It was the day before Thanksgiving. She introduced herself, and with a startled look said, “You don’t look XX-years-old.”
Then she locked her huge brown eyes onto my small hazel ones. “It’s a baby tumor.”
The oncology surgeon let that sink in and repeated it several times.
With that, I was ushered into the world of cancer. Because of what had always been a routine medical exam, my life turned onto a road no one chooses travel. My whole life changed. I would forever be a cancer patient, hopefully a cancer survivor. My thoughts dashed from the realization that perhaps I wasn’t invincible after all, to the people this would affect, to the things I wanted to do before I left this world and world events I might miss. I was a bit concerned that my life had been put into the hands of medical professionals I had never met. Just keeping track of their names and specialty already overwhelmed me.
I’ve always thought I’ve been concerned for people battling cancer. Now, I am sharing their journey. I am only beginning to realize a bit of the depth of their feelings.
My prognosis is good. With repeated assurances from the medical staff that “we got this early,” and with a care plan in place, I see this more as a blip on my personal radar screen. I’m almost ecstatic with the news that this is small and treatable. And I feel a bit guilty because so many don’t have that hope.
So, I am full of thanks for:
An outstanding health facility nearby,
Excellent, compassionate oncologists and support staff who jumped into action when they “saw something,”
My primary care physician who has kept me healthy for many years and whom I trust,
Good health insurance (How do people without it have any hope for beating cancer?),
Family support and prayers,
Prayers of people who don’t know me, but who care when someone else needs help,
Ongoing research into all forms of cancer and their treatments.
Several years ago when new guidelines were issues about the frequency of mammograms, I asked my primary care physician what she recommended. She replied, “As long as you can crawl into this building, I want you to get a yearly mammogram.”
I’ve done that, and thanks to a whole bunch of people, joy takes on new meaning this season. The New Year for me will be shrouded in joy when I walk out of that building, cancer free. (Well, technically, I will leave that building in a wheel chair because I will be woozy following surgery. But, that didn’t sound as dramatic.)
Writers are always looking for new material. I would prefer something more pleasant such as writing about travel to Tahiti, say. But, I do have new material.
Twenty-nineteen will see me becoming a pest by asking everyone I see, “Do you have regular mammograms?”
Well, do you?
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