A Slight Case of Cancer

Several years ago I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. I can say this easily now, but when I first heard the word “cancer” attached to my name I pretty well lost it. My doctor’s nurse called and told me over the phone–not at all the best way to get the news–and then I got to tell Studly. I did fine with the “I have” part, but when I came to the c word, I got all choked up. He cradled me like a baby while I sobbed for a long, long time.

A diagnosis of cancer is one of those events that makes you go through an endless list of what ifs. “What if it’s worse than they think? What if I lose my breast? What if I lose Studly because I lose my breast? What if I don’t lose my breast, but it’s disfigured? What if I, dare I think it…die? What if my grandchildren don’t remember that I ever existed and loved them with my whole heart and then some? What if no one cares?” I got pretty maudlin, to say the least.

When I had to inform folks about my diagnosis I couldn’t say cancer without breaking down. I’m a word person. Words have so much power in my world, but I didn’t want this stupid word to have power over me, to make me bawl like a baby every time it was uttered. It seemed like the key lay in disarming the power of the word. But how?

One morning as I showered I pondered my inability to say the damned word and thought to myself, “Woman! Get a grip!” So as I showered I began saying “Cancer, Cancer, Cancer,” over and over again. At first I cried, my tears mingling with the warm cascade of water from the shower, but before long “cancer” became no more than two meaningless syllables. No power, no tears. I got out of the shower and tested the word. “Cancer.” Nothing. No tears, no what ifs.

After that I only had one more crying jag over my cancer. It wasn’t when I was at the doctor’s office discussing my options. There were no tears when I met with the oncologist or the radiologist. Of all places I broke down at the chiropractor’s office. He’d asked me how I was doing, and trying to be funny I quipped, “Oh, I’m fine except I have a slight case of cancer.” Then I dissolved into hiccuping sobs.

The poor guy stood there patting me on the back and seeking to reassure me until I could compose myself. I got more than my money’s worth that day–an adjustment and a back rub–how’s that for manipulation?

It has been more than seven years since my diagnosis. I came through the lumpectomy and radiation no worse for the wear, and all of my what ifs were for naught. Yea me! I can still talk about my experience tear-free. I do get pretty weepy over cute kitten pictures on the internet, though. Maybe I should try the repetition therapy: “Kitten, Kitten, Kitten.” So far, so good.

The rest of this post is a Public Service Announcement: Ladies, schedule your annual mammogram (that’s how my lump was found). Gentlemen, have that annual prostate exam! Everyone over 50, colonoscopies save lives!

That is all. Carry on.

Peace (and good health), People!

Author: nananoyz

I'm a semi-retired crazy person with one husband and two cats. View all posts by nananoyz