I sort of stumbled into January. My busy season was over, and I was having a hard time adjusting to having to head back to work after such a short break. Each busy season working a physical job, just chips away at you.
Over the holidays, one of my husband’s relatives had passed away. He had been a fire captain, who was diagnosed with thyroid cancer while still on the job. The circumstances meant it was deemed occupational. It also meant he was considered to have died in the line of duty.
While I was getting ready to attend, I found myself contemplating the oddness of it. The feeling in my gut of how strange it was to be attending a funeral for someone who died from the type of cancer you might have. The irony. The solemnness of it all. My last conversation with his wife had been comparing oncologists.
I mentioned it to my husband as we drove over there. It triggered a memory of my Mother. Just over a year before she passed from breast cancer, my grandpa, my dad’s father, passed away. She had taken my Grandma out to help her find an acceptable urn for his ashes, and she said something to me about it.
“It’s strange to think that I am helping someone do something, that in a short time from now, someone will be helping with after I die.”
Now, in my gut I have held the belief that I don’t have cancer. Maybe in the quiet moments, on occasion, I tell myself I should at least be prepared for it.
We arrived at the service and it was like nothing I had ever seen. A full procession, a vintage fire truck, and bagpipes. What felt like 300 firefighters were in the rows behind the family. The traditions were touching. His daughters’ speeches were moving. Hearing grown men swallow tears made it hard to maintain composure.
I grounded myself. I told myself that I was rooted, grounded and protected. I imagined roots tunnelling from my feet. I imagined them spreading across the large room in all directions, and I felt my heart rate settle.
Afterwards we made our way past the news cameras, televising the funeral and interviewing some of the guests, and greeted my husband’s cousin. A lovely woman, cute and friendly, with the air of deep sadness that comes from losing your spouse. She turned to me:
“Don’t be worried about this okay.”
I instantly knew what she meant. It was like she had read my mind.
“What he had, was different than you. Remember that.”
“I’m trying.”
Honestly, I feel like those 2 words sum up a lot of this experience for me. I’m trying. Trying to be positive, trying to be patient.
Days later my phone rang while I was at work. It was my oncologist. He was calling 5 days before our scheduled phone appointment.
“Oh hi Amanda, it’s doctor G.”
“Oh hi!”
“So we got your biopsy results.”
This I knew. My endocrinologist got them first, before Christmas. My physician called second, after Christmas. I didn’t know the details beyond atypical cells being found again.
“The hospital wasn’t much help, and couldn’t determine the pathology.”
0/2 Joseph Brant, 0/2.
“So, I am having the report sent here for my team to review it. Then I will schedule an appointment for you to come in and we can decide whether you need surgery or not.”
My mind was reeling. Come in? He told me he would schedule a phone call last time so we didn’t have to deal with Toronto’s nightmarish traffic. Surgery? He told me last time that he wouldn’t suggest surgery for a possibly benign mass since the risks outweighed the reward.
“Okay but we have a phone appointment on Tuesday.”
“Oh that will have to be bumped. This will take about 2 weeks. I will have my receptionist schedule you in.”
Baffled and only 8 minutes before I need to slap on my work face and get back to it.
I called my husband and told him what happened. I said that either he knew something he wasn’t telling me, or he didn’t have the previous information from our appointment in front of him when he called, and he was just spewing standard medical jargon.
“What the fuck is going on? I’m freaked out a bit.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m trying.”
That’s all I’ve got right now. The ability to try. To focus on my inner peace, and try to maintain it.
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