The Nightmare Begins by Tina Wagner Mattern
Doesn't it seem like the most cataclysmic occurrences in our lives are often preceded by unusually mundane everyday situations? I mean, there you are, meandering along in life, the most exciting thing to happen in months is little Johnny finally going poopie in the potty or Aunt Hazel suddenly abandoning Uncle Elmer to run off with an accordion player from Pakistan, and the next thing you know--WHAM! You get run over by a Schwan's truck delivering ice cream to the neighbors!
Cancer's like that.
In my case, at the age of forty-nine, I had finally reached that comfortable place where the exhilarating but stressful roller coaster ride of my youth had become a nice relaxing rowboat excursion with only occasional white-water rapids to keep things interesting. I was contented as a flea on a fat dog's back.
As for my marriage, the blazing fires of passion had banked down to lovely little glowing coals, perfect to cuddle by and roast marshmallows. After twenty years of being together, my husband, Fred and I had grown into best friends who laughed and teased, made faces and made love. We bickered, snickered, fought and made up. We were content.
Our eighteen year old son, Aaron and our fifteen year old daughter, Summer, were turning out to be nice people who were fun to be with, instead of serial killers and drug addicts. Not that we ever anticipated that, but hey, you never know.
Even my closet passion, writing, was developing into a fulfilling side-vocation. I had begun working on a book of stories from the early years of my life. My childhood, until the age of seven, was very frightening, lonely and traumatic, but God has a real soft spot for children; He worked a couple of dandy miracles and gave me a whole new life. I decided to document these events for myself and my family as a blessings testimonial, but then realized that the fictional stories I had been writing for years were nowhere near as fascinating or compelling as were the characters, events and lessons of my own life, so I was beginning to consider it for publication as well. But four or five chapters into what I had titled, "Butter Side Up, Thank God", the lump in my breast brought the whole endeavor to a standstill.
* * *
Early in 1999, I developed a tender spot on my left breast, over by my armpit. I manipulated the area, on the lookout for suspicious lumps, but didn’t find any, so I decided to utilize my usual method of treatment--ignore the situation until it gives up and goes away. By June, however, it was still sore, so I gave in and called my primary care physician for an appointment.
My doctor, whom I’ll call Dr. Smugg, unfortunately was out of the country, visiting a sick family member, so I agreed to be examined by her physician's assistant, Selena. On June 9th, I sat in Selena's exam room, sporting a chic, air-conditioned gown. She was a woman of few words. So I cut to the chase too.
"What's up?"
"Sore spot."
"How long?"
"Six months."
"Where?"
I lay down and pointed to the place.
She palpated the quadrant, and then said, "H-m-m-m."
I wasn't sure if that meant, "Can't find anything" or "OH MY GOD, THERE'S A LUMP IN HERE THE SIZE OF NORTH DAKOTA!"-- which had somehow appeared in my breast during the walk from the parking lot to the exam room.
"Well?" I asked. "What’dya think?"
"I think," she said, "that what you have is a tender point caused by the underwire on your bra. If you look, you can even see the pink spot right here where the wire ends."
I looked, and sure enough, there was a slightly reddened area where her fingertip rested. Relieved, I nodded.
"But now, as long as you're here, I should go ahead and do a complete breast exam, okay?" I nodded again and she went to work, her fingers moving inch by inch, micron by micron over my breasts like starving ants at a Martha Stewart picnic. Kneading here, probing there, her face rapt and intense, I had never had such an in-depth breast exam before; to pass the time I entertained myself by envisioning her in a previous life as a burly tattooed guy named Hank, wearing a "Hooters" t-shirt. Finally though, she finished. "Everything feels okay," she said, straightening up. I thanked her and mentioned that I was due for my annual mammogram, but she explained that I'd have to wait until Dr. Smugg returned from her trip, to get the referral on that. Whatever, I thought, never in much of a hurry to have a total stranger with cold hands smash my breasts in a machine anyway. Besides, I was fine, right?
