This time I felt cold when I walked into his office. My nerves were shot. I had spent the last 6 days trying to make sense of my results. Chastising myself for only paying attention to the words I had been hoping to hear, and zoning out the rest.
“Amanda, I will be frank with you. These aren’t the results I was hoping for.”
You and me both, buddy.
“Your cancer risk with the discovery of a nodule is about 2-5%. With your results, it jumps to 20%.”
Say something. “Okay, so what is next?”
“Well we need to book you in for a follow up biopsy, and with a surgeon.”
“Why another biopsy? The sample was good. I don’t really want to go through that again if I don’t have to.”
“Well we could skip it, I understand the reasoning. Unfortunately, some surgeons require a second one before operating.”
I just wanted this thing gone.
“Of the people you have seen that presented like me, how many of them had cancer?”
“I don’t want to answer that. It won’t do you any good to be thinking ‘cancer, cancer, cancer’ over the next few months.”
He obviously didn’t know me. I would likely spend the next few weeks thinking “cancer” in several different languages.
That night I laid in bed. I felt my chest tighten, and my breathing become rapid and shallow. Anxiety was an old friend, but I could count the anxiety attacks I had in my life on one hand. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of one. My heart pounding, wondering if I should wake my husband. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breath. I managed to keep it from becoming full blown. I knew I was in trouble though. My head was an absolute mess.
The next week was taxing. My boundaries were being tested. People wanted to talk to me, but I only had the energy to engage with a few. I knew who was good for me, and who wasn’t. I struggled to work. Sometimes cancelling home clients several times. My days were a blur, and I was exhausted.
I was lying by the pool when my endocrinologist’s receptionist called. She wanted to confirm my appointments. My biopsy wouldn’t be for 5 months.
“Your oncology appointment is scheduled for September 25th. Did you get that email.”
I froze.
“What did you say?”
“Your oncology appointment. Did you get the email?”
“Oncology? I was told I was seeing a surgeon.”
I didn’t understand. I didn’t definitively have cancer, did I?
“He is a head and neck microvascular reconstruction specialist.”
That little bastard. He hadn’t told me I was seeing an oncologist, he just kept saying surgeon. He had his receptionist do his dirty work, and now I felt like I’d been slapped across the face.”
It was starting to become a theme to have these encounters, and then call my husband to have him talk me down.
“It’s a good thing Amanda. He covers all the bases. This way, if it’s cancer, you have already met with an oncologist.”
I envied his level-headedness. If left to my own devices, I likely would have lit myself on fire, and jumped off a bridge. Not dramatic at all.
Now I was left waiting again, and I wasn’t sure my brain would survive it.
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