6. What Did Dr. Sweet Say?

Our cream colored phone hung on the wall above the kitchen counter. With its long, twisty cord we could take it into almost any part of our small apartment (bedroom, bathroom, a closet) and enjoy a private conversation away from the noisy television or overly-interested parents. As kids, my sisters and I shared one phone line with our parents - one phone line, one answering machine. Our phone had dials, actual dials. I used to think it a bit odd that, should you ever face a true emergency, where mere seconds could severely impact the outcome, that the 9 was at the bottom of the phone ... round it goes, nnnniiiiinnnnneeee-1-1. (Or, if you're my mother, when that emergency is at your doorstep, you can dial 4-1-1. Seriously. I'll explain later.)

When we wanted to relay a message, ask a question, or simply chat with a friend or loved one, we flipped open the kitchen cabinet to find the appropriate phone number listed on the beat-up, torn-cornered sheet with food-stained fingerprints all over it. The local pizza joint, the doctor and dentist, the swimming pool all had numbers listed on our precious list. We did, of course, memorize the numbers of beloved grandparents, aunts, cousins, neighbors, fellow church members, and friends. If we ever got lost at the mall, for example, we had a quarter in our pocket for the pay phone and several important members stored in our memory banks.
 
Here in the 21st century, we have something called cell phones that have taken over any need we may have once had to actually memorize important numbers. Important numbers were now simply added to ones' speed dial. Presto! A tap of the button and the recipient's phone would start ringing. With my parents and sisters living in other states, I knew I had to pick up my phone and call them ... tell them voice-to-voice about the day's appointments, the biopsy and what was next. Most of my friends, however, would be content with a quick text message update - much more my preferred method of communication. (I like to write. Texting is writing. It's faster, more direct and you can avoid so much of the unnecessary small-talk.)  Almost everyone who needed to be kept in the loop already knew I had found a lump and was heading to the doctor's office that day. I had promised to call/text as soon as I was headed home.

I grabbed my cell phone and stared at the speed dial list. Thankfully, I had every number I would need already programmed into my cell phone. Being so dependent on modern technology these days, I would have had a terrible time trying to recall so many phone numbers. So, where should I begin? Mom? Little sister? Big sister? Coworkers at the office? My person/best friend?

I shot off a quick text to Julia (aforementioned as my person/best friend): Biopsy done. Survived but they shot me in the breast! Seriously! Results Monday. Going home for the day.

I tapped Cheryl'sCell entry on my speed dial list. Gave her the update. Called CarenHome entry next. Gave her the update. Called MomHome and repeated it all for the third time.

The three responses I received to those three phone calls were quite indicative of each person's personality and characteristics and would become their standard response to the many phone calls regarding my doctors' appointments over the next several months. Here's your chance to play the matching game.

Response A: Well, whatever the results show will be fine, one way or another. I'm not worried. Glad you are doing okay with it all.

Response B: Oh, okay, well, let me know what happens. By the way, I got my hair cut today. She cut it too short again.

Response C: What time Monday do you meet with the doctor? Where do you go? What did they say about the possible results? When do they test the other side? How do you feel? Is it sore? You okay? You need to rest.
 
Answers:
A = ever-practical yet loving big sister, Caren
B = I refuse to hear/acknowledge the word cancer, yet loving mother Catherine
C = my over-protective yet loving little sister, Cheryl.

The grapevine, I knew, would handle spreading the word to the extended family within minutes. I refocused my efforts on my texting mission. I sent messages to many, many friends (copied and pasted, of course, text after text). My phone beeped and buzzed repeatedly for the next little while as friends replied their thanks for being kept in the loop and wishes for all to be well. One texted conversation, however, was a bit unique. I hadn't yet informed this friend that I had even found a lump. 