My doctor, whom I’ll call Dr. Smugg, unfortunately was out of the country, visiting a sick family member, so I agreed to be examined by her physician's assistant, Selena. On June 9th, I sat in Selena's exam room, sporting a chic, air-conditioned gown. She was a woman of few words. So I cut to the chase too.
"What's up?"
"Sore spot."
"How long?"
"Six months."
"Where?"
I lay down and pointed to the place.
She palpated the quadrant, and then said, "H-m-m-m."
I wasn't sure if that meant, "Can't find anything" or "OH MY GOD, THERE'S A LUMP IN HERE THE SIZE OF NORTH DAKOTA!"-- which had somehow appeared in my breast during the walk from the parking lot to the exam room.
"Well?" I asked. "What’dya think?"
"I think," she said, "that what you have is a tender point caused by the underwire on your bra. If you look, you can even see the pink spot right here where the wire ends."
I looked, and sure enough, there was a slightly reddened area where her fingertip rested. Relieved, I nodded.
"But now, as long as you're here, I should go ahead and do a complete breast exam, okay?" I nodded again and she went to work, her fingers moving inch by inch, micron by micron over my breasts like starving ants at a Martha Stewart picnic. Kneading here, probing there, her face rapt and intense, I had never had such an in-depth breast exam before; to pass the time I entertained myself by envisioning her in a previous life as a burly tattooed guy named Hank, wearing a "Hooters" t-shirt. Finally though, she finished. "Everything feels okay," she said, straightening up. I thanked her and mentioned that I was due for my annual mammogram, but she explained that I'd have to wait until Dr. Smugg returned from her trip, to get the referral on that. Whatever, I thought, never in much of a hurry to have a total stranger with cold hands smash my breasts in a machine anyway. Besides, I was fine, right?
* * *
Dr. Smugg finally returned from her hiatus in the late July. I got in to see her soon after, for my annual Pap smear. At that time she also scheduled my yearly mammogram appointment for August 9th, two months to the day since Selena had given me her award-winning breast exam.
The night before my appointment I told my husband, Fred, "I'm going in for a mammogram tomorrow morning."
"Want me to close your boobs in the refrigerator door a few times to get you in the mood?" he asked, ever helpful.
"You’re too good to me, but thanks anyway."
I remember the drive to the imaging clinic the next morning; the sun was shining and I was in a pretty good mood, considering where I was going. Credence Clearwater was blaring, "Bad Moon on the Rise" on the radio and I was singing my personal off-key version "There's A Bathroom On The Right," along with them. I remember too, saying my morning prayers as I drove, finishing them up with "And bless this stupid mammogram. Amen."
It still amazes me to realize that at that very moment, God was already putting into place an entire series of people and events that would change my life irreversibly.
He initiated this epiphany by providing me with my very own guardian angel, in human form.
"Hi! My name's Diana and I'll be doing your mammogram today." She even looked like an angel, now that I think back on it-- beautiful, blonde and with one of those smiles that makes you feel like you're standing outside in full sunlight. I liked her right away, enough to forgive her in advance for the torture she was going to inflict on me momentarily.
"Let's just go to lunch instead," I said, hopefully. She laughed, handing me a stylish blue plastic thingamajig to put on. I groaned, commenting dourly, “One of us is not going to enjoy this."
One of the many questions she asked me that morning was, "So, I see you've got implants. Saline or silicone and how long have you had them?"
"Saline," I answered, "Nineteen seventy-eight, back in my vain and ignorant youth. Now, it's a race between these waterlogged implants and gravity. Frankly, gravity's winning."
Chuckling while she finished up the paperwork, Diana said, "Okay, let's get this over with. It isn't going to be as bad as you think. I've had quite a bit of experience with imaging implants." She was right, although the mammogram wasn't the most fun I ever had, on the other hand it wasn't all that painful either.
When the pictures of the left side were complete, the machine was readied for the first films of the right. She took gentle hold of my breast, then, as she began to place it on the platform she stopped.
"So. . .what's with this lump?"
"What lump?"
