A Shot Through the Heart

So it's like this.

I've been diagnosed with breast cancer.

(You just heard an old, Jewish New Yorker in your mind whispering "Can-suh!", didn't you?)

It is Stage 2(a) invasive, ductal. I caught it pretty early, noticing a lump the week of my 39th birthday. I have a 2.3 cm tumor in my right breast. Not too huge, and no others. The left breast is clean as a whistle, and my lymph nodes appear to be clear, too. All good stuff, relatively speaking.

But there are pesky little satellites around the tumor, so it's really more like a 5 cm area of concern. The plan is to have a mastectomy and chemo, but I'm still not sure in which order.

Several things go through your mind when you hear you have cancer.

First: "I have three little daughters. I need to be stickin' around for awhile."

Second: "I have three little daughters. Now they're at an increased risk. Crap."

Third: "I have three little daughters. They'll freak out if I lose my hair."

There's a pattern here, as you can see. The thoughts of myself only filtered in after those of my kids settled a bit.

You don't sleep. You DO eat, out of nervous energy. Then you feel sick. But you still eat.

As you read through endless booklets and forms and web sites, and visit countless specialists day after day, you have more thoughts.

Like: "I simply do not own enough nice underwear for this many people to see me naked."

And: "I wonder when this underlying, horrific, mind-numbing fear will push up through the veil of shock and autopilot demeanor?"

And also: "Wait. I didn't use my breasts enough yet. Seriously. Hold on a sec."

Big things like survival, chemo-induced menopause and the realization that you might not live to see your grandchildren are staggering.

But those thoughts are fleeting. Most of the time, in most ways, you simply focus on the task at hand. Getting well, as soon as possible. Putting this lousy chapter behind you. Getting back to some semblance of normalcy.

As I've told my friends, I'm certainly going to be OK. It's just an unpleasant road to travel between now and then.

I'll keep you updated.

Brave and Crazy

This is a picture of my wrist with a breast cancer bracelet on it. And I'm not taking it off until my friend Janice is declared officially cancer free.

She had a mastectomy last week, as well as removal of every lymph node they could find on the left side of her body, after what I can only assume is a typical whirlwind experience for those diagnosed with breast cancer. One day, a lump. The next, tests and doctor's appointments and surgeries scheduled and wig shopping and web pages created to organize the army of help she'll need to tend to her 5 and 8-year-old daughters.

Forget for a moment the fact that her husband left her less than two years ago. And forget the fact that the reason he left is basically that one of her daughters is a blond, beautiful angel who happens to have Down's Syndrome (and a host of health problems related to it), requiring a great deal of extra care.

Yes, forgetting all of that for a moment, I'm still left with a mind-numbing bewilderment at the brutal unfairness of the universe.

Her pathology report should come in tomorrow, giving us the complete test results and status of her cancer. Whatever stage, whatever the prognosis, she's more mentally tough and positive and brave than I could ever hope to be. Spending the day with her earlier this week to help care for her post-surgery was just a peek into the road ahead, I'm sure. Chemo and radiation ain't pretty.

But I've got my money on Jan. And I'm not getting too attached to my new bracelet. It'll be a great day when I can hurl it into the dumpster.