Me: Found a lump. Doctor thinks it could be cancer. Biopsy done today and results will be in Monday.
Friend: That's pretty common. Probably nothing. What did Dr. Sweet say?
Me: I haven't told Dr. Sweet. And why would I? 
Friend: Well, who was the doctor then? 
Me: Dr. M
Friend: Don't know him.
Me: Well, why would you know him? He's MY radiologist.
Friend: Huh? Sutter has a lump, right? 
Me: Perhaps she does, but I'm telling you about the one I found on ME.

Sutter was my black labrador retriever. Dr. Sweet was her veterinarian. I realized then that yes, perhaps some conversations shouldn't be done solely via text. 

Once home and settled, I popped a pain pill, and climbed into bed. I "unplugged" my phone for the remainder of the night. 

  

5. The One Where ...

Before I knew it, I was back on the exam room table, right arm stretched above my head, staring at the ultrasound machine screen. The image I saw resembled what you'd see on a television screen with no reception - black, grey, and white scrambled images that made up no recognizable image. (As I write this, I'm recalling a Friends' episode ... "The One Where Rachel Tells Ross". Rachel is on the table with Ross next to her as they both stare in awe at the ultrasound screen. Ross sees it. Rachel says she sees it. She doesn't. Ross points it out to her. Rachel says that yes, now she sees it. Nope, not really, she doesn't see it. Tears are shed. She can't see her peanut shaped fetus on the screen and, therefore, feels she will be a bad mother. Well, I can't see my mass on the damn machine ... does that mean I'm going to be a bad breast cancer patient?) 

The radiologist located the mass quite easily and I nodded and told him, "Oh totally, I see it, wow, shocking!" (Truth? I didn't see it, but I wasn't feeling the need to have this procedure delayed as he tried to help me see it.) He marked the location on my right breast with a permanent marker so he'd be able to biopsy the right spot. 

"Now, we're going to numb the area a bit. You'll feel a small prick as we give you the local anesthetic, but after that you shouldn't feel a thing." I'm sorry ... you are going to what? And the needle was shot into my breast. I twitched. He was right, I couldn't feel what he was doing next, but I still had my eyes open. Mistake, Sherry, big mistake. I saw "the needle" with what looked like a fish hook on the end.

In a core needle biopsy, the automated mechanism is activated, moving the needle forward and filling the needle trough, or shallow receptacle, with 'cores' of breast tissue. The outer sheath instantly moves forward to cut the tissue and keep it in the trough. This process is repeated three to six times. A small marker may be placed at the site so that it can be located in the future if necessary. Once the biopsy is complete, pressure will be applied to stop any bleeding and the opening in the skin is covered with a dressing. No sutures are needed. (Borrowed that paragraph from www.radiologyinfo.org)

The tissues sample were finally safe in their little container and were labeled to be sent out. The nurse stood right over me, tried to engage me in small talk while she held firm pressure on my battle wound for ten minutes. Seriously, what kind of things are appropriate to discuss when a stranger is standing there pushing with all her might on your recently shot-up breast?) Finally, she put some sort of band-aid over it. I was given the tiniest of tiny ice packs to put inside my bra and help keep the area from swelling and to help ease the pain. (The ice pack was pink, at least.) It remained in position until I got in the car. It wasn't cold anymore. Useless. Cute, but useless.

Biopsy number one - complete. Results would be available to me on Monday when I was scheduled to meet again with the radiologist. I began to see a pattern of action, wait, action, wait.

Time from scheduling appointment with Vivian to the time I saw her = one hour, fifty nine minutes.   

Time from seeing Vivian to mammogram = 48 hours.  

Time from mammogram to biopsy = 3 hours.

Time from biopsy to results = 96 hours (give or take) 

I wouldn't categorize myself as ever having been very patient. Granted, I am much more so now as an adult then I ever was a child (natural progression I suppose). As I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, I sensed this whole experience was leading me into a lesson on patience. (Little did I know then, but these few-hour and couple-day waits were nothing compared to the tests of my patience I'd have to endure in the weeks and months to come.)

