What it’s Like to Hear, “You have Breast Cancer”

Journal Entry, Friday July 19, 2019, 4:20 am

I keep waking at 4 am. It seems my brain wants to enjoy the quiet even if my body is dizzy and beat.

Today, I meet with the breast surgeon. I've already been told twice that Dr. Beth Dupree is the best around and amazing with her patients, and that feels comforting. I don't know what to expect. Not sure if I'll be simply discussing options for treatment or doing tests, or both. Don't know if I'll really have any "answers" yet, and that's ok. I know it takes time, and I'm just grateful and relieved to be starting, talking, and moving forward so quickly. Waiting is the worst.

I found out Wednesday. 

​July 17th, a date I'll likely remember forever. Honestly, it was a blessing to finally hear the words I already knew I'd be hearing. 

Tuesday, during a deep meditation, scripture, and prayer session in which I, like Jesus, had humbly and earnestly pleaded, "Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me...," I immediately felt the need add, "...nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done" (Luke 22:42, KJV). And the answer came, powerful and clear. God was gently saying, "This is going to happen. But you have been prepared. You are ready. And I am with you. All is in My hands." Though not what I'd wanted to hear, somehow it brought this indescribable calm, and what a gift!

The biopsy was an hour later and went smoothly. They do an incredible job there at Northern Arizona Radiology and have a wonderful bedside manner. The nurse navigator, Crystal, held my hand and it calmed me; I hadn't realized how nervous and alone I actually felt. I'd told OJ not to worry, to stay at work & I'd go alone. But really, I was scared. I took it easy the rest of the day and if anything, other than being quite sore, I felt bored having to be in bed. Restless. I figured it would be at least Friday before I got the news, and that brought the most distress. I'm not good at patience, I know.

Wednesday morning, Sydney came in first thing, upset.

​She'd had a dream, a nightmare that Oj and I had died and no one would tell her. She kept trying to wake up from the dream but couldn't. She told me, "It was like a spiritual experience, because there were all these people there, telling me to wake up because it was just a dream, and finally I heard Bema's voice say, 'This is a dream. Wake up.' In the dream, I ran to my friend's house and asked her to slap me to wake me up, and she did, and I woke up for real." She was balling hysterically and had come to my room first thing to make sure I was "Ok."

"Does she know something is going on with me?" I wondered.

I comforted her and then made breakfast as she helped. I recognized the tune she was humming--"Bird Song," "Minae's Song," the song I'd written and we'd all sung for my dear friend, Minae's, burial when she died of pancreatic cancer last year. Sydney told me she sings it when she's sad and it makes her feel happy. "I will sing because you sang to me...." 

It hit me like a boulder, bringing tears to my eyes, and suddenly I remembered what the radiologist had said on Monday after the ultrasound: "Starburst pattern." I'd completely forgotten that detail, and now it stood like the only focus of my mind.

I did what I always tell my clients NOT to do--I Googled it. And then, panic. Article after article confirmed my worst fears: "The sunburst or starburst pattern is a sign of malignancy in most cases." It said it usually signified "IDC--Invasive Ductal Carcinoma."

I knew. 

​I just knew what I'd already felt after my experience with Heavenly Father the day before: I had breast cancer. 

I suddenly and completely melted down, no praying or meditating or peace or calm; just pure fear, and a pile of other emotions.. It was a flood.

I panicked when I called and Mom didn't pick up, because I had no clue whom else to call. Mom had been through this three times. She "got it." Who else could possibly comprehend?

I had to wrack my brain to even figure out, "Who are my TRUE friends, right now?" It took a hot minute, and then three names came to mind. I called one. She didn't pick up and I didn't leave a message. I called my youngest sister, Leighton, instead, completely sobbing. She was on her way to work, but is such a calming presence, not to mention she's in school to become a psychologist like me. She talked me down, and I was grateful.

