Holding on to Normal Page 3

  When we arrived home, the kids were waiting to greet us. The babysitter knew full well from our faces what had taken place. No words were necessary. I went to our bedroom, closed the door and cried. I didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to be around anyone, because what could I possibly say? I had cancer. I wished that I could ignore it and it would all go away, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. I knew that my mother would tell my father and grandmother, and my sister and brother. Greg would tell his family.

  I did have one friend who called to find out how things went, a colleague from work, Melanie. When she asked me, I started crying and couldn’t speak. But I didn’t have to. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and I heard her start to cry as well. Then our wordless conversation ended.

  That evening was rough, probably the roughest night I’ve had. The more distraught I became, the more sadness set in. The one emotion that kept rising to the surface, though, was anger, and I think this was my defense mechanism: “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this take over my life!”

  I kept asking myself questions.

  Why?

  Why did this happen to me?

  What did I do to deserve this?

  Why did I not find this earlier?

  And of course, why can’t I make this go away?

  Chapter 5

  POSITIVE THOUGHTS, DAMN IT!

  The next morning my father appeared unannounced at my house. I hadn’t seen him since the official diagnosis.

  “Oh, Dad, please don’t,” I said as he wiped tears away. I motioned for him to come in. He did and started to take off his shoes while I went to get him a tissue from the bathroom. We aren’t real huggy types—never have been. When I got back, he was still standing by the front door.

  “Thank you,” he said. He took the tissue and asked, “Where are the kids?” even as his eyes started to well up again.

  “You can’t do this, you know,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Alana, I’m just scared.”

  “I know, Dad. So am I. But I can’t keep crying about this, it’s not going to help anything. Come in the kitchen. I’m going to make us some coffee.”

  “That sounds good. I didn’t sleep much last night. I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Don’t worry. Neither did I.”

  We got our coffee and sat on the couch and sipped it. I spent the rest of the visit reassuring Dad that everything would be okay, even though I wasn’t so sure myself. I was discovering that one of the strange side effects of getting diagnosed with cancer is having to comfort those around you who are distraught because of your diagnosis. When he left, I closed the door behind him and slumped against it. I was exhausted. The negativity simply had to stop. It was draining me, and I had to find a way to be positive. I had to start believing in the power of positive thinking. I was going to be a cancer survivor, I told myself. I was going to grow old and enjoy watching my children grow up.

  I went back to the kitchen, found an elastic band and put it around my wrist. Every time I thought something negative, I would snap it, hard. By the time a week had passed, there were far fewer anxious and overwhelming moments. Soon the elastic band came off. I remained positive and driven, focusing less on “poor me” and more on “kicking cancer’s ass.” I had to fight. I had to stay strong. No one else was going to wage this battle for me. I turned on my warrior mode. I wanted to enter into this war guns blazing.

  I phoned my mammogram technician.

  It was as if she had been waiting for me to call. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t say anything,” she said, revealing what I’d suspected—that she had seen something. “Can I visit you?”

  “Of course!” I said.

  That night we talked over a bottle of wine, discussing everything: what I should expect; what a lumpectomy means; what a mastectomy means; what types of breast cancer there are; what types of treatments are available. When she mentioned the word chemotherapy, I froze. I ran my hand through my hair. I would likely lose it, I realized. I am so naive, I thought. I felt blindsided, but before I could even process that, she told me that the technician who had performed my ultrasound had battled breast cancer, too, and I was drawn out of my own tragedy into someone else’s.

  “She was diagnosed in her thirties, just like you.”

  “I knew I heard something extra in her voice during my appointment. How awful. It must have been so fresh in her mind.”

  “She felt bad, but she couldn’t say anything, either.”

  The more we talked, the more I came to understand that I was my biggest advocate: I was one single patient, while each of my doctors had many patients. No one cared about my health more than I did. I decided then that I would read and learn everything there was to know about breast cancer. The more information I had, the better off I’d be.

  After our visit, I began to ask for advice from anyone I knew who had a medical background. I bought a notebook and began writing everything down, documenting all of my phone calls and the information I gathered. I did the same thing at all of my appointments. Doing that empowered me, made me feel that I was actually doing something to beat the cancer. The more I did, the more positive I felt. I decided that I wanted around me only those people who were going to be as strong as I was trying so hard to be. An incredible energy came over me—positive energy. That was what I needed most, and I had to put that idea out there. I started drafting an e-mail.

  Hello, everyone,

  I’m writing to let you know about some bad news we received this week. The only reason I’m e-mailing is because right now I’m finding it really hard to talk about it, so this seemed the best way to let you know directly from me. On Wednesday, after much testing, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It’s difficult for me to even write that word, because doing that acknowledges that it’s not just a bad dream, that I have to deal with it, that I have to be strong. . . .

  The underlying message was clear: Don’t come over if you’re going to cry at my door.

  Before Doctor 3 had gone on his vacation, he referred me for a chest X-ray and ultrasound. Erin came with me because I didn’t want her to feel left out. Plus there were simple logistics to deal with: Greg was working and I needed my mom to watch the kids.