For now, Monday would come around eventually. But first, I had to make a few calls. Speed dial, favorites list ... where to start?

 

 

4. Who Says You Can't Have Fro-Yo Before a Biopsy?

When I was a kid, for special occasions (or simply because I begged and am a total nuisance when I nag), my father would bring me home a medium, chocolate and vanilla swirled frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles and gummy bears on top from Penguins Frozen Yogurt in La Mesa. (La Mesa folks, you know the one I'm talking about, right by what used to be AlphaBeta and next to Togos.) My only variation to this order would be the random time I'd ask for the gummy bears to be in a cup on the side so they wouldn't freeze. (I was a picky, picky eater from an early age, I admit it.)

In my teenage years when I could drive, I'd head down to University Avenue to the Yogurt Mill (I think that was the name of the place) with my little sister in-tow and order my favorite fro-yo (mentioned above). On average, I'd say Cheryl and I were there 2-3 nights a week. It was our little escape from the house and daily stress. It was our sister time. And quite honestly, fro-yo is a comfort food and has a valued existence in my life. 

So, it should come as no surprise that as I headed back to the radiology center for my biopsy that afternoon, fro-yo was needed. These days, it's a Costco swirled yogurt cup (huge serving I might add), perfect consistency and flavor and all for the bargain price of a buck-forty-six (tax included). Craig, who for years has been my other best friend, mentor and protector, was my escort for both appointments that day and every other appointment since that day. He knows me well enough to know when we need to do a Costco drive-by. He insists on honking the horn three times every time I approach the car as if to alert the entire parking lot that hey, the car is over here. It was funny the first few times he did it, but the 1,325 since then, well, not quite as funny.

I wasn't really scared, anxious or concerned as we drove back to Woodland from Sacramento (about a 15 minute drive). I was enjoying my fro-yo. But as I sat in the passenger seat of my Pilot and glanced over at Craig, his eyes were red and a single tear ran down his cheek. 

"Are you crying? Why are you crying?" I asked of him. "Is it because I might have cancer?" He nodded ever so slightly. 

I've never really been accused of being a sappy, emotional person. I don't often cry (my friend Amy thinks I must not truly have a pulse since I didn't cry when I watched Terms of Endearment). I don't dwell on negatives and instead consider myself rather optimistic about life in general. The way I see it, every single person on this planet has crappy things to deal with on a daily basis. Life can be difficult, tremendously difficult for some. But it can also be amazing, enlightening, adventurous, opportunistic and educational. I tend to focus on how I react to a situation as opposed to simply over-analyzing the negatives of trials placed in my path. If life throws a ball at me (think dodge-ball analogy), I'm going to catch it and throw it right back but with a little more positive spin on it. (I do not, for the record, throw like a girl. I may fight like one, but I dare anyone to accuse me of throwing like one.)

As I scooped every last drop of my fro-yo from my cup and we approached the freeway exit en route to the clinic, I asked my driver this: "Why NOT me? I mean, really, they say one out of every eight women will have to deal with breast cancer. I'd much rather be the one in eight than have any of my sisters or friends with kids have to deal with this. I'm single, have no kids, have a flexible job and I can fight this. Besides, we don't even know for sure it is cancer. And if it is, well, hell, we'll fight it and move on." (Take THAT, negativity!)

"It's just so sad to think about," he answered back. "You're so young." True enough. I'd give him that. 

Yogurt cup empty and tears dried and wiped away, we parked the car and headed inside. June 4th was the date I knew I had cancer and it would only be a matter of time before it was official. But that's not really what I remember most about that day. For that day was when I realized this cancer journey wasn't going to be about me and me alone. It was, in fact, going to be a journey on which I traveled with my family, friends and strangers alike. And honestly, it was more trying on all of them than it was for me. I would learn over the next few months how much this cancer diagnosis would impact those around me, those who loved me. I would watch them cry and worry. But I swear, I must have had the best angels watching over my soul, for I didn't cry or worry. (Okay, I did cry once or twice, but from pain, not worry. We'll get to that later.) 

