And that was that. Today cancer anticlimactically ended. Sorta. I find myself balanced on a ledge. I can see the abyss, a rock-climber who knows what its like to spiral through the air without ropes tied tight enough, without a visible safety net to secure the bottomless canyon. But we’re sitting on the ledge now. My legs are swinging over the edge, and I am looking out at the cancer canyon and gulping at the terror, the anger, and the good fortune that feels insanely uncertain, but which has delivered me to this ledge of post-mastectomy, post-chemo safety. From my ledge, I can survey the land. I can see my cancer-buddies who have backed away from the ledge, and who beckon me to join them, throwing rescue-rings and life jackets and whispering about the view from a vantage point where the ledge is not teeteringly close. And I also see my cancer-buddies still struggling to grab a-hold the rock-face. I want to throw a life-rope, but I don’t quite yet have my footing, and so I can only ask those far enough from the cliffs’ edge to make sure they throw ropes to my buddies trying to scramble up the slippery mountainside. I’m still trying to lasso something secure on this side of the cancer-cliff, something to hold me on the healthy side of the cliff, the side where hair grows and my biggest concern is whether my breasts are going to be the same size (and Dr. Yoga-Surgeon assures me, they will be, someday).
Yesterday I saw Dr. Yoga-Surgeon who, despite her training in surgical methods (generally also known as not warm-fuzzy methods) was a total force of nature in reassuring me that in fact, I’m going to be OK. That seems to be her mantra, “it’s going to be OK.” And she’s right. It is going to be OK. I think. She said it would be OK before the surgery, she said it would be OK the day of the surgery, she said it would be OK after the surgery. And apparently, the pathologist and my oncologist, Dr. G., agree. There is, after all, no detectable malignancy. The pathology of my 66 milligrams of breast tissue came back: clear. There was no residual malignancy. The nipple core read benign breast tissue. They could not find cancer in my 66 milligrams of breast tissue. I cannot explain the dizzying goodness of seeing the words no residual malignancy right above the line that reads: nipple core: benign breast tissue. It is definitely time to borrow the doctors’ belief in my ability to be OK. Until I can believe it too, I’ll borrow their belief in my being OK.
There is no test to know the future. No way to know what will happen. I know that. Dr. G. repeated it again and again today, and then told me to keep two filing cabinets in my brain, and to close the one filled with “I could have cancer again,” and leave the “I don’t have cancer anymore” cabinet wide open. The “I don’t have cancer anymore” cabinet is filled with ropes and knot-tying manuals and all kinds of tools to anchor myself into the cliff ledge, tools that I can use to feel secure even though a wind could still knock me over the edge. Tools that will help me grasp life and love even when uncertainty is the name of the game, the air I breathe and the grittiness that seeps into my everyday plans.
The information came in a pathology report. Many have been asking me about this path report, expecting, I think, that I was on edge to hear the news. News is news is news. It’s cancer news. I was, actually, content to wait. I don’t know why. I wasn’t sitting on the edge of my chair. I wasn’t even expecting Dr. G. to have the report today: I expected her to say we would schedule and appointment to review my pathology in a few weeks. It seemed like the information would come as it should, in its own time. And today was its time, and it was absolutely anticlimactic. Nothing in there, she said. Could mean that the ductal carcinoma in situ found at the edges of my lumpectomy was never really the early stage cancer they thought it was; or it could mean that the chemo erradicated whatever DCIS was at the edges; or it could mean the pathologist just f*cked up and missed a spot of DCIS. Who knows, Dr. G. mused. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is there’s nothing in the tissue they removed. And that’s what we’ve got to live with, to find comfort in, to move forward from.So now what? Mammograms and MRIs, every year. Blood tests. Oncologist visits whenever there’s an ache or pain. Waiting. The risk of recurrence goes down. In ten years. In ten years. In TEN years.
Doesn’t it seem like there should be a bell ringing? A cymbal clanging? A definitive sense of OVER? But there isn’t. There can’t be. We all hope I’m in the 80% of patients who are just fine five years after diagnosis. And we’ll only know as time passes. And so tonight, we celebrate this muted, awkward news. It’s sparkly, but only faintly so, for we are too cautious to believe in much more than a little sparkle. It’s hopeful, but marred with life or death reality most newlyweds have no ability to engage. It’s a ledge. It’s tentative. It’s maybe being able to anchor in ground that is solid, but waiting for a foot to slip over the steep, slippery cliff.
And now, it’s about convincing myself. I don’t have cancer anymore. Maybe we should take on the summer-camp methodology. It goes like this: I sing a line, you sing a line back. You ready?
I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore.I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore.I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore.I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t have cancer anymore.I don’t have cancer anymore. I don’t
Maybe if enough of us say it all at once, if we fling our windows open and scream it at the full moon, if we soak up the summer sun and repeat after me, maybe I can start to believe it’s not only a fairytale. Maybe I can borrow enough belief from Dr. G and Dr. Yoga-Surgeon to convince myself I’ll be OK. Maybe we can start to live the life again where the cancer-free fairytale becomes real. Maybe.