Chemo, radiation, mini medical pit bull

I cried when I was waiting for my surgery. This is considered extreme behaviour in surgery terms. Medical people cluster around you to ask what you are crying about. I told them that I did not want this to be happening, not at all. They agreed that no one would want this.

The physician that gave me the anaesthetic looked like the Magician in the tarot deck. First, he touched my hand to introduce himself. I found his touch cool and soothing, and yet somehow powerful. When they had strapped me down on the operating table he inserted the needles lightly, lightly into my arm, with an apology, in case it hurt. Later a nurse whispered that I was lucky to have him because he is the best. I think so. When you think someone is powerful and yet very kind, it reduces your fear and anxiety.

When I woke up in recovery, a nurse rushed to me to ask if I had any pain. Yes, I said. It was a little painful but mostly I like the hospital dope. Hey, I almost never get it. And so I got something for the pain. Quite a few times. Those recovery nurses were so gentle with me that I sent a thank you with a picture of Sgathach. I really felt no pain all day. Or the next day for that matter. My breast was a little bit sore but my breast area is not that sensitive. I guess it comes from not wearing a bra for so many years.

Right after the surgery my husband told me he was leaving for Australia for two weeks. So while he was gone I waited to hear the results of the tests on the cancer and how far it had spread. It was a tough period. My intestines did the polka of fear to such an extent that I had to get medication to simmer the skinny little dancers down. I was so upset, and maybe this is too much information, but I could not stop pooping my pants. I thought I could go back to work but the weakness persisted so that I had to wait for a full month to return. Well, that and the shitty pants of course.

Finally, my posse went back to the surgeon for the verdict. When he came into the tiny room he said, oh, yeah, you guys. So, here’s the scoop: Stage 1 – 2 invasive breast cancer, no involvement of sentinel node (they took it out anyway). Hurrah??

A month after the surgery, treatment can’t start any sooner anyway, I heard from the Cross about my appointment with the oncologist. The woman was simply calling to book the appointment with me but I was so freaked out that I could not hear her. I had to get her to repeat herself several times until the blood in my ears stopped pounding so loudly.

My posse and I headed to the Cancer Institute to hear the news. The way the oncologist explained things to us was that based on my data, age, type of cancer, stage, etc. I was recommended a treatment plan that came from a data base of women in similar circumstances. There is a huge data base of women in Canada and USA that the doctor drew upon. Gruesome news, though. Four treatments of the dreaded chemotherapy, and an unspecified number of weeks of radiation.

All the information he gave us was recorded both by cassette which I cannot imagine every wanting to hear again and by my beloved J. who was my scribe throughout. She went to every appointment with the cancer book and took exceptional notes.

She would listen, write and ask the most penetrating questions. I felt awe, pride, love and a little frightened of her. She certainly caused the medical personnel to stand back. They were not slipping anything by her that would hurt her mom. My mini medical pit bull.

I would like to add that my jaunty tone in no way conveys my emotions. As I write this I am trembling and crying.