That dreaded 9 letter word

It hasn't even been a week. Me and everyone else is still adjusting to the fact that I really have breast cancer. As I reported yesterday, I spent Friday afternoon setting up appointments. These are not ordinary appointments. These are the kind that have to be coordinated like air traffic control, or like pairing the perfect meal with just the right diet soda.

It was tricky, but I arranged most of them and thought we had a plan, until those people got involved. Yes, the evil empire, the barbarians of the business world, the i-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e people. As everyone knows, the goal of insurers is to not spend money or at least delay it until they have reduced you to a heap of jello encrusted with parrot droppings of course by then the patient has a) died, b) been shipped to Iraq, or c) turned to Christian Science. My whole house of cards so carefully arranged came tumbling down.

I actually wasn't even surprised and probably only mildly frustrated. I did decide to call the company myself and ask them why are they doing this to me, but after 5 minutes on hold, I realized the chances of me getting to speak to an actual human being who could actually do something was as remote as... well the insurance company paying claims without requiring your first born child.

So AvMed, Blue Cross, United, whatever, just tell us what we have to do and we'll do it, but PLEASE no more torture by insurance.

Answers

On Friday, May 7th, I was officially told I had breast cancer. The doctor, who is by the way kind of a saint, explained everything in minute detail and mapped out my treatment plan. In less than 2 weeks I will begin 8 treatments of chemotherapy followed by surgery and then we'll go from there.

I got a break for lunch and then spent the afternoon scheduling the multitude of appointments that follow. By the time I got home that evening I was exhausted, so friends, my blog remained quiet for two days. I have wanted this blog to remain light and to see the humor of what I'm going through, but that hasn't been easy, until I did my research.

The subtype of breast cancer I have is called triple-negative, basal something or other. Several of my friends researched this as well, and we all uncovered the same fact, this genetic form of cancer is most frequently seen in pre-menopausal African-American women. I am neither pre-menopausal or African-American. My mother always tells me that I get the weird diseases and when I shared this with Dr. Saint, he concurred.

On Thursday, I said I wanted to know, and now I do and now I have an idea of what I'm facing. There will be moments, maybe even days when I fail to find the humor, so forgive me, but don't say you weren't warned.

Sacco and Vanzetti

Tomorrow I will see the surgeon-oncologist and find out something or nothing. Oddly enough, I am more afraid of the nothing. I can endure many things, but the waiting and not knowing is about to make me explode. It occurred to me that this is part of the process. Kind of like the opera, "Sacco and Vanzetti."

A few years ago, our local opera conductor wrote his magnum opus. A merry, whirlwind ride through the investigation, arrest, trial, conviction and eventual execution of Sacco and Vanzetti. It was long, really long. In the next to last scene, the two accused men and another accomplice were led out, one by one, and as each one disappeared from the stage, there came a flashing of lights indicating they had met their fate in the electric chair. This particular scene was drawn out in painstaking detail (kind of like my description here). My friend's son spoke for us all when he volunteered to go pull the switch himself just to get it over with. The execution scene was then followed by a raucous musical number.

So I am thinking, by the time I go through test after test after test, I will be relieved at whatever diagnosis they throw in my direction. Now it all makes sense. I only have to start rehearsing the raucous musical number that follows.

My new hobby

In times of stress, people often recommend that you take up a hobby. About 10 years ago, I was very burnt out by my job. Knowing that I needed something to do besides fret about work, I decided to get a doctorate degree. I called my advisor on a Tuesday and she told me to come to class on Thursday evening. It was just that simple, really. Then 10 short years later, I had a Ph.D. While I was trying to figure out what to do with it, my body took control of the situation and I was forced to channel my energies in new directions.

There isn't much I can do except fret, but hey, I didn't get a research degree for nothing. So I have been researching my situation in order to diagnose my condition and inform the doctor of my recommendations for treatment. As the date of my appointment grows nearer, my "hobby" has become an obsession. Just this week alone I have decided that I have breast cancer, lymphoma, thyroid cancer, lung cancer, endometrial cancer, and hoof and mouth disease.

Today I met with a colleague with whom I am going to work on a project to educate men about prostate cancer. So I am in the process of learning more about that particular disease. Thinking about prostate cancer was kind of a relief, that was one I could rule out in my obsession for self diagnosis, I think.

I'm tired

Today I admitted defeat in the battle to keep my sanity. In the words of one of my all time favorite film characters, Lili Von Shtupp, "I tired."

I'm tired of the waiting and not knowing and wondering. I'm tired of facing each day and not having all the answers. I'm tired of keeping up my spirit so others won't think that I'm weak. In order words, I'm tired. And all this emotional roller-coasting has made me, exhausted.

Lili found the answer to her woes in the arms of Sheriff Bart, but my situation is more complex, I need two men, Ben and Jerry. God bless them both.

I am a professional do not try this at home

I picked up my MRI results today including a CD with the actual film and a written report. I can only figure out a few descriptions here and there but that did not stop me from interpreting what I read. I shared it with friends and family though I have no idea if what I was relating was the least bit accurate. There were a few words that made sense. For example, my actual breasts appear to be cancer free. There is a proven malignancy that needs to be surgically removed. There is also a mass in the sternum area that looks different than the nodes in my left axillary, or as I like to say, the armpit.

So in truth, I don't know a whole lot more today than I did yesterday. But at this point, any information that doesn't say, "Sorry miss, you have 2 weeks to live," seems like a good thing.

Limbo

Dante identified Limbo as the first circle of hell. Limbo was for those not quite good enough for heaven (unbaptized infants, pagans who had never heard of Christ) but not quite bad enough to deserve the higher more tortuous circles of hell which were reserved for the real sinners: adulterers, murderers, people who wear white shoes after Labor Day. Dante says there are no real tortures in Limbo, only sadness and despair.

I am in Limbo. Everything I do is tinged with sadness, but even more frustrating is whenever I think of making any kind of decision or plan, I always end it with, I'll decide that after Friday. It's an uncomfortable existence that thousands before and after me face so I know I am not unique, odd, but not unique. I wish all this could have been taken care of in April, I hate tinging a whole new month with this business.

But it could be worse. I could be in another circle of hell, the one where they make you watch football and eat Cheetos. I actually prefer despair.