"This one,” she said quietly, placing my fingers on my breast about two inches below the nipple. Pressing in only slightly, I felt it-- A cantaloupe! At the very least, an orange. That was my perception at the moment, but of course, it was only pea-sized, hard and unmistakable. My heart started doing a chaotic tap dance around the inside of my chest.
"I don't know," I whispered.
We finished the x-rays in silence, light-hearted conversation of minutes before crippled by my worry. Diana's expression was now serious. Then came the next unpleasant surprise: the lump didn't show on the mammogram.
"How can that be?" I asked, astonished. "The damn thing is so big it should have its own zip code, for God's sake!"
But Diana explained that it wasn't that uncommon. "We'll have to do an ultrasound," she said.
The night before my appointment I told my husband, Fred, "I'm going in for a mammogram tomorrow morning."
"Want me to close your boobs in the refrigerator door a few times to get you in the mood?" he asked, ever helpful.
"You’re too good to me, but thanks anyway."
I remember the drive to the imaging clinic the next morning; the sun was shining and I was in a pretty good mood, considering where I was going. Credence Clearwater was blaring, "Bad Moon on the Rise" on the radio and I was singing my personal off-key version "There's A Bathroom On The Right," along with them. I remember too, saying my morning prayers as I drove, finishing them up with "And bless this stupid mammogram. Amen."
It still amazes me to realize that at that very moment, God was already putting into place an entire series of people and events that would change my life irreversibly.
He initiated this epiphany by providing me with my very own guardian angel, in human form.
"Hi! My name's Diana and I'll be doing your mammogram today." She even looked like an angel, now that I think back on it-- beautiful, blonde and with one of those smiles that makes you feel like you're standing outside in full sunlight. I liked her right away, enough to forgive her in advance for the torture she was going to inflict on me momentarily.
"Let's just go to lunch instead," I said, hopefully. She laughed, handing me a stylish blue plastic thingamajig to put on. I groaned, commenting dourly, “One of us is not going to enjoy this."
One of the many questions she asked me that morning was, "So, I see you've got implants. Saline or silicone and how long have you had them?"
"Saline," I answered, "Nineteen seventy-eight, back in my vain and ignorant youth. Now, it's a race between these waterlogged implants and gravity. Frankly, gravity's winning."
Chuckling while she finished up the paperwork, Diana said, "Okay, let's get this over with. It isn't going to be as bad as you think. I've had quite a bit of experience with imaging implants." She was right, although the mammogram wasn't the most fun I ever had, on the other hand it wasn't all that painful either.
When the pictures of the left side were complete, the machine was readied for the first films of the right. She took gentle hold of my breast, then, as she began to place it on the platform she stopped.
"So. . .what's with this lump?"
"What lump?"
"This one,” she said quietly, placing my fingers on my breast about two inches below the nipple. Pressing in only slightly, I felt it-- A cantaloupe! At the very least, an orange. That was my perception at the moment, but of course, it was only pea-sized, hard and unmistakable. My heart started doing a chaotic tap dance around the inside of my chest.
"I don't know," I whispered.
We finished the x-rays in silence, light-hearted conversation of minutes before crippled by my worry. Diana's expression was now serious. Then came the next unpleasant surprise: the lump didn't show on the mammogram.
"How can that be?" I asked, astonished. "The damn thing is so big it should have its own zip code, for God's sake!"
But Diana explained that it wasn't that uncommon. "We'll have to do an ultrasound," she said.
* * *
Back in my dressing cubicle after the ultrasound, I sat staring at the curtain, consciously willing my fingers to stay in my lap, not to fly to my breast in search of the invader. Diana appeared moments later, looking grim.
"I've seen your ultrasound films,” she said. "The lump shows clearly."
I nodded, unsure of whether this news made me feel better . . . or worse.
"The radiologist will call you back there in a minute to talk to you."
I nodded again. Diana went on, "I know what she's going to tell you. She's going to say that it probably isn't anything to worry about and that you should wait three months then have it checked again."
Relieved, I smiled. "Great!"
"No." She said frowning, coming forward into the cubicle. "You need to see a breast surgeon and get that lump removed. It's new, it's hard and you've never had one before. You need to get it out!" Her tone and expression scared the crap out of me, which I know is what she intended.