  Again the technicians didn’t say much, but I knew not to expect any answers from them, so I stopped asking questions. I knew what the tests were for: to see if the cancer had spread. After a lot of reading I was aware that if it had spread to my other organs, it wouldn’t be good. Most likely Stage 4. Most likely fatal. I simply lay there on the cold table, again draped in one of those blue hospital gowns, until they were done with my body. That was how I had begun to think of it—as a body, a vessel, distancing myself from it, especially my breasts. I didn’t want to touch them or look at them. The act of separation was already beginning.

  Afterwards, I made arrangements to pick up the films to bring with me on appointments—those from both the X-ray and the ultrasound, as well as both mammograms. I felt that if I went equipped with my trusty notebook and as much information as possible, the doctors would provide me with even more information in return. They’d know how serious I was.

  I had to meet with another surgeon to see if I could get my lumpectomy bumped up to an earlier date. I couldn’t wait until Doctor 3 came back from vacation. Doctor 5 was a surgeon from a neighboring city who came highly recommended by my mom. She was the person Mom dealt with when she had her biopsy scare. We didn’t have an abundance of surgeons in our area who dealt with breast cancer, but I’d asked a few other people about her as well, and everyone had good things to say, including my family doctor. I thought, Maybe a vacation won’t be more important to her than my health. And she was a woman.

  “She’s extremely knowledgeable and personable,” Mom had told me. And it turned out she was all those things. But she couldn’t get me into surgery any earlier. In fact, she wouldn’t be able to operate on me until a week later than Doctor 3, on November 2. I w
alked out of her office, carrying my stack of files and scans, feeling deflated. More than that, in fact, helpless. How could I wait that long?

  I had dinner with friends that night. One of them was a nurse at the local hospital. I told her everything that was going on—not surprising since my cancer seemed to be the topic of every single conversation I had with people. I couldn’t escape it even when I tried. She asked me if I’d been sent for a bone scan.

  “Why a bone scan?” I asked.

  “Your oncologist is likely going to want you to have one done. Rather than wait, you should try to have it done now so nothing gets pushed back because they’re waiting for more test results,” she said.

  The next day I was on a mission. I called my family doctor’s office and asked if I could see him that day—surely he would refer me for a scan right away. He wasn’t working that particular day, so another doctor was filling in for him. The receptionist told me I could come by if I wanted, so I packed up the kids—stroller, diaper bag, toys, snacks and all—and headed over.

  The kids were cranky before we even got there. Rudy was tired, fidgety and hungry for more than snacks. When wasn’t he hungry, though? Charley was overdue for her nap and got tired of sitting around. We were called in after about an hour. Once inside an exam room, we waited another ten minutes before the doctor came in. I got right to the point. “I want a bone scan,” I said. I think I was so abrupt I alarmed him.

  “Why?”

  “I have cancer. I’ve had a mammogram. I’ve had an ultrasound. I’m going for a lumpectomy. My oncologist might want me to get a bone scan. Please refer me for one.”

  “Why don’t you wait and see if your oncologist wants you to have one?”

  “I don’t want to wait. I want one done now.”

  He tried to stay calm, because it obviously appeared to him that I wasn’t calm, and the kids were climbing all over me.

  “You seem stressed,” he said. “Maybe I can refer you to talk to someone.”

  In my mind I started screaming at him. Talk to someone? Like who? A therapist? A psychologist? None of those people would help with my cancer. He had to be kidding. I was on the verge of tears, and by that point, the kids were downright miserable. “Listen, we’re not leaving this office until you write up a requisition for a bone scan. Simple.” So much for my mother’s lesson about being polite.

  I don’t know if it was me or the kids he didn’t want to deal with anymore, but he left the office and came back with a slip of paper. The bone scan was performed later that week. In the end, my chest X-ray, ultrasound and bone scan results all came in clear—the cancer hadn’t spread to my lungs, my liver or any other organs in my abdominal area. For the first time, I had information that made me think there might be some hope. But I had to make a decision. Option 1: surgery on October 19 with Doctor 3, or Option 2: surgery on November 2 with Doctor 5, whom I felt comfortable and confident with.

  It was already Thursday, September 30. After much debate with myself, I decided to go with Doctor 3. Only because the surgery would be earlier.

  The next day, on October 1, the phone rang. I picked up reluctantly. I didn’t know who was calling, and I didn’t always feel up to talking about what was going on.

  “Hey, Alana, it’s Monica. How are things going? How are you holding up?”

  I was relieved when I realized who it was. I’d met Monica when our kids were taking gymnastics together, and we’d instantly connected. “Not bad. I’m kind of frustrated with how long I have to wait for things.” I explained what had happened with the two surgeons.

  “Totally understand.”

  I knew she did—Monica was also a doctor.

  “Would you like me to try to get you into Juravinski to see a surgeon there?”

  I don’t know if I even let her finish her sentence. “I’m not sure. Isn’t it a big hospital? I don’t want to be just a number.” I paused. “I guess it would be worth a shot to see if I can get in earlier.”

