Debby Does…

In October of 2020, I was diagnosed with breast cancer—two different types of tumors in my left breast, because I am an overachiever. Also, I like to have major life events during pandemics and things like that. It makes it ever so much more interesting, not to mention the convenience of it all.

I tell everyone that I am blessed to have had easy cancer, and that’s true. I had both lumps removed, one additionally resected, 20 radiation treatments, and then posed for my last day photo by the bell. I didn’t ring it. Loud noises and I aren’t into each other. I left Memorial Sloan Kettering feeling relatively triumphant. I was done with cancer.

But, I guess that’s never really true.

This week, I have one of my six month check ups, replete with bloodwork, oncology, MRI, and a few Valium to make it bearable. I’m flying from Indianapolis to Philadelphia, staying with a friend, getting the girls checked, and flying back to my new home. Easy in, easy out.

I hope.

Currently, I do this routine (substitute mammograms/ultrasounds for MRIs) every six months. I dutifully take my Tamoxifen each day. I bemoan the ugly scar in my armpit and remind myself that I am lucky to have had “easy cancer.”

The thing is that it’s not easy. It wasn’t easy. And, more than that, it’s never really over. Every scan, every test, every twinge makes me wonder if it’s back; if there’s a new occurrence; and if it’s going to be worse this time. I suppose that sounds dramatic and maybe even pessimistic, but I don’t sit around assuming that I’ll get cancer again. I simply know it’s highly possible. I’m a high risk patient. Cancer isn’t like appendicitis. It isn’t just over when they take it out of you. Its mark on you is indelible, and I’m not talking about the scars.

The ” what if” is like a permanent tattoo on my psyche.

My mom used to shake her head about my constant “what ifs” as a kid. “What if it snows tomorrow,” she would quip. I have always been a worrier, but this worry is based in reality and experience. I do not want to do cancer again. And I’m not being a baby about it. Am I tough enough to do it again? I sure f-ing am. I just don’t feel like it.

I also don’t feel like worrying about it, but that’s part of what cancer leaves behind. The ubiquitously nagging wondering of “What if?”. That’s the gag gift that keeps on giving.

And, so, I have chosen to control what I can. I upgraded myself to First Class. I will be ordering a cocktail. And, dear Judy, if it snows tomorrow, I’ll be wearing the wrong shoes, but I guess I’ll just have to deal with it, whether I like it or not.

Kind of like cancer.