"But--"
Before I could formulate the question, Diana went on. "I've seen too many women fall through the cracks in this system. Don't be one of them. Tell your doctor you want to have a lumpectomy. You need a biopsy. Right away."
I nodded a final time.
She added, "Your primary care physician may argue with you, but you insist, okay?"
"Okay," I said, believing everything she had told me and knowing she had put her job on the line, giving me the warning.
When the radiologist came for me, I was ready-- physically, if not emotionally. She pointed at the ultrasound films mounted and lit on the wall behind me. I turned, and there it was-- a one-half centimeter white spot.
I couldn't have been any more shocked and dismayed seeing it so blatantly there than if it had been jumping around waving a Nazi flag.
"I'm not sure what this is exactly," she said, "But it looks fibrous to me. Probably something to do with your menstrual cycle. What we're going to do is just watch it for three months."
I must have resembled a deer sporting a bullseye necklace in hunting season because she smiled and said, "Oh, don't look so worried! You're fine."
I stared at her, biting my tongue, wanting to say, “Can I get that in writing”? But instead, I just shook my head and left.
Outside, in the parking lot, the day didn't seem nearly as sunny as before. Nauseous with fear, I sat in my car, hands clenched in my lap.
The significance of what I'd just learned was indisputable: this lump in my breast had a good possibility of being cancer and regardless of the fact that many people survive cancer, cancer has killed many more.
Random, disjointed pictures circled my mind like vultures: a vision of myself vomiting from chemotherapy; the faces of my family as I tell them I have cancer; seeing myself waking after surgery, possibly without a breast.
As I drove home in silence, no radio this time, I thought too, about how bewildering this was. Where had this lump come from when Selena, alias "Hooters Hank," had been over me with a fine-toothed comb only nine weeks before?
And I was angry.
"What the HELL were you thinking?" I yelled down at the offending breast, startling an old man idling in a convertible next to me at a stoplight. Ignoring his worried, "About what?" I rolled up my window.
Associated words for the situation started exploding in my brain like grenades. Cancer. . .mastectomy. . .chemotherapy. . .radiation…. Implications of the whole thing were sinking in.
I tried to pray, but all that I could get out was a panicked, “God? What’s happening here?” I couldn't assemble my thoughts into any kind of coherent plea; my mind was a hornet's nest.
"I've seen your ultrasound films,” she said. "The lump shows clearly."
I nodded, unsure of whether this news made me feel better . . . or worse.
"The radiologist will call you back there in a minute to talk to you."
I nodded again. Diana went on, "I know what she's going to tell you. She's going to say that it probably isn't anything to worry about and that you should wait three months then have it checked again."
Relieved, I smiled. "Great!"
"No." She said frowning, coming forward into the cubicle. "You need to see a breast surgeon and get that lump removed. It's new, it's hard and you've never had one before. You need to get it out!" Her tone and expression scared the crap out of me, which I know is what she intended.
"But--"
Before I could formulate the question, Diana went on. "I've seen too many women fall through the cracks in this system. Don't be one of them. Tell your doctor you want to have a lumpectomy. You need a biopsy. Right away."
I nodded a final time.
She added, "Your primary care physician may argue with you, but you insist, okay?"
"Okay," I said, believing everything she had told me and knowing she had put her job on the line, giving me the warning.
When the radiologist came for me, I was ready-- physically, if not emotionally. She pointed at the ultrasound films mounted and lit on the wall behind me. I turned, and there it was-- a one-half centimeter white spot.
I couldn't have been any more shocked and dismayed seeing it so blatantly there than if it had been jumping around waving a Nazi flag.
"I'm not sure what this is exactly," she said, "But it looks fibrous to me. Probably something to do with your menstrual cycle. What we're going to do is just watch it for three months."
I must have resembled a deer sporting a bullseye necklace in hunting season because she smiled and said, "Oh, don't look so worried! You're fine."
I stared at her, biting my tongue, wanting to say, “Can I get that in writing”? But instead, I just shook my head and left.
