Sticking My Head in an Oven
LATE THE AFTERNOON of July 2, 2002, Tom and our minister, Robert, and I waited in the doctor’s examining room, joking to keep dread at bay. It was time to hear the diagnosis from the biopsy, and we were all nervous.
EARLIER THAT JUNE my physician had sent me for a sonogram. He’d thought I had ovarian cancer, but the sonogram indicated liver cancer. A CT scan after that showed a pattern the radiologist thought was lymphoma. But, when I came out of the biopsy, the surgeon had said he thought it was melanoma—the disease that had, in rapid progression, taken the life of a good friend before I’d had time to prepare myself for the grief of her departure.
TODAY I WAS TO FIND OUT MORE, and I had trouble keeping my hands still.
AT LUNCH, Tom and I had decided what our reaction would be if the news were terrible. I’d sat at my friend’s hospital bed through repeated courses of chemotherapy that had left her a burned-out shell of her former vibrant self, her smile and encouraging ways lost to painkillers and antidepressants shortly before she too was gone. I didn’t want that for me or for Tom--not without the assurance of some darn good results.
WE WERE BOLSTERED WITH PRAYER and with our minister’s presence, but tears were jabbing my throat, and I knew I would not be brave if the news were bad.
THE ONCOLOGIST ENTERED the room and shook everyone’s hand. He fumbled with the pages of my file, as if he were buying time.
LITTLE BLACK DOTS danced in front of my eyes.
“IT’S MELANOMA. Stage III or IV. We can’t tell yet.” The doctor rested his gentle eyes on me. “I’m so sorry.”
THE TEARS I’D ANTICIPATED evaporated. Instead I felt a wave of air surround my face as if I’d thrust my head into an oven hot enough to bake a cake. I’d expected something more dramatic to a sentence of death. Screaming, fainting. But there was none of that. Only this arid heat blowing in my face. “How bad is it?” I asked, using someone else’s voice.
HE BLEW OUT A LITTLE BREATH, which seemed to combine frustration with sympathy. “It’s pretty bad. But there’s much we can do.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “I want to do surgery right away. Next week if possible. We’ve got to excise all the cancer.”
“AND THEN?”
“RADIATION AS SOON as you’re able.”
“AND THEN?”
“CHEMO.”
“AND THEN?”
“AND THEN, we’ll see.”
I MANAGED TO EXHALE. The memory of my friend’s face floated in front of me. She seemed to disapprove. “How long do I have if I don’t get treatment?”
“I DON’T LIKE to say.”
“I UNDERSTAND. But I need to know. Tell me the statistics.”
“STATISTICS? Melanoma is very aggressive, particularly internal melanoma like yours, and when it shows up without any preliminary skin lesions . . . Three months, maybe six. But, you must keep a positive attitude.”
I LOOKED AT TOM. All the feelings I couldn’t manage for myself showed on his face. Now my tears gushed. I’d long ago given up believing life was fair, but this seemed too cruel.
SURROUNDED BY THE PRAYERS of my friends and ministers, and concentrating only on a positive outcome, I was rolled into surgery on the fifteenth.
EARLIER THAT JUNE my physician had sent me for a sonogram. He’d thought I had ovarian cancer, but the sonogram indicated liver cancer. A CT scan after that showed a pattern the radiologist thought was lymphoma. But, when I came out of the biopsy, the surgeon had said he thought it was melanoma—the disease that had, in rapid progression, taken the life of a good friend before I’d had time to prepare myself for the grief of her departure.
TODAY I WAS TO FIND OUT MORE, and I had trouble keeping my hands still.
AT LUNCH, Tom and I had decided what our reaction would be if the news were terrible. I’d sat at my friend’s hospital bed through repeated courses of chemotherapy that had left her a burned-out shell of her former vibrant self, her smile and encouraging ways lost to painkillers and antidepressants shortly before she too was gone. I didn’t want that for me or for Tom--not without the assurance of some darn good results.
WE WERE BOLSTERED WITH PRAYER and with our minister’s presence, but tears were jabbing my throat, and I knew I would not be brave if the news were bad.
THE ONCOLOGIST ENTERED the room and shook everyone’s hand. He fumbled with the pages of my file, as if he were buying time.
LITTLE BLACK DOTS danced in front of my eyes.
“IT’S MELANOMA. Stage III or IV. We can’t tell yet.” The doctor rested his gentle eyes on me. “I’m so sorry.”
THE TEARS I’D ANTICIPATED evaporated. Instead I felt a wave of air surround my face as if I’d thrust my head into an oven hot enough to bake a cake. I’d expected something more dramatic to a sentence of death. Screaming, fainting. But there was none of that. Only this arid heat blowing in my face. “How bad is it?” I asked, using someone else’s voice.
HE BLEW OUT A LITTLE BREATH, which seemed to combine frustration with sympathy. “It’s pretty bad. But there’s much we can do.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “I want to do surgery right away. Next week if possible. We’ve got to excise all the cancer.”
“AND THEN?”
“RADIATION AS SOON as you’re able.”
“AND THEN?”
“CHEMO.”
“AND THEN?”
“AND THEN, we’ll see.”
I MANAGED TO EXHALE. The memory of my friend’s face floated in front of me. She seemed to disapprove. “How long do I have if I don’t get treatment?”
“I DON’T LIKE to say.”
“I UNDERSTAND. But I need to know. Tell me the statistics.”
“STATISTICS? Melanoma is very aggressive, particularly internal melanoma like yours, and when it shows up without any preliminary skin lesions . . . Three months, maybe six. But, you must keep a positive attitude.”
I LOOKED AT TOM. All the feelings I couldn’t manage for myself showed on his face. Now my tears gushed. I’d long ago given up believing life was fair, but this seemed too cruel.
SURROUNDED BY THE PRAYERS of my friends and ministers, and concentrating only on a positive outcome, I was rolled into surgery on the fifteenth.
posted by Chronic Hope at 7:27 AM
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