Sometimes I wish I could greet my readers and say “Hi, I’m
Leslie and living with stage IV breast cancer.” Gee, sounds like I'm speaking
at an AA meeting. I almost wish I was. Anything would be better than writing
about a cancer diagnosis. I'd at least feel numb if I was drinking. Can you
imagine going into a scan with a shot of Tequila awaiting you at the door?
Instead, I get a shot of chemo. I was going to submit this entry to Young
Survivor Coalition, but I kept asking myself how my words and my journey might
help someone else going through the same thing.
I'm not really different than anyone else diagnosed with
breast cancer. I felt humbled by all the other people waiting with me in the
waiting area to have their blood drawn. There were so many of us. All of us
were there for the same thing. Yet none of us could look one another in the
eye. We had our heads buried in a crossword, or a book, or playing with our
phone. We were waiting for a name to be called to be poked and prodded once
again.
A frightened woman older than myself noticed my silk scarf
and asked me how I felt about losing my hair. She had yellowish,
shoulder-length, thick colored hair. You could tell she took pride in her
appearance and she was terrified of losing her hair. As if that was the least
of our worries. For her though, her hair was her identity. I wasn't prepared to
answer her and my aunt came over and sat next to her and visited with her for
the next half hour. My own nerves had been shot and I didn't know how to help
someone calm their nerves.
There is no way to prepare you to receive chemo. Everyone is
so different in how they will handle it emotionally. I was slightly blessed
though. I had a semi-private cubicle with cable ready tv and a reclining chair.
When I say semi-private, I mean be prepared to overhear conversations. You
can't really be too irritated with people holding these conversations, but some
of them are just so damn loud you wish you had something to sedate them. This
was already a nerve-racking experience. Did this make me a hateful person?
Another annoyance of mine was how many times I had to recite
my birth date. When they draw blood, the nurse asks, "Can you tell me your
date of birth"? When the nurse checks and double checks the chemo,
"Can you tell me your date of birth"? When you are ready to have a ct
scan, a pet scan, a bone scan, "Can you tell me your date of birth?"
I wonder what would have happened if I gave her the wrong date? Would I be
hauled off into a secluded area in the event I might be a terrorist?
Even after all that checking and double checking sometimes
they do get it wrong. I remember being told I should be done by a certain time
and when it came five o'clock the bag was only half empty. Why wasn't I done
yet? Little did I know a mistake had been made. I had terror in my eyes and
utter shock. What did this mean? Was this mistake going to affect the response
to my chemo?
I wish there was an easy way to prepare you for a breast
cancer diagnosis, but there isn't. They say 80 percent of recovery is positive
thinking? I don't want to be positive damn it. I didn’t want people around me
telling me it was going to be okay and that I needed to fight, because they
really had no idea if it was or wasn’t. I didn’t need to hear their sad stories
about when something terrible happened to them and they focused on their faith
to get them through it. I was allowed to feel self-pity. I was allowed to be
mad at the world and mad at God. I was allowed to be hateful. I was allowed to
feel all the feelings I was feeling at least for a little while. There is no
logic with cancer. There is no rhyme or reason. My dad has an honest approach
to chemotherapy and says it’s a crap shoot, and he’s right. It is a crap shoot.
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