Outside, in the parking lot, the day didn't seem nearly as sunny as before. Nauseous with fear, I sat in my car, hands clenched in my lap.
The significance of what I'd just learned was indisputable: this lump in my breast had a good possibility of being cancer and regardless of the fact that many people survive cancer, cancer has killed many more.
Random, disjointed pictures circled my mind like vultures: a vision of myself vomiting from chemotherapy; the faces of my family as I tell them I have cancer; seeing myself waking after surgery, possibly without a breast.
As I drove home in silence, no radio this time, I thought too, about how bewildering this was. Where had this lump come from when Selena, alias "Hooters Hank," had been over me with a fine-toothed comb only nine weeks before?
And I was angry.
"What the HELL were you thinking?" I yelled down at the offending breast, startling an old man idling in a convertible next to me at a stoplight. Ignoring his worried, "About what?" I rolled up my window.
Associated words for the situation started exploding in my brain like grenades. Cancer. . .mastectomy. . .chemotherapy. . .radiation…. Implications of the whole thing were sinking in.
I tried to pray, but all that I could get out was a panicked, “God? What’s happening here?” I couldn't assemble my thoughts into any kind of coherent plea; my mind was a hornet's nest.
* * *
Over the days and weeks to come, my usual upbeat, smart-ass attitude had to dog paddle frantically just to keep its head above water. All I could think about was the terrifying lump lurking in my breast like a sniper perched on a rooftop with an Uzi.
Then, depression, like a secondary infection, set in. Watching Fred and Aaron and Summer going through their normal daily routines, I would suddenly be overcome by sadness, feeling like a specter on some distant celestial plane, observing my loved ones’ lives unfolding without me. This is how it will be, I would think; they will grieve for a time, then they will survive. Life will go on as it always does and I will become a memory.
Hearing Aaron's laughter coming from another room, I would find myself suddenly lost in a moment from the past:
Kermit the frog is singing "The Rainbow Connection" on the phonograph; my son is in my arms and we are rocking together in our favorite chair while he nurses at my breast. A ray of late morning sunlight has found its way through the blinds, making a halo of his golden hair; belly full, milky lipped, he has pulled his mouth away with an audible pop to grin sleepily up at me. I feel a startling explosion of love that is almost painful in its sweet intensity . . . I want time to stop, right here.
The scene changes: He is around four. I hear him talking in his bedroom, so I peek around the corner to see what he's up to: He has gathered his family of stuffed animals in a circle and is reading bible stories to them from an upside-down picture book in his lap.
His voice is sweetly devout, passionate.
"And Jesus said, 'Don't make the little children go away. . .I always want them to come to me.'"
This is what he is telling the attentive frog and penguin and assorted bears, nodding to each of them solemnly. . .
Swallowing hard, I have to slip quickly away so that he won't see the tears in my eyes and ask me about them. He of course wouldn't understand if I said, "I'm crying because I'm pretty sure I just saw Jesus in your room. . .and He looked exactly like you!"
Now he is twelve, all feet, bony elbows and pointy knees. He is informing me in no uncertain terms that hell will freeze over before he will ever get married, much less have children. Girls are right up there with Brussels sprouts, changing your underwear and being condemned to life imprisonment without Game Boy. . . .
The thought that I may never see Aaron in love, in marriage, a baby of his own to smile up at him. . .is an ice pick in my heart.
One night, during that first week after learning I had the lump, I went to bed early. I was lying there, trying to sleep, but not having much luck shutting my mind off, when my daughter appeared at the bedroom door, just as she has since she was small.
Peering through the semi-darkness, she called, "MOM! ARE YOU SLEEPING?" in a loud, theatrical whisper.
I sighed, smiling, knowing the script by heart, "Yes! I'm asleep. Go away!"
Hurtling through the air like a blonde guided missile, she bounced once, and then landed spread-eagled on top of me, nose to nose.
"People who lie go to hell!" she laughed, then proceeded to sit comfortably cross-legged on my stomach; one hundred and ten pounds of Summer love, ready to share her "amazing day" with me.