I was fine. I was content. I was good. I had my fro-yo.






 

3. Shall We Go Through?

I knew where to go simply because of the pink balloons and decor covering the radiology department's check-in desk. I think the receptionist was a tad shocked to see I was not (yet) gray haired and wrinkled, as was the case with the majority of the women seated in area three check-in. As instructed, I took the clip-board and proceeded to fill-in what would be the first of at least seventy-five identical medical history forms I'd have to fill-in over the next few years. Date of birth, birth location, time of day when born, mother's maiden name, name of first pet, first boyfriend's name, etc. (I jest, but only a little. I really should have made note-pads of my medical history questionnaire and just tore one off each time I was handed the clip-board.)

As the women of Downton Abbey would say, "shall we go through". They, of course, would be referring to the next room from the dining or sitting rooms. I however, proceeded through to the changing room. I was told to wipe off my deodorant, put on the gown, remove my necklace and place it in the locker, then wait in the seat until you are called. I assumed my finger printing and mug shot were next.

The stories of what a mammogram entails always included squishing, smashing and pain. Toss in an abundance of embarrassment and the stories are spot-on accurate. I stood there, breasts exposed and being positioned and repositioned only then to have the machine smash them down while it took digital images. Hold the position, I was told, and don't move. Um, wasn't planning on going anywhere, for if I elected to bolt out the door, I'd have to leave my girls pinned in the machine as I ran. Needless to say, I didn't breathe.

Back through to the waiting room I went and was told to sit and wait for just a few minutes while the radiologist reviewed the digital images of my breasts. I naively assumed this would be the end of my day in radiology and I would be back at work by 11am. 

"Sherry? We'd like to get a better look at some areas we saw on the films and we'd like to do that with an ultrasound. Can you come through to this room. You can leave your magazine," the nurse said. I was so grateful they were talking to Sherry and not me! Whew. Dodged a bullet there. Oh, wait, that's right ... nobody ever knows how to pronounce my name. I should have been more observant and realized she was talking to me as I was the only person in the wee waiting room.

The only experience I have with any type of ultrasound equipment is from what I've seen on television and in the movies. However, in every one of those instances, they techs were looking for a heartbeat, not a mass. The radiologist began on the left breast and could not seem to locate whatever it was he had been searching for. On to the right breast he went and voila, see there, now that is what we were thinking we'd see. Really? Did I need the play by play? Back through to my ever-familiar wee waiting room I went. My seat was still available.

"Sherry? The radiologist would like for you to come in so he can review the ultrasound findings with you. Follow me please," the nurse said. This time, I knew I was Sherry.

"See these small, white blotches? Those are micro-calcifications and that is what we are concerned with. Here on the right breast you'll see much more clearly, " the radiologist said. If the image hadn't been so obviously a breast (nipple and all show up on these things), I'd say I was looking into outer space. 

"I'd like to do a biopsy on each breast to confirm," he continued. Sure, why not, let's dig a needle into my breast and pull out some tissue, see what we get - that's what I said to myself. To the doctor, I instead said, "Sure, works for me. But let me ask you a question. Do you think it's cancer?"

If his expression hadn't been clear enough, he replied, "I can't say for certain just yet, but if I was a betting man, I'd put my money on it." 

 I was allowed to get dressed, reapplied my jewelry and sprayed on some of the Secret Powder Fresh Scent deodorant they keep in the lockers for after mammograms. (Women, always thinking ahead. We couldn't be expected to continue our day without deodorant.) I headed back through to the main receptionist's desk to schedule an appointment for the first (of what would eventually be three) biopsy. It was now about 10:45am, maybe 11am. Before I got to her desk, though, I stopped one of the ladies who had been with me since the moment I checked-in. I smiled and asked her if she thought it was cancer to which she replied simply, "well, IF it is, it's early." Okay then.

