TMI (THAT’S A FIVE)

My sister and I have a joke about there being different levels of information. A “1” would be something awesome, like “you won the lottery”. A 2 would be something cool, like “your friend is getting married”, 3 would be some mundane piece of information, a 4 would be something you didn’t want to hear, like “I crashed your car”, and a 5 would be, something icky—for example, every time our dad starts to tell us something about his dating life we’ll put up our hand and say- EEEWW, dad, that’s a 5! I guess the whole cancer diagnosis is something like a 4squared (told you I was an engineer). But in the quest for wanting to KNOW INFORMATION there’s some slippery boundary between good to know and shouldn’t have gone there. Even as analytical as I am, there are just some things I don’t need to know. Survival statistics being way up there on the list-- especially when I don’t yet know what curve I’m on. Better to figure out real options and move on from there. What if games are a waste of time and energy… but they sure do sneak into your mind at 4 in the morning.
As soon as we arrived at the appointment with the surgeon, we were told she was running late and we should come back in 45 minutes. She popped her head in to apologize about 10 minutes before we actually met her, about 2 hours later. This made a difference to me. I wasn’t frustrated that she was delayed, she had fit us in last minute and I was thrilled to be seeing her at all—I appreciated that she acknowledged that our time was valuable and that the longer we waited, the more stressed we would get. I wish all doctors would recognize that something so small goes such a long way.
“She’s really young” my dad said. Having some personal experience with being a very capable (and young) woman in an old man’s field, I liked her immediately. She came in with literally reams of information. She had an outline that she talked thorough, which both my dad and I liked. She has done this a time or two before, but she was compassionate and sympathetic. She said I would only remember 10% of what she said, and I found myself having to remind myself to focus at points. She talked in a foreign language in which I have since become fluent—ER/PR, Hep2Nu, adjuctive therapy, invasive carcinoma, type III tumor—my dad’s favorite new word was “cosmesis”—which I’m not sure, but I think meant type of boob job. She talked with us for over an hour and a half. When the nurse poked her head in to say we had to leave to not forgo the MRI appointment, she told us to sit tight and she would call and fix it for us. This woman rocked.
If the day after my diagnosis was spent in a frenzy of waiting followed by cautious optimism (i.e., shock). (I remember telling Jim—I’ll be all better for your birthday (Feb 23rd) when we all go to Mexico.) Friday was the DAY OF (too much?) INFORMATION.
Just a few of the fun things I learned:
- I had to take a bunch of more tests (MRI, PET, more biopsy result, etc. etc.) to see just how bad it really was
- 2.5 cm lump (the magic number seemed to be <2cm)
- Type III (of III with III being bad) invasive tumor
- A mastectomy was a real possibility
- It was likely I was going to need chemotherapy (WHA??!!)
- I had to give up breastfeeding

Out of all of the things I learned, only the part about giving up breastfeeding made me cry. I have already gone over 8 months (which is REALLY good for someone who works and travels a lot) and would likely have stopped soon anyway, but I DIDN’T WANT TO (brave as a tiger, strong as an ox…).
Maybe that’s the only thing I can wrap my mind around?

The MRI, was, like all of the diagnostic procedures (with the exception of the mammogram) very technically interesting. It was LOUD (they give you ear plugs and it sounds like its breaking), and at some point inject a mineral into an IV to get a better picture of what’s going on. Amazing, really. I’m not claustrophobic, and it wasn’t uncomfortable (although it’s amazing how your body rebels when you’re told to NOT MOVE—twitch, itch, squirm). Although it probably wasn’t the best idea to be stuck immobile in a tube for 30 minute alone with my racing thoughts (…chemo?!).