Once again, I found myself blindsided by a flashback in time:
She is three.
It's a warm spring day and I'm working in the flowerbeds, preparing them for planting. I hear her giggle as she comes up behind me. I turn; she's naked, as usual. Her cheeks are pink from the sun, so round she looks like a Cabbage Patch doll and her hair is a wild cornsilk-cloud of curls. She's holding out a chubby, dirty hand to show me a rather miserable looking potato bug, cowering on her palm.
"It's my new friend!" she chirps, happily sharing this unexpected blessing.
I grin, my heart full. . . and tell her, "You just can't have too many friends, can you, sweet baby?" She nods, pleased that I understand.
Looking up then into Summer’s beautiful face, I was swept with despair at the unspeakable possibility that I might not be around to share not only these joyful moments of her life, but the times as well, when her heart is broken and no one but her mother could bring her comfort.
Then, depression, like a secondary infection, set in. Watching Fred and Aaron and Summer going through their normal daily routines, I would suddenly be overcome by sadness, feeling like a specter on some distant celestial plane, observing my loved ones’ lives unfolding without me. This is how it will be, I would think; they will grieve for a time, then they will survive. Life will go on as it always does and I will become a memory.
Hearing Aaron's laughter coming from another room, I would find myself suddenly lost in a moment from the past:
Kermit the frog is singing "The Rainbow Connection" on the phonograph; my son is in my arms and we are rocking together in our favorite chair while he nurses at my breast. A ray of late morning sunlight has found its way through the blinds, making a halo of his golden hair; belly full, milky lipped, he has pulled his mouth away with an audible pop to grin sleepily up at me. I feel a startling explosion of love that is almost painful in its sweet intensity . . . I want time to stop, right here.
The scene changes: He is around four. I hear him talking in his bedroom, so I peek around the corner to see what he's up to: He has gathered his family of stuffed animals in a circle and is reading bible stories to them from an upside-down picture book in his lap.
His voice is sweetly devout, passionate.
"And Jesus said, 'Don't make the little children go away. . .I always want them to come to me.'"
This is what he is telling the attentive frog and penguin and assorted bears, nodding to each of them solemnly. . .
Swallowing hard, I have to slip quickly away so that he won't see the tears in my eyes and ask me about them. He of course wouldn't understand if I said, "I'm crying because I'm pretty sure I just saw Jesus in your room. . .and He looked exactly like you!"
Now he is twelve, all feet, bony elbows and pointy knees. He is informing me in no uncertain terms that hell will freeze over before he will ever get married, much less have children. Girls are right up there with Brussels sprouts, changing your underwear and being condemned to life imprisonment without Game Boy. . . .
The thought that I may never see Aaron in love, in marriage, a baby of his own to smile up at him. . .is an ice pick in my heart.
One night, during that first week after learning I had the lump, I went to bed early. I was lying there, trying to sleep, but not having much luck shutting my mind off, when my daughter appeared at the bedroom door, just as she has since she was small.
Peering through the semi-darkness, she called, "MOM! ARE YOU SLEEPING?" in a loud, theatrical whisper.
I sighed, smiling, knowing the script by heart, "Yes! I'm asleep. Go away!"
Hurtling through the air like a blonde guided missile, she bounced once, and then landed spread-eagled on top of me, nose to nose.
"People who lie go to hell!" she laughed, then proceeded to sit comfortably cross-legged on my stomach; one hundred and ten pounds of Summer love, ready to share her "amazing day" with me.
Once again, I found myself blindsided by a flashback in time:
She is three.
It's a warm spring day and I'm working in the flowerbeds, preparing them for planting. I hear her giggle as she comes up behind me. I turn; she's naked, as usual. Her cheeks are pink from the sun, so round she looks like a Cabbage Patch doll and her hair is a wild cornsilk-cloud of curls. She's holding out a chubby, dirty hand to show me a rather miserable looking potato bug, cowering on her palm.
"It's my new friend!" she chirps, happily sharing this unexpected blessing.
