Cancer, conundrums, cartoons
The other day I stopped by a coffee shop where I overheard the confab, above, between an older surgeon (he was in scrubs with a hospital badge & I asked him what he did there, so that’s how I know) and some younger residents. Pretty relieved I heard this after my own procedure.
This morning I went to visit my friend, Kate, in the hospital. She’s been battling cancer for more than a decade, and is currently fighting an infection from a recent surgery. It felt something like a pilgrimage, going to see her. I suppose this is because witnessing another’s suffering feels holy, is holy. As is the suffering, itself. You’re taken out of time, somehow, and placed in another dimension. A hushed dimension of latex gloves and gowns, popsicle wrappers and empty coffee cups, drips and drains–the curious consolidation of life in a tiny room with a seismic purpose.
It was good to see her. It also gave me deja vu; I was recovering from surgery in a hospital bed not long ago, myself. I remembered how all of the smallest things presented a challenge–lifting a cup to drink carefully from a straw, the strain of simply moving, shifting, or adjusting my position in any way. My nurses would write “goals” on the dry erase board in my room that graduated from “pain management” to “going to the bathroom” to “walking.” Like I was being born all over again and rushing through toddlerhood in the space of a week. In my case, the comparison seemed especially apt because I was also re-learning how to consume liquids, then purees, then solid foods with my new (I won’t exactly say mangled, but yeah, mangled) tongue.
Kate means a lot to me because not only was she a wonderful colleague when we worked together, but she also played host to my daughter’s first Thanksgiving. My husband had to work that Thursday; I wasn’t ready to travel, solo, to see family with an eight-month-old; and most of my friends were out of town. I felt a bit stranded and lonely, and Kate graciously invited us over. I remember her ducking to check on the turkey while her husband danced around the kitchen with my daughter, singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in a surprisingly good baritone. In fact, I’ll never forget it. So a visit today seemed like the smallest possible return gesture for that lasting kindness.
I’m a high school English teacher by day (crime and cancer fighter by night), and I kept my diagnosis under wraps for about two months before telling my students. I didn’t want to disrupt their already teeming teenage lives, and I was still waiting on some important information from my doctors (scan results, surgery dates, a treatment plan, etc.). I can’t say that it was easy crawling into bed each night with this little behemoth, which I had assigned to my seniors, but the humor wasn’t lost on me, either.
Let me preface this post by saying that every kind word, hug, card, text, phone call, and email has meant a great deal to me. These are just a few other gifts that I’ve particularly enjoyed, in case you have a loved one going through something similar and are wondering what might bring some comfort.
Many friends and colleagues have also brought by meals, which has been a huge help, and I’ve asked for recommendations re: good comedies (TV shows, movies, podcasts, etc.), since that’s all I’m interested in consuming, media-wise, at the moment.
According to Google, a tagline is “a catchphrase or slogan, especially as used in advertising, or the punchline of a joke.” I’ve always sort of assumed that humanity, itself, is the punchline of a joke we didn’t quite catch the beginning of. I feel that way today, anyhow. This afternoon, I have to get an ultrasound of my thyroid because the lymph nodes my doctor excised during surgery had thyroid cells, or tissue, in them. He said that this was highly unusual, and added that thyroid cancer is one of the most treatable forms.
Wait a minute… Are you telling me that I might have thyroid cancer in addition to salivary gland cancer? I couldn’t exactly digest that, so I’ve been sitting with the possibility (like so many other things) since he mentioned it in his post-surgery follow-up call. Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to having someone mess around with my neck while the scar from my surgery one month ago, today, still looks like a fresh incision. Here’s hoping the nurse or tech that performs the ultrasound is sensitive to this. (Note: I will say that most of the medical professionals who have been involved with my care thus far have been wonderful humans, with the exception of a resident who YANKED, forcefully and without warning, on the drain that was inserted into my neck after surgery).
Today’s ultrasound calls to mind the last time I had one, five years ago, while pregnant with my daughter. It induced some anxiety, as well (is everything ok? is she growing normally?), but joy and anticipation were also thrown into the mix, so it was more than bearable. Now, I only feel dread. Bodies are curious things. Mercurial, idiosyncratic. At least mine seems to be. I try to remind myself of those times when it did everything just as it should, competently and correctly. When I gaped in awe of it, like during labor and delivery. I’m aware that the dichotomy my language is invoking (i.e. “it” and “my body” vs. “me”) is both historically entrenched and problematic. Ostensibly, it’s all the same stuff. But illness seems to invite the distinction. Like I’m trying to cordon off a part of me that’s still well. Inviolable. I know it’s not, but I’m beginning to understand that knowledge and need are very different things.
Apparently, I need one. Despite being an English teacher who studied various forms of media in graduate school, this is my first attempt at blogging. I’m experimenting with it as a way of processing my recent cancer diagnosis and connecting with others who have experienced something similar. Those of us with mammary analogue secretory carcinoma (a rare form of salivary gland cancer), are, I have gathered, few and far between. Those of us who have M.A.S.C. as women in our thirties are possibly even fewer. So here’s my first shot in the dark, or howl into the wilderness, regarding many things I’d rather not.
Well, then 