On Monday, December 13th, I left the hospital after a lumpectomy was performed under local anesthesia. I felt upbeat and positive;
I was certain the worst was behind me. But on Wednesday, what I expected to be a routine follow-up visit turned out to be the bearer of more bad news. I needed a mastectomy; it would be done two days later.
On December 22, three days before the Christmas holiday, I sat before the oncologist and heard the number of lymph nodes that had tested positive. Fear gripped the back of my neck and sent a deadening chill throughout my body.
There were decisions to be made for which I had no expertise. I was told that I needed as much chemotherapy as I could get. But what about those whispered stories regarding such treatment? Was I strong enough to participate in a clinical trial? Where could I get the best treatment? My surgeon encouraged me to travel to Boston and New York for second opinions. He urged me to take my time in making an informed decision. Finally, I agreed to participate in a clinical trial.
| "There were decisions to be made for which I had no expertise. I was told that I needed as much chemotherapy as I could get. But what about those whispered stories regarding such treatment?" |
My initial reaction to my diagnosis was one of desolation and fear. I wanted guarantees; there were none. I wanted to know that I had a chance to beat this disease, but I didn't want statistics. I wanted encouragement, caring, and hope, and all were delivered to me in quiet ordinary ways by wonderful people in my family, in my workplace, and in the medical profession. My surgeon, noting that a cancer diagnosis often taxes the mind and emotions more than the body, encouraged me to call him any time. He listened intently and comforted me when I called him from work one day to relay a flood of fear that had overcome me. So too did the oncological nurse who administered my chemotherapy and the administrative nurse who oversaw the clinical trial I was participating in. Their encouragement was life-giving.
Longing for a sense of normality in my life, I continued to work as a middle school counselor. I was blessed with colleagues and students who wrote me notes, brought me food, told me jokes, and held my hand in prayer.
My daughter's basketball provided a wonderful outlet. It provided an escape from the temptation of self-absorption and worry. I voraciously read the newspaper articles about the progress of Rebecca's team. I counted the days in-between games. When the nurses suggested that I remain home to guarantee less chance of infection during chemotherapy, my oncologist knew better. "Just don't kiss anybody." she said.
My biggest challenge arrived in the form of dark, foreboding thoughts. I reflected on how quickly my life had changed. Unlike the previous two years when my greatest anxiety while driving to see Rebecca play was the outcome of the night's game, my mind was suddenly transfixed on the number of games I would live to see. I pushed thoughts of death and dying to the outer reaches of my thinking, but in haunting fashion they crept back into my consciousness to attack my peace of mind.
My Story (continued)
