"You Have Cancer"
“The results confirm you have breast cancer.” The oncologist spoke softly as if to cushion the blow. He paused, waiting for a reaction, I presume. I couldn’t conjure up one single response or register one facial emotion. I’ve read since then that a lot of women burst into tears. I couldn’t process what this might mean for my life fast enough to go straight to grief. My daughter who was with me had the presence of mind to start asking questions. The sound of the planets spinning (or something) drowned out the doctor’s first reply. He repeated, “You have an aggressive form of breast cancer called triple-negative.”
“Oh,” was the entirety of my reply. My brain had begun functioning again, though not to full capacity. I was thinking, “Negative is bad, right? So if this is triple-negative…”
And so it began. I started to process the news. Then I had to hear more bad news: “I’m also sorry to say that your cancer has metastasized to your right lung.” I didn’t have a medical dictionary on me. I probably looked puzzled. The doctor explained, “That means your cancer has already spread to another area—in this case your lung. We call this stage-four cancer.”
“Really?” I responded, evidently losing my previous rather extensive vocabulary. So, I had cancer (bad) that was an aggressive type (bad) in an advanced stage (bad). Then came the only good news. New treatment regimens are highly promising—I might be able to beat this after all. The doctor explained all the plans we could pursue to attack this disease. The only one with any real hope of success entailed months of chemotherapy followed by a mastectomy. Then, for my lung, radiation of some kind would be necessary. He thought perhaps a Cyber-Knife. I didn’t even ask. Every term he used sounded scary, but chemotherapy remained my biggest fear.
When the nurse took me on a tour of the facility to show me the treatment room, I stopped in my tracks. I had never seen anything like it! A room full of people in recliners, IV bags above them, pumping poison directly into their veins. How did I conclude it was poison? The nurse had to wear a hazardous material gown and gloves to administer the drugs. Unconsciously, I begin backing out of the room. I was getting out of there, far away. I told the doctor I would get back to him. He tried to explain that time was of the essence, as the tumor would be growing. I couldn’t think. I just needed to leave that room of people tethered to tubes that reminded me of a scene in the movie, The Matrix. Other people might have had a more reasonable response, but I hadn’t ever been around medical procedures. The entire process seemed simply shocking to me. I told my daughter, I won’t be doing this. Nope. I’m going to go see Jesus. I’m all right with that.
When I took the hour-long drive home to my small town, beyond Las Vegas, I had time to reflect. This was terrible. This was life-changing. This was the big Cancer word. Might I die soon or be disabled due to chemo? Chemotherapy is not natural. I believe in natural cures. That’s why we have Aloe Vera growing in our yard and our own garden. Could there be a natural cure for this? Are there new alternatives my oncologist doesn’t know about?
The questions swirled and thoughts morphed into giant fears. When I got home, I started researching, hoping to avoid chemotherapy. Though I did find several alternative treatments and clinical trials, none applied to my type of cancer. I found a clinic that despite the medical jargon, basically was giving patients juices, very expensive juices! I finally faced facts.
My oncologist said I should make I an appointment to have a port inserted on my upper left side to facilitate the administering of chemo drugs. I had never heard of a port. After it was explained to me, I never wanted to hear of one! Still, I went through the procedure. I had to be awake. All these drugs in the world and are they saving them? I wanted to sleep through the process. I did the next best thing I learned as a two year old to make things go away: I shut my eyes. Actually, the procedure was over quickly. I felt pretty brave and satisfied. Then, I looked down at my port, and another movie flashed in my mind, Alien. The weirdly shaped bump looked like an alien creature was under my skin. I decided I simply wouldn’t look at it. If denial works, use it, I figured.
My fears remained, so I started journaling to get a handle on my feelings. I’ve found writing to be an excellent tool for getting clarification. My vague and unnamed fears had to march up on the line and identify themselves. Though I thought my fears would comprise a long list, when I actually committed them to writing, there were two. (1) I am afraid I will be too tired or sick to do all the things I love, from quilting to playing with grandchildren. (2) I am afraid of the chemo which could poison so much more than the targeted cancer cells. Seemed like a short list, but fears about losing my life-style and being sickened by chemo encompassed enormous topics!
I needed to de-stress. So, in my early morning quiet time of prayer and reading, I used my concordance to look up “fear” in the Bible. I found the rhetorical questions in Psalm 27:1 uplifting. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Those questions made me realize since Jesus is my salvation, my fears weren’t cosmic. I had worries, not fears.
Sometimes, I like to summarize verses in modern terms. For this verse, I wrote: Don’t be afraid; God’s got this!
Reflection:
1. Sometimes it helps to commit your fears (or worries) to writing. They seem more manageable that way, then floating around as some vague dread. Did you have a long list?
2. There are support groups and resources (ask your oncologist) available to help you come to terms with what is happening.