"How's 2pm today work for you?" the receptionist asked of me. Seriously? Today? You want me to drive back to work for a couple hours, then drive back here to be stuck with a needle? Haven't you done enough to me today? 

"Sure, 2pm is great. I'll be back," I replied.   

2. It Might Be Something to Worry About

Kiesha, Vivian's Physician Assistant, knows me well enough to know I am allergic to the scale and, therefore, walked me right on by it and into the exam room. I gave her the usual appreciative smile. We chatted the typical greetings and what's new talk as she took my temperature, blood pressure and reviewed my list of current medications. Then, she gave me the ever-so-crisply-and-neatly-folded paper top. (Seriously, what is the medical field thinking with these things? They are ugly, uncomfortable, and offer nothing in the way of warmth to combat the ice cold room temperature! As my journey would continue in the months and years to come, I came to each future appointment wearing a tank-top with straps that easily allowed access to the area of observation. No more paper tops for me.) Vivian would be in momentarily.

There I was stretched out on my back with my arms up above my head. The lump, I told her, was on the right breast and I pointed to the location. I still refused to touch it. (I was still betting on this being something like when your car makes a funny noise and you take it to the repair shop and try to make it make the same noise again but it never happens so you think you're nuts and so does the mechanic.) She decided, however, to start with my left breast, just to be super safe. 

"Okay, good, no lumps found there," she said. (Whew!) Over to the right side. 

"Hmmmm, okay, well yes, I feel that lump. Actually, I feel two lumps," Vivian informed me. (Lucky me. All good things come in sets of two, right? Bazinga.)

I dressed as Vivian typed something into the computer. She said the lumps were most-likely nothing but since it was not her area of expertise, she wanted to be safe and referred me to the mammography clinic. I was thirty-four years old and the idea of mammogram screening was another sixteen years or so away for me, or so I had thought. Per Vivian's orders, though, I was going to get a mammogram now whether I liked it or not.

You know that one hour and fifty-nine minute wait I mentioned? Yeah, that had nothing on the next forty-eight hours I had to wait to get my mammogram.

1. It's Totally Nothing to Worry About

After a softball game many, many years ago (I was maybe twelve), I rushed home, undressed, showered, washed my hair, rinsed, dried off, redressed and ran out the door headed to a basketball game. I timed it - less than three minutes. No joke. (I had short hair and didn't need to apply makeup or do my hair as I was just heading back out the door to another game, but I have a thing about cleanliness and just had to take a shower.) 

Fast-forward twenty something years to June 1, 2009. As I hurried through my evening shower (using a bar of soap instead of my usual liquid bath gel and a loofah), I came across the lump. It was the size of a pea and once I felt it, I refused to feel it again. (Maybe I was of the mindset that if I didn't feel it again, it wouldn't really exist or maybe it would just disappear. Truth, I was in denial.) I dried off, threw on a t-shirt and sweats, grabbed my cell phone and landed myself on the couch.  

I hurried off a text to "my person" (Grey's Anatomy people, you'll get the reference, but for the rest of you, that's another term for someone's best friend, the one who knows you better than anyone and would help you move a body should the occasion ever arise, no questions asked). The text I sent went something like this: Found a lump. Give me the speech. I'm too young, it's probably just a cyst, women get those all the time. RIGHT?!

The text I received back went something like this: Right. Totally nothing to worry about. You are too young for it to be anything serious. Probably just a cyst. Don't worry.

I have the best, most logical person/best friend. Smart, realistic, honest, so if she said it was nothing to stress about, I decided that was good enough for me. I didn't give it another thought all night.

