Everybody who's had cancer has their Big C day.
That's when you got the phone call or direct word from your doctor, the one where the test results had come back and they had to tell you that Yes, You Have Cancer. Yes, It's Malignant. Yes, We Have To Do Something Or You Will Die.
Of course, the fact that I'm writing this six years to the day after that occasion tells me that they did the right thing, doesn't it? So I'd like to say thanks.
I found the first of my two lumps late in 2004; I very stupidly ignored them with all the stubborn terror I was capable of, because of course they weren't anything; I didn't have cancer, I had lumpy fibrous breast-tissue. If I'd had cancer, I would've been sick, right? RIGHT.
So my first thank-you is to my little sister Denise and my older sister Donna, who, when I visited my home in NW Florida, yelled at me for not seeing a doctor. Thanks, y'all; you saved my life.
Then there was the trip to a little clinic on the far side of Tucson AZ where I live; I don't recall the name of the place and it's since gone out of business... but they hooked me up with a program called Woman Wellness and got me a low-cost mammogram and a fairly cheap exam. I was in my second year following my divorce, had no medical insurance and was dead-broke; if they hadn't done that, I'd have died. Instead, I was examined, the lump and a second one were found (the doctor called in an intern so he could use me as a 'classic example of possible concern' to train the guy) and an appointment was set up for more tests and eventually a meeting with a surgeon. So-- thanks to the unknown men and women who helped me that first day; I wish I knew your names, because you too saved my life.
One of the ladies there also got me enrolled with AHCCCS, Arizona's state-run medical aid program. Despite its warts (and it has many), that's what paid for the treatment that followed. I really, really wish I could find that woman and bake her a cake or something.
My surgeon was Dr. Waer of UPH Kino Hospital; my oncologist was Anna Maria Lopez of the UMC Cancer Center (which has now moved to a shiny new building.) I don't have words enough to thank them with; they worked on me, removed the lumps, told me the news when it became evident, and comforted me when I cried after finding out I needed a double mastectomy. I made the decision to do it; if they hadn't told me plainly and clearly what was needed and what the results would be if I didn't, I might have balked-- and I wouldn't be here to thank them. Thanks to you both, ladies; you're freakin' amazing.
And then there was chemo. It's terrifying and it hurts to get a PIC line set up (they couldn't do a port, my veins were too small, so I got this IV-thingy dangling from my left bicep for most of a year instead) and they take so much blood... and I've forgotten a ton of what happened; I was told that would happen. A lot of it is one huge blur. But I remember my friend Fergus taking me there, and I remember Icka caring for me, and I remember the nurses and the smells of the Chemo Room and how amazingly kind everybody was. I remember getting baldness-care tips from my friends John and Chip (thanks, guys!) I had a home-assistance type nurse who stopped by every few days to change the biopatch over my PIC line; her name was Nancy, and she told me a few times that my hopeful state of mind and optimism would save my life; maybe it did, but there was reason for it, and the reason was all around me everywhere, helping and encouraging and yelling at me when I needed it. Wish I could thank each and every one who was there.
And then... I got through it. On September 29th, 2005, I was told that I no longer had cancer so far as any tests could tell. I had gotten off lightly-- so I was flat and scarred and weak, so what? I was alive. And I still am.
Thank you, all of you. I don't know what the future holds for me-- maybe I'll never see the word 'malignant' on a piece of paper or a screen with my name on it again; I hope I won't. But if I ever do, I have the knowledge that I beat the damn thing once and I can do it again.
Six years, y'all. Six years. Thank you.