Time of Death: 0820

breast cancer cells

That’s when she took her last gasp, never to be seen by this world again. Now she sits on a dusty, forgotten shelf in the back of a lab somewhere, among a countless sea of others. “Unremarkable,” that’s how they labeled her. I know she had never been a star or even particularly fabulous in her own right, but “unremarkable”? Such an undignified ending.

I’m talking about my non-cancerous right breast, of course. I had a doctor’s appointment today to have the stitches removed from my tissue expander incisions. Before I left, the doctor asked if I could provide a copy of my surgical pathology report from my double mastectomy one year ago this month. He wanted to get an idea of the size of my  pre-cancer breasts to better gague how big my new implants should be.

“They were about a B-. I can tell you right now that we’re going bigger than that”, I offered with a grin. Although my 6 year-old insists that she wants my chest to look “just like it did before”, I explained delicately that after everything Mommy has been through, she was definitely going for better than “before”. There has to be a great prize at the bottom of this shitty cracker jack box. Worst cracker jacks I ever ate!

When I got home, I dug through my now “War and Peace” tome of medical records and located the “Surgical Pathology Report”. Of course I had to read it in detail before I faxed it. There it was, right in the second paragraph, “Right breast ischemic time 0820”, the beginning of the two and a half hour surgery.  It made me kind of sad to look at it. They took her off of life support, and something in both of us died that day.

The report went on to include all kinds of ugly words, “tumor mass”, “multifocal invasive carcinoma”, “extensive ductal carcinoma in situ”, METASTATIC carcinoma to eight of sixteen lymph nodes”. I had put all of this away so neatly in my denial box over the past year, it was unsettling to dig it up and revisit it. I’m sure I was protecting myself. Had I really let the weight of these words hit me last year, I might have crumbled. Instead, I put on my armor and geared up for the fight of my life.

Now that there is a lull in the battle, I’m allowing myself to come to terms with the seriousness of my diagnosis. It feels a little surreal, like I’m reading someone else’s medical records and shuddering at the words on the page. That can’t be me. But it is. So I stop for just a moment, feeling the tears in my eyes and the lump in my throat, and I honor what was lost. It was so much more than just a mane of blonde hair or a pair of breasts. It was a kind of innocence, a certainty that each morning I will wake up and my world will be ok. That’s what breast cancer steals from us.

 

 

 

Advertisements

9 thoughts on “Time of Death: 0820

  1. I love your writing, and I can always relate to every word! Except maybe the going bigger part. If I ever opted for reconstruction, I would definitely go smaller. I was a B cup also. Bordering on C cup as I put on some weight. Anyway, love the post. And your writing. And our friendship. 🙂

  2. Brave. Love that the journey continues to improve for you. And what I love to remember, even though I’ve not had cancer, is that our bodies recreate themselves (so they say) every three months or so. I’m trying to make that a motivator for healthy habits . . .

  3. I found this post incredibly moving. This week is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis and first surgery. I’m so glad I wrote all the details down at the time and kept the path reports etc – I’m shocked by how much I can’t remember and have to keep pulling out the tome when medical professionals ask me to recount my history. Whenever I look at them now it feels somewhat surreal.

    • I don’t know about you, but I find that as I move further away from treatment, I don’t want to think about the whole ordeal as much. It’s almost like that was someone else in trouble, and it makes me uncomfortable to go back there. I just want to be a normal person without cancer now. Which is probably why I have yet to start the Tamoxifen. I have to see the doctor again next week and be grilled…Lord help me:) It just feels wrong.

  4. So true. This really resonated with me. I tell myself that everything is okay, and then I’m shocked when I am struck by a memory from the past year and find myself crying. But the trauma is undeniable. And the fear is tough to escape. Even though I keep trying. Thanks for sharing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s