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| Two weeks ago. Blissfully ignorant of the cancer growing inside me. |
“If you have to get a freakin’ fanny pack, do it!” demands Phylis, my oldest friend, on the other end of the phone. “You need to have your cell phone with you at all times.” We laughed.
My call with Phylis is a see-saw of laughter and tears. I
know she’s right. This is serious. I need to be responsible. Take calls. Do
research. Be On The Ball. My old life, my curiously controlled yet immature,
semi workaholic, pedal faster, disheveled life, is over.
Today I take a breath and absorb the news I received this
morning. Sitting at the news desk with scanners going crazy and sifting through
emails and trying to figure out story assignments for the day, I got a call
from my doctor. The biopsies tested positive. Although more tests still need to
be done for an accurate diagnosis, I’m told it’s advanced and aggressive breast
cancer. All the cancer stories I've assigned to reporters over the years now
come full circle back to me. This cancer story will be mine.
It’s hard to accept because, well, I don’t get sick. I’ve
never even been in a hospital. I never had a broken bone, for
chrissake. Besides I feel fine. More or
less. There is that creak in my neck, those nodules in my neck, and the lump in
my breast that led to the mammogram to the ultra sound to the biopsies. And the
slightly manifested short breath thing that caught my attention a couple of
times recently that I wasn't sure was real or imagined. Probably just anxiety, right? I decided to go with anxiety and
continued binge watching Sherlock.
Now I’m binging on cancer research, calls to insurance companies, and lab tests. One thing about cancer, it’s a reality check you can’t ignore. Like being pregnant or having a toothache, it must be addressed. It will not go away on its own no matter how much broccoli I eat or green tea I drink.
Tears stream when I tell my husband, my family and friends. Their concern,
support, and words of encouragement are so deeply felt it makes my tears flow
more. I am not going to be a cry baby, I
tell myself. I will stand tall and tackle this like a soldier. I will put on a
happy face, laugh at the cancer monster, and send it straight to hell.
I go outside. What a breathtaking day in the desert. A swirl of pink in the clouds. I think of the dark cloud I'm about to walk into, the one I'm already in, the one so many have bravely walked through before me, and no matter how hard my storm will hit or how long it will last, I promise myself, my husband and family, I'll march through and carry on.
The mountains have a sprinkling of snow on them and the air is crisp. It's really an excellent, gorgeous day. Cancer cannot take
that away from me. Not today.
