Reflections

It’s funny, in movies and on tv and in books— when they tell the lead that they have cancer it’s always.. .in the office. The Doctor calls and schedules a follow up, asks if the protagonist can come in, if they have someone they can bring with them. That’s how you know, as a voyeur, that Big. Bad. News. is coming their way.

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And I kind of thought that’s how it would be, I mean, what did I have to compare it to? When I was growing up I used to read a ton of Lurlene McDaniel… she used to write these drama novels about kids/teens with Cancer. I was obsessed with them for a long time. It wasn’t really the best base for comparison. Teen protagonists struggling with hair loss just in time for Prom. Not that relateable for me… 30 years old, endometrial cancer, uterus enlarged and filled with tumors.

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I don’t know what I expected. But a call at 3 in the afternoon on a Monday to say, “Are you at home? Are you by yourself? The lab work is back and it is Cancer. I’m referring you….” and then the rest, a blur. Numbness, spinning. Writing down a phone number. Figuring out who to call. Who needs a phone call, who can get a text, who can wait for the FB announcement.

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It’s a strange conversation to have… 15, 20, 25 times. “Yes, it’s Cancer. No, I don’t really know much more than that. Referred to an Oncologist. Calling them tomorrow. I don’t know what I need. I’ll keep you posted.”

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The words stop having meaning after the first 5 times you say them. It becomes a speech that you give over and over until finally you feel justified to hang up the phone and not pick it back up. You hear the same platitudes over and over, everyone means them… but they stop having meaning just like your speech. There’s nothing to tell anyone really yet anyway. Not until you see the Oncologist. And even then… it’s just more non-information. A referral out to a specialist. More phone calls. “No, referred to UT. She’s a specialist in this kind of thing. Soonest appointment is 3 weeks away. Yes I’m on the waiting list to get something sooner. I don’t really know anything yet. She’ll put together a plan after she examines me. I don’t know anything. Yes, I’ll keep you posted.”

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And then you get lucky, but you’ve stopped making phone calls. It’s all facebook updates from there, appointment moved up to the 12th. Spread the news. I’ll post an update when it’s over. People forgive you. You’re still working full time, working through pain because the pain pills only cover about 80% of the pain, 75% of the time. But you keep on. Because you still don’t really know anything. You scrape by, focus on surviving. And then it’s time. You’re early, paperwork done, hospital band around your wrist, a Cancer center waiting room… pretending that might not be your future soon. Ignoring sickly stares and missing hair. Erasing the sight of wheelchairs and hands clutched together in pain and fear.

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Another exam room. Dropping trou again, for the 5,000th time, for the 5,000th time. You’ve gotten used to it, hands in your body, fingers on your thighs, being prodded from the inside. You can almost tune it out. Almost. You can pretend you don’t feel your abuser brushing against you so many years ago. You remind yourself that this is your health, this not about sex, this is not about abuse. This is about healing. And you wonder… because it’s not going the way you expected. Something’s different. There’s the warmth of blood. It’s taking too long. “Hemorrhaging. 4squares. Doesn’t seem to stop. Can’t see to get the sample I need. I think we need to take you to the OR.”

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First it was, “surgery tonight, yes you can go home, pack a bag, come back.” Then it changes, her tone, the urgency, “No, I think it’s best we go now. I don’t like this. There’s something else going on here and I don’t think we should wait to find out what.”

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Tumors. Abnormal Tissue. And still… the Cancer too. The tumors at least explain the pain, that and the fact that your uterus is huge, enlarged and filled with tumors.. The Cancer you expected… but not the tumors. A whole new element to the game. And enlarged lymph nodes. Annoyed? Or infected with the Cancer? One answer changes everything.

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So you wait. Wait for a call. Wait for lab results. Wait for a date. And you think about how this isn’t how you expected it to go at all. This isn’t what happens in the movies. There’s no inspiring swell of music, no instant information turnaround, no immediate answers. It’s just you. Waiting for a phone call. To see what your life is going to be.

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I have Cancer. I still can’t believe I have Cancer. How did this happen to me? When did this become my story?