Dropping the C-Bomb

Have you ever thought about how you might react if you had to sit in a room and listen to someone in a white coat say the dreaded words: "You've got cancer"?

I'd love to be able to say that never in my life did I think that I'd be listening to those words....but up until my initial diagnosis in 2005, I truly believed that it would, someday, happen to me. Maybe because it's my own Dad died from brain cancer, and maybe it's because cancer just seems to leach into our human existence on a regular basis. I know it seems pessimistic, even fatalistic, to think such things - but I really just "knew" that it would happen, eventually. I knew I was alone in this thinking, until I met my soul-sister, Kristen Powell, while working for the American Cancer Society in Alabama. Kindred spirts, we are. Our lives had followed no discernable parallel at all, with the exception of the fact that we had both beaten cancer, we were both working on the Survivor Development committee for the Relay for Life, and we both liked to drink coffee and talk. One day, while sipping our Starbucks and shedding tears into crumpled tissues, I came clean. I told her that I had "known" that "it" would happen. I expected her to say "huh", in a non-committal-you're-kinda-crazy kind of way. Instead, she practically jumped off of her couch and screamed "ME TOO!". Kindred spirits, from that moment on. We later found out that we both loved to make jewelry. So you tell me - were we separated at birth? Probably so.

So backing up to April (26th? 27th?) 2005, I was just coming out of a very drug-induced colonoscopy, and distinctly recalled hearing the word "CANCER". I was all alone, and I'm sure everyone thought I was still asleep. The longer I laid on that gurney, the more lucid I became. And the more afraid. By the time my eyes were open (and my brain functioning as best as it could with versed still flowing through my veins) I was aware that that "C-word" was used in reference to ME. I was laying on my side, shaking uncontrollably. At some point, I became aware that Mike had come into the room. All I said was "Is it true?" and, in a very shattered voice he replied "Yes."

What do you do? How do you feel? How do you BREATHE?

For me, my entire being ceased to exist. The rest of the world, however, whirled around me at a dizzying and unbelievable rate. I could hear the rush of the wind, and feel the universe literally spinning out of control, flying in circles all around me, but I stayed perfectly still, right at the center, barely even breathing. Only when I felt Mike's arms around me did I start to feel like I wouldn't be swept away by the storm. Later on, I remember my doctor coming in and giving me the results, and the rest is history. The next 24 hours were filled with fear, and anxiety, and complete numbness. Calling the parents. Calling our bosses. Arranging for another teacher to take over my class of precious first graders for the remainder of the year. TELLING ABBEY AND SAM. Trying to act like everything was going to be just fine.

Insane. Positively, absolutely insane.

Four days ago, I got to repeat the same darn thing. Only this time, it wasn't as shattering, at least not for me. I was actually driving to pick Abbey up from practice, and was talking with my doctor on the phone. He had called to tell me that the path results were in, and wanted to know if Mike and I would be able to come see him the following morning. Not being one to exercise a great deal of patience, I asked him if he was able to give me any results over the phone. Sure enough, the cancer was back. Huh. Not "HUH??" but "Huh." No whirling universe, no loss of breath, no dizzying-spiraling-out-of-control-reaction. Just HUH. Okay. So, thanks for calling.

Picked up Abbey. "Tell me about your day! How was drill? Have much homework?"

Into the house - no big deal. Up the stairs, phone in hand, and into the bedroom. Closed the door. Into the bathroom. Closed that door, too. Into the closet (you guessed it, closed that door also). Sat down on the floor and called Mike. Calm as a cucumber, mind you - nothing fazes me - I'm a rock of stability (as evidenced by the fact that I had just picked up my daughter and pulled off the charade of a lifetime). One little sound from Mike's mouth - one hearing of his voice - and I was no longer the Rock of Gibralter. He came home immediately.

After some shared tears (hiding in the bathroom, of course), I got mad. I don't mean "mad" in some blase "oh she was mad" sense of the word. I mean MAD. Pissed off, actually. FURIOUS. If I had been lacking any self control, I would have thrown a chair through a window. I was so stinkin' irate, and the one thing that I truly wanted to do would have ended up costing us a lot of money in house repairs. The first time around, I felt helpless. Second time around, and I was PISSED.

I'm not nearly as enraged now, four days later, but I'm still pretty ticked off. I have done everything asked of me, and still that damned and thorougly unwanted disease reappeared. It's not fair, and it makes no sense. But I'm glad I'm mad, and I plan on staying mad. I feel like I have a fighting spirit now, and I'm going to kick this thing squarely in the ass. I've googled, I've researched, I've consulted, I've questioned, I've talked...and I'm ready. Bring it on - 'cause I am going to WIN.

Mark my words. This battle is all mine, and I WILL WIN.