Cancerversary Season in Here Be Dust

On February 7, 2014, I had nonchalantly waltzed into my diagnostic imaging center for my regular screening mammogram. As usual, I admired the waiting room mural that let me figuratively gaze out to sea from a wooden porch. For the most part I ignored the TV mounted high in a corner, which dispensed “local” news focused mainly on counties south of mine.

As usual, the changing rooms had been decorated with artistically embellished bras. As usual, I quipped to the tech that if it was okay with her I would forgo the gown because my breasts had to be taken out of it for the mammogram anyway. I didn’t have to pass into public view between changing room and machine, so why bother with a gown that had to be washed after a single use?

As usual, she had arranged each breast on the apparatus as a chef would position a mound of dough, spreading and flattening, before the imager did its best impression of a rolling pin.

I did let her know that I had taken off about 25 pounds between my previous mammogram and that one. She made a note of it, because weight loss changes tissue deposition.

Five days later (exactly a year ago today) I had written in my journal, “Call from [my GP] – nodule spotted on last Friday’s mammogram, so I’ll have a follow-up. This sort of thing happened once before (I forget when, but it was after our move here), with the follow-up being normal. … I’m not particularly concerned and will take it as it comes. If it’s something I’ll deal with it.”

My official letter was dated eight days after that entry, and one day after my diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.

Journal excerpt, February 19, 2014: “Some confusion re the mammo scheduling – [GP] said I’d get a call. When that didn’t happen I called on Friday and spoke with [her assistant], who said to come in, where I’d get the req and we’d schedule it; she ‘doesn’t do phone tag.’ Called on Monday to see if the req was ready; no answer. Called on Tuesday, told of the mixed messages and added I didn’t want to make a special trip into [the county seat] if the req wasn’t there. Upshot: I drove in, req was ready, we scheduled for tomorrow (now today) at high noon.”

Journal excerpt, February 20, 2014: “Left breast feels a little weird now that it’s been poked and prodded. Tech said she could feel it. It’s a hard nodule – I haven’t detected it yet with my fingers; tech had a hard time getting it to image.

“Prior to that, a different tech did the diagnostic mammo, with different attachments. Tighter on the breast, but I felt no pain. ‘Tell me to stop if it gets painful,’ she said, then kept waiting for me to cry uncle. I told her I’d been more sensitive to pain when my breasts had more fat. She said that inspires her to lose weight….

“[Radiologist] said he’s seen lesions like the one I had that were benign, and he’s seen ones that were malignant. In case mine is the latter, I’ve saved info from [my hospital’s] breast cancer support group….

“The first tech asked me what I knew; I told her I had a nodule in my left breast. She said some women come in having no idea.

“I wonder if the nodule might be related to the ‘presence’ I’ve felt on and off for a few years. It hadn’t felt like anything in my breast, no pressure or pain – just a ‘presence.’ What I feel now seems more definite. I wonder about the weight loss, which brings everything (bones etc.) to the surface – am I feeling something that I’ve actually had for years, now made more visible/accessible due to weight loss and simply time? It almost feels like a pulling now, a sleeper awakened by mammo and ultrasound. Could those have had an effect? Is it just that my attention is more focused?…

“I am the type of person who wants to meet this head-on. Don’t mince words. Walk me through the procedure. Tell me what to expect.”

My biopsy had been the following week, on February 27. I had not undergone any kind of invasive procedure in decades; I had been more nervous about the biopsy than I had been about the actual lumpectomy almost a month later. Pre-diagnosis, my biopsy still meant I was dealing with unknowns.

Before leaving the house that day and after an insomniac night, I wrote, “I have emails to answer and invoices to send. I’ve put those on hold until after the biopsy, and have done a combination of online research/prep and social media support/recreation. Giving myself a lot of psychological leeway in the form of both distraction and contemplation.”

And some humor. I wanted to make sure the folks doing my biopsy knew where to go:

On March 4, 2014, I received my diagnosis:

My “cancerversary” is reckoned as the day I received my diagnosis, but that’s a fuzzy date as anniversaries go. The pathology report tells me that I had been diagnosed on February 28. Certainly I had cancer back on February 7 and likely for some years leading up to that, even though nothing had shown on my screening mammogram the year before.

So I think of this period as my cancerversary season, beginning with the screening mammogram that had started it all. A year later I noticed the date and went, “Huh.”

In my mind’s eye I stand at the edge of a precipice. Another precipice sits on the other side of a yawning abyss spanned by a rope bridge that sways in the wind. I have made it across that bridge.

My year-ago self stands opposite me; the bridge still lies ahead of her. I can see her clearly, but she can’t see me. She studies the long drop down. She holds a wetted finger up to gauge the strength of the wind.

She prepares to grasp the handhold ropes and hold on tight, because the only way to cross that bridge is one slow, careful step at a time. She can’t afford to look for me on the other side. She has to concentrate on where to place her feet.

I spoke long-distance with two friends on Friday. One faces likely cancer for the third time, with a biopsy happening soon. Three primaries, it seems, each one different from the last. His third bridge. The other had just returned from the hospital, where his COPD had sent him for three days. He was thrilled to hear my PET scan results, which he said would help him sleep more easily.

I am more surefooted these days – literally, mostly (but not completely) removed from chemo-induced vertigo – but even on level ground I continue to proceed one step at a time.

My hair is almost back to where it had been prior to diagnosis. I’m now just shy of four months out of chemo.

This fence lizard (Sceloporus undulatus) was hanging out high on our back wall early on Wednesday afternoon. The dark yellowish spots on the tail tell me that this is a female. This is the first time I have photographed this species, which can grow up to 7 inches.

Done to the TinkerLab TinkerSketch Sketchbook Challenge prompt, “One Word.”

Done to the prompt, “Bounce,” and inspired by a fellow cancer fighter’s “goat therapy.” More art pieces from the challenge are here.