And It Must Be Said

Monday, January 16, 2006

Wear Pink

A few weeks ago my spine surgeon was analyzing some spine x-rays I had and said “So, you have a mass in your breast?”

Hmmn. “Come again?”

I didn’t think much about it then or the weeks following the comment. My back was hurting badly which is why I was at the doctor in the first place and that took precedence in my medical issues mental time allotment.

Then there’s Christmas break and all the related fun and madness and I honestly forgot about it. Until Friday. Friday I freaked.

When I got back from California another doctor confirmed that yes, there was something there and yes, I should have it tested.


I take the afternoon off of work on Friday and go to my testing site. “Cancer Center” in swirly pink marks the door. I go inside. I am assaulted with pink and magazines. I get the nicest treatment from a medical receptionist I’ve ever had and am led into a cushion-y (pink) room where I sit and wait for a nurse (yes, my very own nurse). “My” nurse Amanda (dressed in pink) sits down in a chair next to me, looks me in my eyes, and talks to me about the procedure, the book I’m reading, and how I’m feeling. She is incredibly kind.

I put my gown on and put my clothes in a pink bag to take with me.

I wait for them to get the room ready. I told Amanda that I was fine, but really, I wasn’t quite. I allow my mind to wander to all of the what ifs….what if this is cancer? Would I finish school? Who would take care of Benj and make sure he didn’t live in a cardboard box? What if I never had kids? What about my list of 50 things to do before I die? Will I have a funeral in Texas and California? This is not happening….I am only 26.

Eventually we start the test and my blood pressure is going through the roof. It takes a while. I lay there, watching the screen, waiting for the technician to say “yep, there it is.” Everything on the screen looks like tumors. “All done.” I watch the technician, questioning her. She smiles. “I don’t see a thing. Nothing. You’re clear.” Phew….picture my nerves releasing like air from a balloon…I am floating, elated.

I meet with a doctor and discuss the test and am given my “report card” to put on the refrigerator that states I am “cancer free.” I walk to the car.

How did I celebrate my near-death miss? I sat in the car and prayed, and thanked God for good insurance and medicine and good friends and even the state of Texas. And I told Him that I would be this thankful even if the news had not been good, that even if I was dying next week, that I would praise Him in just this way.

I call Benj and tell him he’s stuck with me for a few more years. He laughs. I think its just from the relief of knowing that he won’t have to eat Carl’s Jr for the rest of his life.

I go back home and a bunch of my students are playing touch football in the park next to the parking lot. “Greeettaa!!! Coomme plllaaayyyeeee! So I do. Girls against boys. We are trounced. It is fabulous.

Then I walk into our apartment, change clothes, and walk to the gym. I run 5 miles. I walk home. For 5 hours on Friday I experienced the feeling that comes with the clichéd “new lease on life.” Of course, I was called back to reality as soon as I got home, but for just a few hours I was given the opportunity to explore my mortality, my faith, and my time. It was scary, but scary-good.

For the women in my life: Do self-exams. Get an annual exam. Go to the doctor immediately if you find something…or if you even think you find something. And also… wear some pink.

2 Comments:

At 6:30 PM, Blogger The Bottom Line said...

I have known some incredible women in my days and you my friend are no different. I think the phrase "better safe than sorry" may apply here more than anywhere. I have known many people who have had to fight through breast cancer and i almost lost one of my best friends as she it came back 3 times. I am glad you are ok, and glad Benj doesnt have to eat super stars or famous westerns the rest of his life.......

 
At 3:49 PM, Blogger Tim said...

I told Benji I wasn't going to read your post. But I was online, your post was in my mind, and i found that i was inexorably drawn to it. I read your emotions, fears, and prayers with a beating heart and a lump in my throat. I've been in those waiting rooms with my mom. Only, she wasn't there for an initial check-up; she was there to receive varios, progressively more destructive forms of treatment. Hers weren't pink; they were docorated brightly with breathtaking pictures of beautiful landscapes. I always found the weak attempt to hide the nature of the place minorly insulting. I would have preferred compassion adorned in pink.

I enjoyed your blog.

 

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