I grin, my heart full. . . and tell her, "You just can't have too many friends, can you, sweet baby?" She nods, pleased that I understand.
Looking up then into Summer’s beautiful face, I was swept with despair at the unspeakable possibility that I might not be around to share not only these joyful moments of her life, but the times as well, when her heart is broken and no one but her mother could bring her comfort.
* * *
Those were terrifying, lonely, frustrating days. Nobody-- not my family or my friends-- seemed to really understand what I was going through. Everyone appeared to be supremely confident that the growth in my breast was nothing to be concerned about. Everyone but me.
It would be a little over two weeks before I could get in to Dr. Smugg to start the wheels turning towards getting an appointment with a breast surgeon for a lumpectomy/biopsy and the wait was making me crazy. With every passing day, I became more and more aware of a gut feeling that this object in my breast was, in fact, cancer. I didn't talk much about it; it felt as though speaking my fears out loud would somehow give them the power to materialize.
"What's going on?" my husband asked one evening as we were getting ready for bed. Startled, I replied, "What?"
"You seem kind of. . .bummed out or something lately."
I stared unbelieving at him for a long minute. Finally, I said, "Well, let me see, how do I put this . . .? Let's say that you've just been told by your doctor that you have a growth in your testicle." Fred, seeing where I was headed with this, looked chagrined. "And let's say," I continued, "That it might be cancer. They might just need to whack one of Mr. Happy's little buddies off!" The color drained from my husband's face. "Now do you suppose you'd be bummed out?"
Enough said. He apologized, thoroughly dismayed by his thoughtlessness, and then added sheepishly, "I guess I wasn't thinking. It's just that you seemed sort of. . .okay with it. I mean, you haven’t come across as all that worried." Exasperated at his inability to read me after nearly twenty years of marriage, I replied, "Dammit, why the hell aren't you more worried about this frigging lump?"
He reached for my hand and I felt my face crumple.
All the fear I'd kept so carefully locked away came pouring forth like poisonous smoke from under a door. I sobbed. In that moment, but not for the last time by a long shot, I gave in and allowed myself to flat-out wallow in my fear.
My husband, still secure in his denial, patted me consolingly the way he did our children when they were frightened of the monster under the bed.
"It's going to be okay. You'll see," he said. But his words didn't soothe me the way they did our children. This monster under the bed had a good probability of being real.
It would be a little over two weeks before I could get in to Dr. Smugg to start the wheels turning towards getting an appointment with a breast surgeon for a lumpectomy/biopsy and the wait was making me crazy. With every passing day, I became more and more aware of a gut feeling that this object in my breast was, in fact, cancer. I didn't talk much about it; it felt as though speaking my fears out loud would somehow give them the power to materialize.
"What's going on?" my husband asked one evening as we were getting ready for bed. Startled, I replied, "What?"
"You seem kind of. . .bummed out or something lately."
I stared unbelieving at him for a long minute. Finally, I said, "Well, let me see, how do I put this . . .? Let's say that you've just been told by your doctor that you have a growth in your testicle." Fred, seeing where I was headed with this, looked chagrined. "And let's say," I continued, "That it might be cancer. They might just need to whack one of Mr. Happy's little buddies off!" The color drained from my husband's face. "Now do you suppose you'd be bummed out?"
Enough said. He apologized, thoroughly dismayed by his thoughtlessness, and then added sheepishly, "I guess I wasn't thinking. It's just that you seemed sort of. . .okay with it. I mean, you haven’t come across as all that worried." Exasperated at his inability to read me after nearly twenty years of marriage, I replied, "Dammit, why the hell aren't you more worried about this frigging lump?"
He reached for my hand and I felt my face crumple.
All the fear I'd kept so carefully locked away came pouring forth like poisonous smoke from under a door. I sobbed. In that moment, but not for the last time by a long shot, I gave in and allowed myself to flat-out wallow in my fear.
My husband, still secure in his denial, patted me consolingly the way he did our children when they were frightened of the monster under the bed.
"It's going to be okay. You'll see," he said. But his words didn't soothe me the way they did our children. This monster under the bed had a good probability of being real.
