Day 13

Fuck Cancer

On December 1st, I sat nervously on a custom sofa in a quintessential, vintage Seattle apartment atop the historic Diller Hotel. I’m not the kind of girl who twirls her hair and bites her nails whilst waiting by the phone, but on that day I could not help myself.

Two friends/confidants/fellow-sojourners scurried to my side as I reached for my phone and answered uncharicteristically (even answering my phone is uncharacteristic), “Hello, this is Jessica.”

Candace caught my gaze and I nodded.

The person on the other end was my trusted OB/GYN Surgeon. She and I have been trying to schedule a hysterectomy since June. We postponed initially due to the failing health of my dear friend, Kelly Clark, who had just decided to stop the chemo after a 7 year tangle with breast and eventually bone cancer when the clinical trials were causing more strain than their ability to decrease her markers could merit. She heard from her doctors, as many facing cancer do, “I just don’t know what we can do.” It was not a good time to be on my back for 6 weeks recovering from surgery.

Kelly died on Bastille Day, July 14, 2017. The time I spent with her in the weeks leading up to her last fitful breath are beyond precious to me.

It was mid-November when I decided to reschedule my hysterectomy. Also, I had recently found  a strange lump in my breast. Any of you who have met me or seen my breasts will understand when. I .tell you that feeling my breasts is a regular practice of mine. I am the kind of man who would fondle himself were he to have beautiful breasts. Only I was born with a vagina. And great tits. So I totally do.

I knew instantly. This lump didn’t belong. So, I asked my OB to check it out and she agreed to order the mammogram. I needed her to order it for me because I’m only 39. The deep pockets of Big Pharma have decided in all their wisdom that preventative exams for breast cancer screenings should only be covered in woman 40 and over. A recent increase from 35.

This was particularly stinging for me having known so intimately Kelly’s journey once diagnosed at 30 and to be waiting for results in the sexy apartment of the indomitable Tousignant who received her phone call at a mere 28.

Still, I had the imaging. 10 brutal days later, I had 4 biopsies. 3 days later when the phone played the ringtone I designated for the Seattle Polyclinic as an extra precaution to ensure I would answer, I was relieved to hear my OB’s voice.

I knew from “Hi.” I knew while I was suspended in the air like a Chevy with my left breast hanging down through a hole in the table so they could smash it with mammography panels as they punctured a gaged hole just to the left of my nipple. I knew when the ultrasound tech moved the wand to my left breast and all the air left the room. I knew when I finally worked up the courage to tell my husband and when he touched the mass, his hand recoiled as he exclaimed unbidden, “Fuck!” In some ways, I’ve always known.

But, when my doctor asked if I was sitting down, she removed all doubt.

“It’s cancer.”

The magnificent women either side of me clutched to my body with awareness as numb tears fell. The staccato breath and tight grip of shock triggered as my spirit spun upward in a vertigo inducing ascent toward the elevated sky lights like an anxious bridegroom climbing a spiral staircase toward a stranger’s bed. Words blurred like jazz. The phone rang again to set up the next of countless appointments. The phone rang a few minutes later and I answered one more in what has now become my MO:

“Hello, this is Jessica.”

This time it was the Breast Surgeon. How are you doing? Can you come in right away? Can we draw your blood for genetic testing? Can we talk?

It all happened so fast. The pace of cancer is intimidating. Test after test. Learning a new language. HER2 Negative. Tamoxifen. Chest wall.

In fact, today (as you’ll gather if you scroll to the bottom of the page to check out my appointment calendar) I have 3 appointments. The last, I hope, before my double mastectomy on December 28. Once healed, I begin 8 infusions of chemo over 16 weeks. Then 5 weeks of daily radiation.

I’ve unearthed this blog as a way to utilize a commucation tool that was invaluable when my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer almost 6 years ago. If you’d like to embark on this journey with me, I will share my triumphs and tragedies as vulnerably as I dare upon this long and winding road.

Currently, I plan to work throughout treatment though I cannot yet be certain that I am able. For those who have asked for a means to offer support, thank you. You may do so as feels best to you, beit financial, domestic, literary, or prayerful. In fact, I can always use a dirty joke.

Well, here we go... deep breaths. One day at time. I will dance to the music that is playing. This for me is not a fight with cancer. It is but another dance in a story I have always been telling. I will heal. And even if I do not, I will dance.