That was the evening of June 1, 2009. (We'll talk about the irony of the date later.) I woke up the morning of June 2nd only to find that my lump had not disappeared or been a figment of my imagination as I had secretly and, somewhat naively, hoped. At 8:01am, I was on the phone with my doctor's office to schedule an appointment. The receptionist asked for what was I coming in to be seen. I told her I found a lump in my breast. I could hear something in her tone as she said my doctor (Vivian, that's all I ever called her) would see me at 10am. That was the longest hour and fifty-nine minute wait of my life. 

 

A Walk to Remember

I love my iPhone Starbucks app ... 5:30am last Saturday morning it was my saving grace. Less than one mile from our hotel was an open Starbucks (with a drive-thru no less)! Thank heavens! My friend, Tammie (warrior sister and all around awesome friend), had traveled with me to San Diego for a special event. The Gina Marie Dayton Guardian Angel Foundation kicked off 2013 with a 5k/10k Super Run held at Mission Bay. (A year ago the same weekend we were in San Diego mourning the loss of Gina and attended her memorial service. Thanks for your support, Tammie, then and now.)

Truthfully, I do not run. Never have, never will.* (Julia and I agree it is the Stupidest. Hobby. Ever. Yeah, have fun with that upcoming half-marathon, Julz.) But I'm super great at standing at the finish line, Starbucks in one hand, camera in the other, snapping away at those who were brave enough to tackle the course.

It was cold and dark as we huddled around the GAF's booth. We sipped our coffee and bundled up as best we could to keep warm. We met new people and reminisced with some old friends. We wore our GAF t-shirts and pink bracelets with pride and honor. We watched an incredibly beautiful sunrise (we attributed that to Gina, you know, her way of saying to us all "Hey, I'm here with you! Have an awesome day people!") ... and then the walk/race began. (That became obvious to us only after Tammie, Sarah and I looked around and realized we were just about the only people left in the parking lot. D'oh!)

Sarah was assigned the job of warning me as each person wearing the Guardian Angel Foundation long-sleeved, white t-shirt with the brilliantly colorful logo blazed across their chest, was approaching the finish line. (For the most part, Pup, you were right on it, that is, after you got your coffee! Credit is due to you for simply being willing to show up at that ridiculous hour on a Saturday morning and doing so with a smile. You rock! So very glad you were there!) I managed to snap several "okay" photos (I'm my worst critic) and just loved being there as Gina's family, friends, coworkers and others approached the finish line. As Gina's son, Christopher, came sprinting across the finish line with an enormous smile, I swear I saw Gina smiling along next to him. I saw her smile again as her daughter, Avery, walked over that finish line and again as Ty, Gina's husband, pumped his fists in victory as he crossed that line. I saw it as each person wearing that GAF t-shirt crossed the line smiling as big as they could.They weren't smiling because they had just completed a 5k or 10k. Rather, I believe those heart-felt smiles were present because Gina was there. We walked for her and she walked with us ... forever a walk to remember. 

GAF (Guardian Angel Foundation) banner at the start/finish line.

Tammie, me, Sarah

Christopher powers through the finish!

Smiling as she comes to the finish line, sweet Avery.

Ty's victory pose.

Gina's greatest legacy - her family (son, husband, daughter)

Patty (Gina's mom), Stacy (Gina's sister) and son David, me, Sarah

Just a handful of those who loved Gina ...

Helix '92 - represented!

Ty, Patty and Fred (Gina's dad)

We love you, Gina!

* Perhaps I have had a change of heart. Honestly, watching toddlers, kids, adults with disabilities and several eighty-something year old men and women walk and run this event was incredibly humbling to this non-runner who hid at the finish line behind her camera. I totally had the right shoes - hot pink and black, brand-spanking new running shoes. I bought them months ago when we first talked about the Super Run. As of Super Run Saturday morning at 5:29am, they'd never been worn before. But, mark my words, I will participate in the next walk/run. The odds of me running are slim to none, but I will walk it at the very least. Gina will walk it with me. We are, after all, lifetime teammates, forever and always.