photo credit: Jennuine Captures cc
I don’t want to be here.
My thoughts are disjointed, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle dumped unceremoniously on the table. I try to sort them; to right the upside down pieces, and even group them by color and pattern. But we are still at the early stages of the puzzle, where few pieces are joined and, instead, there is lots of open white space — a metaphor for the unknown. Because I am incapable of knowing how else to begin, dully I look for the pieces with a straight edge. Logically I know those will eventually form the border, a boundary that separates established patterns from the random dumping. While it seems to be a mess at first, gradually I spot the occasional straight edge, and begin to line them up in order to find connecting pieces. It’s a slow process. It takes a bit to spot what I should be looking for.
Dark spots on my sleep shirt. That’s the first piece. Exactly where the nipple of my right breast brushes against the fabric. This discovery is puzzling at first. It seems so random. A slow realization that the rust colored stains on my hotel bedsheets from several weeks ago must be from this point of contact. Why then and not now? I almost miss it at first, but then I realize. Colored sheets. I nod slowly, and look closer at my bed. I see them now. On the dark forest green sheets, there are bloody discolorations on my side of the bed where my torso rests at night. My mind fits the pieces together, snapping the puzzle piece tab into the neighboring cutout edge.
I try not to panic, and contact my doctor. I play it off that I’m merely concerned, not worried because, you know, blood. Surely there is a reasonable explanation, and see how mature I am with my calm delivery of symptoms? Her response is quick and only marginally comforting. The words swim before my eyes. Ductile hyperplasia. Benign except when it isn’t. Atypical. Pre-cancerous. Surgical excision. I stop reading. My father’s side of the family is rife with cancer. It is the unspoken fear to which I irrationally jump, the one thing I’ve always been convinced will end my life. I think of my friend who died last year, whose breast cancer metastasized and took her from family and friends — at this age, in fact. My mind leapfrogs ahead unbidden, and I have to forcibly wrench it back, to actively think about something else, something nonthreatening. I discover this is not as easy as it sounds.
I look around. Examination rooms are so impersonal, and this is no different than any other exam room. So very antiseptic. Sterile. Cool to the touch. White walls and stainless steel instruments and countertops. A stool for the doctor (the kind that, in younger days, you’d spin around and around and around on when no one was looking until you were a little giddy, if not slightly sick from the revolutions). A side chair for the patient. Of course there’s the examination table that looks more like an awkward naugahyde bed/lounge with no arms and definitely not lounge comfortable, not like mixed drinks and crushed velvet and smoky voiced sirens and lounge lizards in leisure suits. No, this table is more like the elephant in the middle of the room, the one we know is there but don’t necessarily want to acknowledge, because it’s for the sick people. The nurse has already been in to get my vitals and type things in my chart on the screen. Verify current medications. Record my responses to her questions. And with an efficient albeit lukewarm assurance the doctor would be in to see me soon, she is gone again.
I am left to my own devices, playing the waiting game that I’ve already played in the waiting room. Now I’m waiting in the exam room. It only stands to reason I should be examining my wait … at my leisure, of course. Perhaps while lounging.
The doctor walks in and introduces herself. Breast disease specialist. Yes, because that isn’t intimidating in the slightest. I dutifully answer her questions, repeating my responses as I did to the nurse earlier. She hands me a gown and discretely leaves while I change. Somewhere, my subconscious is bemused, as her hands will push, prod, and examine my naked body in a matter of minutes, but for now we pretend my modesty is relevant. I take off my clothes, peeling away the protective layers. My sweater. My shirt. My bra. There is nothing left to hide behind. I put on the ridiculously useless cape and get back on the table to await her return.
