to me that day, so could I please call her at my earliest convenience? I listened to her message twice, trying to decipher if her voice sounded positive or sympathetic. I couldn't tell.
Finally, after spending time with the fourth person, a wonderful nurse named Sadie who shared with me photos of her two grown children, while I scrolled through picture after picture of my sweet Reagan, a doctor came in. She was young, pretty, and I instantly liked her. Regardless of whatever news she was about to share with me, her presence made me feel at ease.
She stared at the screen for a minute and then asked if I had been sick recently. Yes, I told her, recounting my recent flu bout that had me shivering under a blanket when it was 81 degrees in the house, so miserable, even my skin hurt.
"Yep," she said, nodding affirmatively. "It's just a lymph node, probably from your sickness last week." She went on to explain that sometimes when a lymph node is swollen, it can indicate another kind of infection that would require a closer look, but everything looked as healthy as it could possibly be, and there was no need for me to come back for another year.
I could have skipped out of the hospital room. In fact, maybe I did. I hugged Sadie, and found my husband and Reagan, who were riding the elevator to kill time.
Ok, one down, one to go. I called the dermatologist on our way home and left a message. The nurse called me back in about 15 minutes and said the mole was benign, but there was some change, so he wanted to remove more of it in a few weeks. I asked several questions to make sure I was understanding correctly, and she assured me this was just preventative, and everything was ok. There was no cancer.
There was no cancer.
I spent five days imagining every worst-case scenario, and there was no cancer.
I was healthy.
I wasn't having major surgery. I wasn't having chemo.
No cancer.
Of course, my mind went to all of the other women who didn't receive such welcome news. I have friends who have battled cancer. I have a close friend who came out on the other side of breast cancer. I have a beloved cousin and uncle who both passed away from an aggressive form of cancer.
I didn't have cancer. I was healthy.
Since then, I've included gratitude for my health in my prayers throughout the day. Would I have been as thankful if the outcome wasn't as positive? Probably not. But, in my case, I received good news not once, but twice, in the span of a few hours, and for that, I am very, very, very grateful.
To those who have received news that wasn't as positive, I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry. I can't imagine how you feel. I won't pretend to understand. But after this experience, I hope that at the very least, I will become more empathetic, more understanding of those who face bad news instead of good. And I promise I will always be just a bit more grateful for my health, for as long as I have it.
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