I was just so...RAW. Pure emotion. I didn't know what I was feeling; it was just pouring out, and the hardest part was keeping it from the kids who still had no clue what was going on and were busy packing for the family reunion we were supposed to be leaving for in a few hours. I didn't want them to have any clue until I knew for sure. 

But really, I knew for sure already. I just knew.

I finally talked with Mom, who was shocked to hear, "starburst pattern," too. "Why didn't you tell me they said that?" I explained how I'd forgotten until Sydney's dream and singing had somehow jogged it back to memory. I told her what I'd read--that it usually signified Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

"I had IDC," she said. "Twice." We both sat momentarily silent, stunned. 

Then, Mom said something profound. I told her I didn't know what I was feeling, and she replied, "I can tell you what you're feeling. You're facing your own mortality." I began to cry. She was spot on.

I was, I AM, really and truly facing my own mortality.

Not in an "I'm going to die now" sense. I don't believe I will die from this first (and hopefully last) diagnosis. No way. But it does make me not so much THINK as FEEL my mortality. It's pure emotion and it comes and goes like crashing waves. I'm completely calm, and then I'm on edge and frustrated because I'm waiting again, and then I'm suddenly teary, and then I'm positive, and I can sometimes forget for a while, and then I'm sleeping peacefully, and then I wake suddenly remembering: "You have cancer." And I'm up, even though it's the middle of the night and I took heavy sleep aids to force my body to sleep, and I'm just so "floppy," for lack of a better word, right now. I want to not move, I want to sleep; but my mind is more forceful right now, because really, even more so, I want to wake and do and move and LIVE, while I can.

I watched my family drive away Wednesday afternoon.

As I waved goodbye to OJ and the kids, sending them off to Zion for the reunion while I took what I thought would be 24 hours to just process, alone, thinking I wouldn't hear the real news until at least Friday, I sighed. My eyes became moist as I looked around, finally alone, and wondered what to do next. I walked onto the back deck, gazing at the Ponderosa trees surrounding me, smelling the vanilla-pine scent, and I breathed. That's all I could do--sit and breathe, and pray. 

And then the phone was ringing, the caller ID saying, "Northern AZ Radiology." I braced myself. 

"Hello?" I answered.

​It was the radiologist. He'd said he would call personally as soon as they had my results. It had only been 24 hours since my biopsy.

And then the words that, even though I thought I'd been prepared to hear one can never truly prepare for:  "I'm sorry to say it IS cancer." 

And he explained more, expressing empathy and compassion even while offering information about tumor size and "triple negative type," and referral options and what's next. And I listened and kindly thanked him, but understood nothing except, "I have cancer."

It had been 10 minutes. 

10 minutes since my family had driven away, and now I was calling them home, telling OJ what we'd both feared and asking him to come back so we could tell the kids. 

They walked silently in the door, the kids with a quiet awkwardness, sensing something was up. I broke the news.

"I have breast cancer...". The start of a family's journey, right there in our library on a Wednesday afternoon. (Coming Soon: How to tell your children you have cancer)

This is going to be a trial for us all. 

A major trial. A sucky, challenging, crappy thing for our family to have to face. But face it, we will. Together.

More especially, we will face it with our God, our Savior and Father, and the gift fo the Holy Ghost. We can and will do this. I already see the day when I am telling the world that I've beat this. Ah, glory, what a day!

"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me" (Phil 4:13).

This verse. My verse, I started repeating in Barre as a way to push through challenging moments. It became the centering verse I use to balance, focus, and overcome. It has been my "center" and motto and truth. 

"I got this," yes, but really HE's got this, and "If God be for (me), who can be against (me)?" (Rom 8:31). Absolutely no one. Absolutely nothing. 

Especially not that nasty little thing called "cancer." I'm already thinking up a new way to pronounce it--"Can-See-Her." Will it reveal me? Will it allow me to see who I am meant to be and to become her? We shall see. 

Love,

Me

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