The exam is routine, like so many others I’ve had, except this time we know there’s a problem. This time we know something has gone wrong inside, and we are trying to assess the damage within. Arm overhead; palpitate the breast. Other side. Repeat. It’s not as bad as a pelvic exam, actually, but I still mentally wander as she examines my body. I’ve already done this repeatedly; now it’s her turn, her expert opinion, her diagnosis. When we are done, the list of options. First will be imaging. Another mammogram, and an ultrasound to see if there’s something that’s changed from our baseline exams. Then surgery no matter what, either to remove the rogue duct, or to deal with a bigger issue, the unspoken fear that might well morph into my reality. She shakes my hand and departs, leaving me to process.
I consider her dispassionate delivery of my odds; there’s a one in three chance this is pre-cancerous, which means there’s a fully two in three chance it’s benign. I’d rather the odds were much, much smaller, but I stubbornly grab hold of the term. Benign. I will myself to believe this will be my fork in the road, not down the other path wherein lie the other words I fear. I can do this. After all, I’ve kept this information to myself already, contained in a box that’s been buried in the depths of my mental closet. Just get through last week’s conference. Just get through next week’s keynote. Just get through the following three weeks of travel. And so I schedule blood draws and tests, threading them among my current obligations and appointments. Haircut. Mammogram. Pedicure. Packing. Ultrasound. Presentation. Like interlocking pieces of a puzzle.
I can do this.
I wrap myself once again in the layers, reversing the earlier process. My bra. My shirt. My sweater. My flimsy protection against the world. I get back to the car and call TheCop. He already knows my fears, and can tell by my voice that I am shaken. He takes vacation and we spend the afternoon together. In one of those rare moments, he knows exactly what to do and what not to say. We go for food. He gets me a margarita so I can process, and then takes me to a matinee so I can escape. He holds my hand. He gently convinces me I need to tell the kids. I realize I have to be okay with this, because my role now is to manage others’ reactions to this incredibly personal news. I dread this because every retelling means I have to revisit the darkness, take the box out of the closet and open it for others.
I can’t do this.
For the sake of my sanity, I turn to writing. I realize this will open the floodgates, but it also means I only have to tell it once. I hope the followup post will be uneventfully boring, but I can’t be sure, and it seems important to document this. For better or worse. So I ask that you let this live here, on this blog. Post your comments, your love, your encouragement here. I can manage this, and the words are welcome, believe me. But let me have my fiction on the other channels where I dwell; let me pretend on Twitter and Facebook that my life is Robin as usual, because I need to have that outlet of normalcy, even if it is a temporary illusion. At least until we have more pieces of the puzzle in place, and we begin to see what the picture is that we’re assembling.
Let’s do this.
The next steps in the saga:
Testing, testing.
Dawn’s in trouble; must be Tuesday.
Since you’ve asked.
Living. Out loud.
We got this, girlfriend. We totally do.
Tears. You are an incredible human being. TheCop, thankfully, is also an incredible human being. The two of you are never alone in any of this, and there are kittens everywhere. Meow, baby. I’m there in a heartbeat, we all are. All my love. All of it.
You can do this. And you have a large community that will help. Know that you are not alone. And I know of one friendly angel that will be with you.
You. Are. Not. Alone. Sending a virtual hug and a willingness to help however you need it.
I wasn’t sure I should post a comment -so forgive me if I shouldnt have, but reading and leaving without saying anything felt just wrong as tears came up when I was reading.
I’m not really a kitten, but I’m here too if I can do anyhting.
Karine, it is always — ALWAYS — gratifying to see a comment on a blog post you have labored to write, no matter the topic. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, because there is solidarity and comfort in community, and I really need that right now. I’m simply trying to compartmentalize this, if only because it’s still a bit raw. Here I know there will be emotion and can be prepared for it. Being transparent in life makes one vulnerable, and I really don’t do vulnerable well. But never apologize for showing compassion. It’s exactly what I need now.
Thank you so much for your reply, Robin.
I can’t wait to see you in Vancouver.
We’re here for you. Meow, kitten.
