Back for more torture….why yes I am. When I decide which category I want to write on any given day, I usually choose the one that flows the easiest. Strangely enough that brought me here tonight. You know how I love dredging up these old memories. Good times. The other day I realized I’m still living in “survival mode” on the reg. How has it been almost 9 years and I’m still in the trenches? Can’t be sure. I wish I could make it go away and live freely but alas the controlling side of me is always on high alert. It doesn’t help that I keep losing friends left and right to this horrible disease. I wake up every day wondering who’s next and praying it’s not me. Not a good way to exist. So I search for things to help. Occasionally something works for a while. I want to feel what it’s like to “live” again. It may appear I do a good job of living. And sometimes I do. But most of the time I’m “in my head.” Perhaps putting all this out there it will help. And there’s always vino…
So when I last left you I made contact with Duke after Dr. Dickhead gave me his doom and gloom predictions. It took a week or 2 to get in. The anxiety was killing me. I swore that damn parasitic twin would double in size by the time I got to Duke. It’s a 4 hour drive to from my house. Lots of time to stress and overthink. They lined up everyone I needed to see back to back so I wouldn’t have to leave the room. Everyone would come to me. Broken rock star status….check. When you drive up to the cancer center you immediately feel like “this” is the place. One huge facility completely dedicated to treating all kinds of cancer. It was impressive. That eased my nerves a bit. You sort of feel like if anyone is going to help you it will be them. When you walk into the lobby it almost feels like a swanky club. There was a man playing piano in the lobby and someone stepped out to greet me the second I arrived. Kelly party of “3” hoping to leave as 2, thank you. I headed up to 2-2 to check in. When you “move about the cabin” you quickly realize you are not in fact at a swanky club. I saw bald women/men of all ages navigating the halls. Hard not to internalize that. I knew no one with cancer yet here I was in the Club Med of Cancer. You want to reach out and grab hold of something to ground you but you can’t help but fall a little further with every step….not ideal.
Once I checked in, I settled down a bit. Every step closer to meeting my medical team felt like a step closer to getting rid of my twin. I was led back to a comfy room where I could strip down for my parade of suitors. The one thing I’ll never forget is the nurses assistant who came in to ask me a zillion questions before the Dr.’s arrived. She turned in her chair to look at me and said, “When were you diagnosed?” I told her. She looked me square in the eyes and said, “That’s the day you became a survivor and don’t forget it.” Ma’am yes Ma’am! I appreciated her directness and insistence that I get on the same page with what we were about to do. It was potentially the turning point in my treatment. She didn’t give bullshit predictions of what’s to come and write me a script for Valium. She said (without saying) “Bitch you better get yourself together and jump on the survivor train here and now.” And let me tell you what….I did. Her words resonate in my soul to this day. I’m sure she had no idea how powerful that moment was. Or maybe she did. Throughout my journey at Duke I learned many of the people treating me were survivors. Like a secret club ready to take me in. Fuck Dr. Death….this is what I needed. I’m a fighter. I needed someone to remind me of that.
So I traded my shirt for a paper robe and waited for my molesters to arrive. Duke has a system. After they decide you are worthy of entering the country club they assign you a team. You have a Radiologist, Oncologist and a Surgeon. The trifecta if you will. If I remember correctly, radiology came in first. I wouldn’t need them unless I had lymph node involvement so I was hoping they were a one and done. They reminded me I would be getting a zillion scans and they would be by my side. Fair enough. Next up was the surgeon. He was and is my favorite of the trifecta. He’s the Chief Surgeon at Duke and always has a posse with him. I needed this level of professional to ease my nerves. He was direct and optimistic which was something I really needed at that point. He pressed into my arm pit and told me he didn’t feel anything in my nodes but they would need to be checked via biopsy to be sure. We talked about the options for getting rid of my squatter. I could do a lumpectomy or partial mastectomy. To be clear I wanted him to cut off anything and everything that could kill me. Apparently that’s not an option. You get to cut off the tainted titty and that’s it. I asked him what he would do. He looked me square in the eye and said “I wouldn’t even spare your nipple with the kind of cancer you have.” Done. Rip it off nip and all. Who needs those anyway. So we had the first part of the plan in place. I would need to have some scans, a lymph node biopsy, some other rando procedures and then surgery. He wanted me to do surgery first. This isn’t always the case but my lady hump was of the size where he felt we could get it out before we moved on. Take that bitch and quarter her…
Next up was the Oncologist. Let me tell you….this crowd has the personality of paint drying. Listen I get it….you have to tell people bad shit all day and a lot of them do not survive. I honestly don’t know how they do it day in and day out. Mad respect. I was looking for an Oncologist with the personality of Chris Rock. Wasn’t happening. She had a depressing scowl and cautious demeanor. And horrible shoes…mentally I named her “Mo-Hub: for Mother Hubbard. I needed an outlet to offset her lack of enthusiasm. I get it…she wasn’t there to give me hope. She sort of had to prep me for what could happen and really there’s no great way to do that. She started off by digging in my armpit. I let her know the surgeon had already been in there and deemed me ok. She kept digging….dug her way to China via my armpit and told me she wasn’t sure about that. Right bcs she just inflamed every node I own with her pitch fork fingernails! Robbed me of what little joy I had left! Time to deflect…. I told her what Dr. Dickhead said bcs I wanted her to know I wasn’t having any of that shit. She was appalled. She said, “No one can tell you how you are going to feel. I will keep you from getting sick. And well you are going to lose your hair but it will grow back.” So her stock rose a bit in that moment. Until I realized that meant I would have to get chemo for real. I thought perhaps that would be an option I could choose from. Not so much. She said, “You have an aggressive form of breast cancer. You are 42 years old. We can’t see a cancer cell until it’s big enough to show on a scan. If anything got outside the tumor, there’s a 100% chance you will die.” Drop the mic. All of the sudden chemo seemed like the best option. To be clear I did not want to do it. I only knew chemo from watching people in movies. No hair, sick, pale skin….ugh! I still held out hope there was a mistake and maybe my lady hump was an undigested M&M. But that wasn’t going to be the case. So I dug my heels in and readied for war. I would have to deal with Debbie Downer Mo-Hub. I didn’t need her to be personable. I needed her to be the best at what she does. And she was. She and I actually got on well. I stopped expecting her to be my friend and trusted her to cure me. She exceeded my expectations. But the shoes….the struggle is still real.
Next up….the poking, prodding, ripping and madness ensued.
*** In loving memory of my girl Sha’D. You were a badass warrior. I know you are resting easy at home with Jesus. While this brings me peace, I sure do miss you. It was an honor to fight with you. I’ll take care of things on this side…love you girl.***