hello world...
My name is Christina.
I have breast cancer. I found out 14 days ago.
Today, as far as I know, I'm not dying. At least, no more than anyone else I know.
What I do know is that I have 1.5 centimeters of poorly differentiated infiltrating ductal carcinoma in my left breast. It's the official way of saying that at least one milk-carrying duct is swimming with cancer cells and some of those cells have crossed over the cell wall and are starting to migrate.
So here I am with cancer and now, suddenly, everything looks, feels, smells, and sounds completely different. Like traveling to the other side of the world, I know this new world is connected to the one I just left. And even though I recognize the pieces, the script has changed entirely. I'm now member of a club I have no interest in being a part of. And for the moment I barely speak any of its languages. I don't speak "cancer." I don't speak "survivor." I don't speak "patient." and maybe worst of all, I don't speak "take it easy and cut yourself a break." Thankfully I do speak a tiny bit of "showing my hand" -- enough to get by, to let the people I really need in, but it's noticeable, even to me, what a struggle it can feel like. I also speak a bit of "Thanks, yes, I'd like some help." And thankfully, years ago I became bilingual in "How does that work, exactly?" and "In the right circumstances, anything can be funny." I guess, all in all, it's a decent start.
So how did I get here?
90 days ago my mother told me she has breast cancer.
84 days ago I found out my ex-roommate has breast cancer.
80 days ago I made an appointment to have a mammogram.
63 days ago I went for the mammogram and was told that something looked irregular.
58 days ago I went in for an ultrasound, so they could get a better look. They said they couldn't tell and that a core biopsy was necessary.
....then there was 37 days of run-around getting referrals, treading water, waiting, just to be sent back to the place I started.
21 days ago I had a core biopsy. For the record, core biopsies don't hurt. They just sound like they should. I would say though, like most healthcare related experiences, they're unnerving, uncomfortable, intrusive, and slightly humiliating. Thankfully, they regularly come with professionals who recognize this inhumanity and do their damn-dest to take the edge off with information and gentility. My gut is saying that these are facts that I'm going to be living with for at least the next 4-8 months.
In the 14 days since finding out, there have been consultations to endure; phone calls to make; paperwork to sign; policies to read; appointments to set up; machines to lay in; fluids to absorb; gowns to wear; and rooms to wait in. And lots and lots of withholding. Withholding from friends, which feels just as bad as lying because, well, it is lying. Withholding because I don't have the edges yet. Until my lumpectomy (which follows the MRI I just got), there are no answers about what, how long, how bad, what I need, and so on and so on. Withholding because I honestly hate puppy dog eyes even if they are grounded in good intentions. Withholding because it's none of your business and I don't really have the energy to make you feel better even though you think your trying to make me feel better. Withholding because I'm not sure you can keep a secret. Withholding because my stomach flips and the oxygen gets thinner every time the words "I have cancer" start to form in my mouth. Withholding because I'm just really really scared most every day and sometimes I just don't want to think about it, to accept this is really. fucking. happening.
Take a breath
Take another
New thought.
I don't know what my plans are here, writing these characters into barely readable sentences. But it feels good and helpful and constructive to lay it down in some sort of regular manner and maybe coming here each day, I'll start to see the building blocks of all these new languages I'm slowly starting to learn.
The blog too, maybe, is some way to get away from my fears and rambling thoughts and get myself up to 10,000 feet and make some use of this experience. If the healthcare system is awkward and uncomfortable and confusing what can I do here to help out a little bit--something I can offer that might make this easier, less stressful, more understandable, graceful, or transparent for someone else going through this too. I'm thinking about this angle because I'm a designer. It's my habit, my training to plan and unpack how things work, so tomorrow has the potential to be a better version of today. I think if I can find a way or many many ways to make this experience into an opportunity, then this bullshit lottery card that I've been awarded is actually a gift and that cancer, even if it eats me alive, doesn't get to take my soul down with it. But for today, I'm not dying. At least no more than anyone else I know.
Let's see where the ride takes us. Everything is possible.
