A Detour from Hiking to Potential Cancer
It has been seven days and in those seven days everything changed for me. I remember when my dad died, first he was missing and then he was dead, and it all happened so fast that I couldn’t think of anything else except who was going to get his Christmas presents, as my mom gave us the news that he had died. There was this distinct line that was drawn through the path of my life that day and there was no going back to how things were, no matter how much I wanted to. These last seven days have been a lot like that.
I’ve always felt like I make a big deal out of nothing when it comes to my health. I feel like I go to the doctors for things that aren’t really there (even if they are), and in the past I have been really lucky that 90% of my health concerns have been minor issues easily resolved. The lump my husband found in my breast last Wednesday falls in the other 10% - the health concern that isn’t a minor issue.
As a woman, I know what breast tissue feels like; I think we all do. It isn’t all soft with no bumps, the tissue near the nipple is much more bumpy and has texture to it when you touch it. I always assumed a lump in my breast would be hard, round, and obvious. Maybe some of them are, but this lump that my husband found wasn’t. It was close to the nipple, bumpy like the breast tissue near the nipple is, and somewhat hard but not like a rock. I could easily have written it off as just a more noticeable milk duct due to recent weight loss from hiking so much. I almost did write it off as just that. But for some reason it kept bugging me that this was something more and as I was hiking up Daniel Webster Scout Trail, I decided to give my doctor’s office a call. They got me in to see a nurse for Monday, I filed away the conversation, and made a mental note to do some other “chores” after my appointment, which I assumed would confirm that this lump was nothing.
But as the nurse felt my breast, I realized that this lump wasn’t nothing. She sympathized with me as I cried and got me in to get a mammogram and ultrasound that afternoon. I began to feel anxious and for some reason I just felt like this wasn’t nothing this time. I could feel it in my gut that this was something. I wanted so badly to not face this mountain. I would’ve given just about anything to run away and ignore the lump, but I didn’t. The technician did the first mammogram and everything seemed to be fine. I sat in the waiting room with a couple of other women, in my magenta hospital gown, and waited impatiently to get the ok to go home.
I knew something was wrong as soon as the technician shuffled quickly towards me in the waiting room and whispered in my ear that she was going to perform a second mammogram and then take me for an ultrasound. I could feel the anxiety begin to bubble up inside my chest and as I went with her to get the second mammogram, I asked if this was normal. She shared that oftentimes they will order a second set of photos for new patients to get a baseline. She asked if I had someone with me today, a spouse perhaps, and I knew that this was not going to be good news.
The ultrasound technician silently took photograph after photograph of my breast. It seemed to take hours. I would glance up at the screen to see the black oblong blob staring back at me, only to look away and squeeze my hand into a fist, hoping that it would end soon. I was secretly chanting, “you have enough pictures just tell me what it is!” in my head as she took photograph after photograph of the tumor. Not one word was said to me the entire time. I felt so alone as a single tear slid down my cheek into my mask and disappeared. I wanted to follow that tear and disappear too.
The technician stated that the radiologist would be in to see me soon and to go over my results. She shared that she wasn’t allowed to tell me anything about what she was seeing on the screen and then left. I took out my gummy bears and ate them while I waited, texting my husband to let him know that I was waiting now. A few small taps on the door followed by me confirming she could enter, and the radiologist took one step in the room, looked at me with my mask pulled down, and backed up as far as she could while stating, “put your mask on and leave it on always.” I apologized, pulled up my mask, and continued to chew the gummy bears that were in my mouth as I was told to lay down on the table.
The radiologist barked at the technician, “is this a wet towel?” and the technician quickly gave her a new towel to drape over my left breast. She continued performing her own ultrasound, saying nothing to me, and then she said the words I will never forget, “I’m going to order a biopsy.” I knew in that moment what she meant, and said back, “so then do you think it’s cancer?” and she stuttered out, “yes, I suspect cancer so we need to do a biopsy.” Everything else that was said to me after that is a blur. I remember sitting up and crying into my lap, curling my legs into my chest, sobbing, “can my husband at least be in here”, and then feeling his arms wrapped around me as I sobbed. I remember the radiologist stating that she knew I was probably not going to remember any of what she was about to explain regarding the biopsy, and then signing some form.
The ultrasound technician stayed past her time with us. She brought me in to see the surgeon who agreed to stay late to meet with me and go over a little more about what was next. The radiologist left while I was still crying. As evening rolled in, I walked out of the Elliot at River's Edge a different woman that I was a few hours earlier. In just a matter of hours I went from being annoyed that my whole day was wasted, I was now one day behind on my redlining, to barely being able to think straight. All of a sudden I couldn’t care less about making my July 24, 2021 deadline, I just didn’t want to have chemotherapy. All my energy was focused on feeling terrified about what my future was now.
I never wanted to be a “breast cancer survivor”. I never ever saw myself as a woman with that in her future. Every woman I knew who battled breast cancer, and there are only two, seemed to be way stronger than me to take on the c-word. I am an expert on all things mental health, but ask me about cancer and I am clueless. In the last three days I have spent almost all of my free time learning about cancer, breast cancer specifically. I’ve consulted “Dr. Google”, but picked my resources wisely and learned all about the different treatment options and what a BIRAD5 means. I’ve gone from the girl hiking all of the trails in The Whites to the girl who probably has breast cancer in less than 72-hours. Somehow, probably because of all the support I’m getting, I am ok with this new title.
Yesterday I had my biopsy. The radiologist, technician, and assistant were incredible. They explained what they were showing me on the ultrasound, they made me feel safe and unafraid, and they talked me through every step of the procedure. I felt at ease. I felt like maybe this isn’t as scary as I always thought it would be. And I thought once again how lucky I am to have caught this so early before it has spread to my lymph nodes. I have to wait 3-4 business days to find out the results of my biopsy, but I am slowly feeling less afraid of facing that phone call. I know the likelihood of cancer is high - 90% high. But I am no longer afraid of facing what the treatment is for cancer. I am ready to walk down this detour and use this unexpected time off to write, read, and really reflect on what my path will be like when I get off of this detour.
It’s hard to understand how much your perspective can change just by a singular and unexpected event. I can’t explain what it feels like to go from being worried about making miles and checking off hikes to being happy to be alive and catching cancer so early. Things that used to seem so important, now seem so petty to me. The most important thing, what I envy in others, is good health now; where it used to be many other unimportant things. As someone who likes to spend time alone, who has always been extremely self-sufficient, I find myself clinging to and drawing strength from the support of others.
I won’t know whether it is, indeed, cancer until the biopsy results come in but cancer or not, it has to come out, which means there is a 100% chance of surgery. In going through this experience, I find strength and courage within that I never knew I had before. Surgery is something I have always dreaded. Now, I welcome it and look forward to the day I can have this growth removed. Facing further treatment, radiation, hormone therapy, or chemotherapy, is slowly starting to become less frightening as well.
I never thought I was strong enough to take on cancer. I sobbed to my husband on Monday night that I can’t handle cancer, it’s the one thing I can’t handle. As with hiking, we don’t know what we are capable of until we don’t have any other choice but to see. Even though I didn’t want to face cancer, in doing so, I have discovered a whole new level of inner strength that I never knew I had. But most importantly, I have learned that I am not alone in facing it, and I think that is almost worth taking this unexpected detour.