  “Let me see what I can do. I can get back to you shortly.”

  I immediately had a glimmer of hope. After all, the two doctors I’d seen locally couldn’t get me in for surgery before October 19, so the idea I’d get in earlier anywhere else had seemed impossible. But would I get lost in the crowd at a larger center? Would I end up being just a number, so to speak? Would the care be worse rather than better, if that were the case?

  “Sure,” I said. It was the best decision I ever made.

  Chapter 6

  SQUEAKY WHEEL

  It became increasingly obvious to me that in our health care system, and indeed in life in general, the more you push, the more you get. It didn’t hurt to know people, either. Half an hour after I spoke with Monica, the phone rang. She got me in! I had an appointment with a surgeon at the JCC at one-thirty that very afternoon.

  It was ten-thirty in the morning. I began to scramble to find a babysitter, and luckily Greg’s boss’s wife, Susanne, who lived right down the road, was able to come over to watch the kids for me. I was so grateful. I still needed to get lunch prepped for the kids, get myself dressed, organize and assemble the files that I wanted to bring along, and call my mother to arrange to meet somewhere. I also had to get myself ready psychologically for this next step. What would this surgeon say? Would she be any different from any of the doctors I had already seen? And of more immediate concern, when would she be able to operate on me?

  I managed to get my act together, and Mom and I made it to JCC in time. Any anxieties I had of being just a number vanished the moment my mother and I walked into the center. What a beautiful, welcoming building. Not only was it new, the light that emanated from within was radiant. I had been expecting a somber and melancholy place, but while it was obvious it was a cancer center because of the number of women with scarves on their heads, undoubtedly a telltale sign that they had lost their hair from chemotherapy, it was the most upbeat hospital lobby I’d ever seen, with smiling people bustling about. I have to admit I was taken aback by the sheer number of people I saw. And people I wouldn’t have looked at twice on the street, whom I wouldn’t have registered in any way as cancer patients, were clearly there for one reason: They had cancer, too, and there were so many of them—of us, I thought after a moment, realizing I wasn’t alone.

  We went to the doctor’s office, where we had to sit only briefly in the waiting room before being shown into an office. Everyone we encountered was so friendly and welcoming, they made me feel they genuinely cared.

  Doctor 6 walked in. She was young, kind and drop-dead gorgeous. We started talking and discovered that we lived less than ten kilometers away from each other. I couldn’t help but think it was a sign. Most important, she knew what she was talking about. She examined me carefully, and while I was half hoping she would tell me that the other doctors had it all wrong, she unfortunately confirmed what they’d said.

  “The lump feels like it’s approximately two centimeters big, and I think one of your lymph nodes is enlarged.”

  When it came to surgery dates, the news wasn’t good, either. For some bizarre reason I’d envisioned that she’d have an open schedule the following week, but she didn’t have anything available till mid-November. Of course she didn’t. She was a top doctor in a major cancer center. Why wouldn’t she be booked solid? That was when I started begging.

  “I really want you to do the surgery, I need you to do this for me, but I don’t want to wait. Please, can’t you fit me in sooner?”

  “I’ll try to find some available operating room time and will see if I can squeeze you in. But I won’t be able to give you an answer right away.”

  I saw compassion in her eyes, something I hadn’t seen yet in a doctor. At least not to that extent. “Please,” I said.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She smiled sympathetically. “My nurse will call you Monday morning.”

  Sometimes, if you want something badly enough, it will happen. At least that’s what I kept hoping. I wanted Doctor 6, an
d I wanted the surgery done as soon as possible. I spent all weekend with my fingers crossed. I tried to keep busy. I took Charley to gymnastics, and we went to dinner at my mom’s on Saturday night. On Sunday I threw myself into some much-needed yard work. I also continued to wean Rudy. After the diagnosis, I had been told I’d have to stop breastfeeding. This was a bitter moment for me. While I’d decided three weeks previously that it was time to start the process, the decision wasn’t in my hands any longer. I felt pangs of guilt and worried that he would be missing out on health benefits. But I had no choice in the matter. It was happening whether I wanted it to or not.

  All weekend, I couldn’t stop thinking about the surgery. On Monday I spent the morning waiting for the call Doctor 6 had promised. Nothing. In the afternoon the phone finally rang. My surgeon had traded operating room time with another doctor, and I was scheduled for surgery on October 12, a full week before the earliest surgery I’d been able to get before. I couldn’t believe it! She was my angel, a miracle worker, and all my efforts had paid off! Was it because we lived so close to each other? Was it because I had begged? Was it because she was just a great human being with compassion? No matter what the reason, I was ecstatic.

  I went into overdrive—there were so many more appointments I had to fit in before my surgery.

  I’d never had surgery before—the most I’d had were my wisdom teeth out in the dentist’s office—so I went to my first preoperative appointment. The nurses explained what I had to do before the surgery and what was about to happen: I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after midnight; I had to check in at the front desk upon arrival; avoid exercise for two to three weeks after; and take Tylenol 3 as needed for the pain, but definitely for the next few days after surgery, as they’d be the worst.