Stage II: The whirlwind begins.

In thirteen days, I went to see what was wrong with me, had a mammogram, ultrasound, MRI, was sent to a surgeon, he takes a biopsy the same day I meet him, diagnosed with cancer the next day and then three days later I am in the operating room. Whew.

Now only a few memories abound in this chaos:

I had to gather myself and call work, after the initial naming of cancer. I had to tell them I would be useless today.

I have the privilege of working with people who have become close friends. So, I knew this call was going to be emotional. I couldn’t reach anyone on the phone. After a few attempts, I happen to only be able to reach one of my close friends (and peer co-worker.) I try calmly just telling her to pass along I won’t be in but my voice cracks. She asks the is-everything-okay question. I break down again. And again I try to talk in between the weeping. I think she could only make out “lump” and “cancer.” Stunned silence. She finally responds but now her voice is cracking also. I can’t remember much of what was said after that.

What I remember most about meeting the surgeon is after examining me (before the biopsy;) he tells my husband and I that more than likely both breasts should be removed and later all reproductive organs as well. He lays out the worst-case scenario and asks, “Now what are you thinking?” I open my mouth but the only thing that exits my body is wet and salty from a couple of facial features above my mouth. After the doctor leaves to prep for the biopsy I look at my husband who I have never seen cry and ask what he was thinking. It was his turn for the voice cracking.

The surgeon schedules me for surgery on Monday. The biopsy results would be ready on Friday. We go over more what-ifs with what the biopsy results may show. Whether I get just the lump removed or one bump or two!

This is also the day I have to call my mom and tell her the news. I had waited to call her, in hopes I would not have to. More voice cracking.

Now, I must lighten things up and tell you some of my not-funny-at-the-time moments. After my longer-than-expected surgery, I awake in the recovery room to a nurse that was different than the lady I was with when I had been knocked out. The room (or my head was spinning), this is not a metaphor. I had to keep closing my eyes to stop the movements. Open the eyes, everything keeps moving, close them the head still floats.

The nurse then asks me to rate my pain, ten being the worst, one being the least. I tell her eight. She then pops off in a southern drawl,” Well honey, I can’t send you home with that!” I think in my spin-cycle head, “What? Do you want me to lie! This shit hurts!”

I have to back up just a bit before surgery, when they inject me with this dye to see if/where the cancer cells may have traveled from the lump the surgeon is removing. The surgeon tells me before sedation that it will show up in the lymph nodes affected and my urine may be a greenish color for a few days after.

Back to the recovery room, my “nice” nurse returns. By this time the room, and everyone and thing are blurringly bouncing instead of spinning. And the agony, while more unbearable than labor pains, is made worse with intense nausea. I can handle a lot, but when I feel the need to spew I am miserable. I tell the “nice” nurse what is going on. She is ready to check me into a room in the hospital. She tells me she is calling the surgeon. Faster than I expected, she returns and says the doctor has told her to give me something in my IV to help (she tells me what it is, but I had no clue or care really at the time, I just wanted to feel better.) If it did not work she was to put me in bed for a night at the hospital. Well, all of a sudden I feel an extraordinary warmth all over. The warmth feels it like it wants to leave via my ears. I mutter I am about to vomit. Rod had been present all the time since the “nice” nurse appeared. Both of them scramble for a container. Remember the dye I filled you in on? It was not the “greenish,” nice lime color, I had envisioned. It was Tidy-bowl green! Deep, dark, just-put-in, almost opaque green liquid expelled from my mouth! I was in poltergeist mode for about 45 seconds.

With the explosion of the toilet bowl cleaner, I feel exceeding better. I look at Rod and the “nice” nurse and say I want to go. Rod later told me it was like night and day after the IV additive and my poltergeist episode. I went from pitiful and limp to a mildly groggy person, telling him I wanted to go and standing to walk out the door. I guess the Tidy-bowl had to be flushed for the finished effect.

Life after that was spent mostly in bed propped in a sitting position, well-medicated and gingerly guarding my arms when the kids came for mommy time. Rod had to clean out this drain thing that was connected to a tube coming out of my armpit for about three weeks following surgery. I don’t cope with blood, guts and needles well at all, so this drain ordeal made me queasy every time I just looked at it. To make matters worse it was stored between the girls. I just kept my head up (literally and metaphorically.)

Now, this was not my first touch with breast cancer. Almost 20 years to the day of my own surgery I was apart of my mom’s personal battle. Watching my mom go through some of the after-affects of breast cancer/surgery, I was determined about a few things: that my range of motion with my arm would not be limited; I also, wanted to make sure I made decisions based on what I felt best for me and my family. As a single parent, I believe (and I know from discussing it with her) my mom had my well being of mind as her biggest guide. She knew she had to make decisions that would ease my doubts of losing her. It was odd this go-a-round, that I knew in part how my husband felt and what it was like in my mom’s shoes. As things panned out it seemed my ordeal was less life-threatening or so I thought at the time.

My decision to deny chemotherapy and radiation, was given a time limit. I felt it was the best for me and my family. With a clean PET scan, I felt confident with my decision; it was what I could endure. After about six months, even without any changes for the worse I agreed to do more testing. If changes, other than all the good results I was getting, started to surface; I would find out my plan B.

My six months, was really about seven, mostly because of denial on my part. But once I started to get some urging even from my alternative specialist, I visited my ob/gyn for an over due annual exam.

I started hearing a familiar sound…the whirlwind.

This time I stopped. The same scenario started and enraged me. I decided to get another perspective. I went to a Doctor of Osteopathy. I wanted an untainted opinion. And I got about 2 hours of it from a doctor who is now on my “trust” list.

Now I can’t say I did not start feeling dizzy again, but this time, I had more questions and a lot more answers!