Loss of Power

So what happens when dozens of people learn that you might have cancer? That’s one hell of a can of worms to open. Well I’ll tell you what happens. But first, an update.

I saw a specialist on Thursday October October 10 who confirmed all the findings of my mammograms and ultrasounds. The two masses on my left breast were close enough that they  would be considered one in terms of biopsy. The mass on the right would also be biopsied, and then there is some calcification that requires biopsy by mammography, rather than by needle. I was not prepared to have the biopsies right then and there because I was heading back to school to do my parent-teacher conferences. I scheduled the biopsies for Monday but before I left I looked at the doctor and said, 

“So this looks to be cancer.”  I bit my lip but refused to look away from his brutally honest eyes and he said, 

“It sure looks to be.” 

I headed back to school and completed thirteen conferences before heading home at six and went back the next morning to do the remaining five. 

So when dozens of people learn that you might have cancer, you realize a few things. First, you realize how many people are ready to show up for you. Second, you realize that people will want to know how things go from this point moving forward. Third, you discover this secret underworld of people on this timeline of cancer that you never knew existed, only you’re the newest data point on that timeline. The secret underworld is full of people that message you, text you, offer to arrange a time to talk, because they are also on the same line, but have gone through this before you. A few years before you, one year before you, a few weeks before you, one week before you. And so you squeeze (get shoved?) onto this train because it’s packed and the doors are closing, and you begin heading to an unknown destination with the one thing you wish you’d brought from home-the map. And the train car feels muggy and heavy and sweaty to you-is there even a sourness in the air? Your breathing becomes shallow as you realize the sweat and the sour is your own panic and your eyes sting with tears as you look out the window of this train and everything is whizzing past you in a blur and it hits you. This isn’t a scare. This is cancer.