Been in a similarly scary place recently and I couldn’t do this. Write about it. I admire both the fact that you can and the end result. Incredibly well expressed and eloquent for a time like this, a time when the application of swear words and alcohol seem more appropriate than thinking and writing about it.
Much love from over here.
You’ve got my axe, ringbearer.
You WILL do this. Because that’s who you are. No matter what. Being vulnerable is the only way to live, otherwise, what the fuck else are you doing? Much love, mama.
My Darling!
I sit in a crowded office in Austin reading this, and everything seemed to stop around me. With every paragraph I read, I prayed that it wasn’t was I was reading. In reading this my eyes filled with tears for a dearest friend I’ve seen in real life maybe five times.
You are so strong! You’ve held up so many of us when we needed it. We will all return the favor. If ever you need anything, an escape from the moment, a conversation that has no mention of this, a time to just sit in silence with someone on the other end of the phone, I pray you ask.
You are in my prayers. I pray that all will be well and that you have the strength to battle all of this.
Much love, prayers and happy thoughts!
You will be in my thoughts and prayers.
Strength. Conviction. Humor. Compassion. Attitude. Community. You have them all in spades. These are the things I admire about you and what I believe will get you through this time until you get a better idea of what is next.
You can do this…and there are a lot of us here, waiting to help if we can.
I could tell the other night that something wasn’t quite right. But I also could tell it was something bigger than a bad day at the office or a crashed web site. When you–disruptive, engaging Robin2go–goes quiet, it can be unsettling. But now I know why. You were unsettled and understandably so.
I had a similar procedure a few years ago after a questionable mammogram. In the end, mine was an errant lymph node that was hanging out in the wrong neighborhood. Screw it–I had them get rid of the damn thing anyway just for scaring me. And what used to look like a shark bite on my right breast is now a mere shadow. But I remember the fear and uncertainty. It was so hard not to leap ahead and dance with the “what if’s.”
So, for now, I’ll send up good energy and prayers for the very best result but will be here whenever you need me as you are always there for those who need you.
When the results come back, I’ll drink with you either way. (And you know that’s not an offer I make lightly.)
Mwah!
I will aim every thoughtful, warm thought I have in your direction.
And, this is another stunning piece of writing. I read it first thing this morning and was not capable of responding.
Hey Robin,
Thanks so much for sharing in such a wonderful way. We are thinking good thoughts here and sending hugs your way! Stay strong and keep rocking!
Your candid honesty is both appreciated and amazing. Thoughts and Prayers. It will all be OK, one way or the other.
(((hugs))) and positive thought-waves
“Let’s do this.” Indeed. And if I know you, it will be done with style. I’ve got your back, lady.
Whatever it is, it’s gonna be sorry it messed with Robin2go’s ta-ta’s! Arthur and I are thinking of you, sending good vibes–all that. We’re here for you and can’t wait for the boring follow up post.
(((((((Hugs)))))))
Wish I had more words. Instead just positive vibes. Sending them as much as I can.
We love ya dear.
Words fail me. You are one amazing, brave, lady. Keep writing, keep laughing, keep at it.
You know we’ve got your back. You are the strongest, bravest, and sassiest badass I know. It doesn’t stand a chance.
This is some scary business. I’m praying for your health, lady. Keep us posted.
Hugs.
I’m reading backwards. Regardless. Everything I said before still stands. Jeez…apparently my head has been up my ass. I’m with all these other ducks and with you.
Posted to Twitter after reading June 21 before this one. So sorry, and I’ve deleted that. Such a scary thing to have to face. I’ll be thinking positive, healing thoughts and sending them your way. (btw, this doc seems compassionate; the other an ass.)
Late to the… well, to call this a party is not right, but when I think of Robin, I can’t help but think “party”… but know that you are in this guy’s thoughts and prayers for strength and courage and ass-kicking.
Oh Robin, I was gone when you wrote this and had no idea. I’m so glad to hear good news for once, and that the good news is applicable to you. Much love….