When You Think You Might Have Cancer
When you have your yearly mammogram and it comes back “irregular”, you schedule a follow-up, to see if that “irregularity” is just a shadow or if it’s “something”.
When you attend your follow-up mammogram with a side of ultrasound, and it indeed shows “something”, you reschedule another follow-up in six months, to see if the “something” changes at all.
When you attend the follow-up follow-up mammogram and ultrasound six months later, and you see, with your own dismayed eyes, that the “something” you hoped would just go away on its own has instead grown to more than twice it’s previous size, you find yourself spending a lot time pondering on a very possibly real, very potentially factual fact that you might have cancer.
When you think you might have cancer, a part of you shuts down. Is it a form of denial? Is it a brand of self-protection? You don’t know and you don’t care because all you can really think about is you might have cancer. You know talking about the “something” — especially when you don’t know what sort of “something” it might be — feels invasive, acknowledging it to another human feels like vulnerability, and speaking it aloud feels like naked exposure. And what would you say anyway? “I think I might have cancer — but also I might not.” It’s not confirmed yet. It’s just out there, sitting, like a giant rubber ducky lounging (or not) on your front lawn …. with a giant neon question mark buzz-hovering mysteriously above its rubbery duck head. It’s not a done deal …. it’s just a looming “what if”, mocking you, really …. with a smirk and a conspiratorial wink (Can rubber ducks smirk and wink?) accompanied by a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.
“Am I cancer? Am I?” chortles the rubber duck (our allegorical “something” that’s been discovered which might or might not be cancer) , like some cotton-candy sour on the back of your throat. “Dunno — we’ll just have to wait and seeeeeeee.”
And it feels a little like nausea and a whole lot like a rollercoaster as you realize you will have to wait, and that answers won’t be quick in this new (sort of) reality, with the “something” looming a little like a feeling and whole lot like a dazed mystery. Taunting you. Picking at you. Pinching you.
When you think you might have cancer, a part of you opens up. You ask yourself hard questions — you don’t mean to, but the questions get asked anyway, despite your attempt to stifle them. “If this is cancer, can I beat it? And if I can’t beat it, does that mean I’ll die? If I die, how long do I have to live? One year? Six months? What if yesterday was the last Halloween I’ll ever get to have with my daughters? What if this coming Christmas is the last Christmas I get so spend with my mom? What do I want to do, if I only have six months to live?” You realize relationships are a lot more precious than handbags; hours spent with your daughters and husband are more concrete than hours spent at the gym or at work. You breathe a little deeper, walk a little slower, and savor a whole lot more — meanwhile the “something” in you grows bigger, along with the lump in your throat.
When you think you might have cancer, you feel a lot. A LOT, a lot. You feel every stage of grief washing over you, all at once, like rapid-fire bullets made of hard packed ice. One minute you’re rolling your eyes at yourself — “it’s not even confirmed, don’t be such a drama queen” — the next you’re screaming into a pillow, in the dark, behind closed doors so your children won’t hear your anger, coming out of your body in staccato sobs and hot salt water.
When you think you might have cancer, you walk on eggshells. You hold your husband’s hand a little tighter — and because he also thinks you might have cancer, he holds yours tighter too. You hear him say things like, “we’re in this together,” and even as you’re hungrily grateful for this act of unconditional unity, you don’t dare acknowledge he won’t be the one dying with you — if you are dying, which is something we all do solo. And you wonder if you’d be doing your family a favor being real and honest with them about all you’re feeling and all you’re asking and all you’re unknowing …. or should you hide the not-yet-truth until you know for sure? What is fair? What is right? How do you love others in the middle of your unknowing?
When you think you might have cancer, you tell yourself half truths, which are factual, but also two halves of a copper coin. Positive things like “it’s small, so they probably got it in time,” alongside its flip side of, “it grew twice its size in just six months, just like Kelly’s Metastatic Stage IV cancer” And Kelly passed away last January, in her early forties (just like you), leaving three children behind (just like you) so you begin to understand the term “borrowed time” even as you shake your head and deny what might be growing in your body …. right now … even as you write this.
When you think you might have cancer you look back at all the righteous anger you felt in your life and a chuckle emanates from somewhere deep in your body because of how ridiculous you were then, compared to the maybe-cancer-street-wise you are now. So what if Brandi told me I was a self-absorbed bad friend? So what if my mother-in-law pissed me off that one time when she said the thing about the thing? So what if my daughters didn’t load the dishwasher all 846 times I asked them to? So what? Does any of that matter? You might have cancer, and non of that matters when love and life are on the line.
When you think you might have cancer, you get real comedic. I’ve been losing my hair for the last 18 years — now I might have a good excuse for balding and wearing scarves and wigs, what with all the chemotherapy I might wind up undergoing — how might I look with cancer, in a long flowing pink wig? I’ve been wanting to lose weight, and I hear radiation makes you lose your appetite — instant weightless program for the food-obsessed woman! You laugh at morbid concepts such as these and even joke with God about finally meeting together, sooner rather than later. And sometimes you cackle at the wild absurdity of your impending death (which, cancer or no, is sure to happen some day) …. and that laughter makes you pee a little even as it turns into a sort of rabid gasp-howl before (sometimes) turning into tears and the aforementioned screaming into a pillow behind closed doors.
When you think you might have cancer you spend spend a lot of time trying not to think you might have cancer. But you can’t help it. Because somehow this “might have” inexplicably creeps into every thought, leaks into every action, as you re-evaluate everything you do on a daily basis, how you speak to your daughters, how you look at your spouse, how you wipe down the bathroom counters, how you e-mail clients, how you shave your legs and which facial cleanser you use. You worry about how this “might have” could turn into a “have” — and how that might affect your life in the coming months and years, and the lives of the people you most care about.
When you think you might have cancer you pretend you might not. You go on making plans, booking the cruise for next June, writing it in ink in your planner (but erasable ink, just in case), plotting knitting projects and charting out your coming grad school schedule. You talk to people like you did before you didn’t think you might have cancer — because they don’t know what you (also don’t really) know, so you mention the weather, or ask them to pass the salt, or mention that new kitchen cleanser Jen swears will change your life, or go for haircuts and chat idly about idle things. You pretend everything is fine — because, really, it is fine … until you find out for sure it isn’t …. and you won’t really know that for awhile longer …. so it’s best to just stay the course and go on as if nothing is amiss — because, really, it isn’t. (yet) (maybe)
As you read this, maybe you’re wanting to ask questions, maybe you’re wanting some answers, maybe you’re thinking you should do something, say something, reach out to me in some way, share your experiences or your condolences or whatever you may feel like as a response to reading all of this. That’s fair. I understand. I’ve been in your shoes, not knowing what to say to someone who is in a hard place.
But honestly, right now, I don’t really want to talk about it. I just needed to write some words and process my thoughts. It’s probably completely unfair to ask you not to respond in some way, but that is what I am doing. Because I don’t know if I have cancer or if I don’t. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be feeling — except I know that I am feeling (a lot — even in the face of not really much at all), and I feel ridiculous for feeling so much when so little is known. But because of that —
I’m asking you to just listen. Don’t respond. Just listen. I will give an update later, when I know more (or less, as we hope the case will be).
[ 12/17/21 UPDATE ]
In late October, I had my appointment with the biopsy needle. A week later, my doctor called to report the good news: no abnormalities were detected. I am relieved to say that I am cancer-free.