Reports of my Death Are Idefinitely Postponed

I have always considered myself to be a healthy person.

Some of that is smug self-righteousness.  I practice strong health habits.  I don't like to let a day go by without getting some form of exercise.  I have never smoked.  I eat my daily dose of fruits and vegetables. I drink limited amounts of caffeine and alcohol and water is my main beverage.  I floss.  I don't deliberately tan.

A healthy lifestyle is helpful, but it isn't a guarantee against all illness.  Regardless of whether it's related to my good habits, I seem to do well in the health category.  It's true I have a wonky respiratory system (I sneeze at 100 decibels, I can't blow my nose like a lady, I react violently to strong irritants, and when I catch a cold, my life stops) and my joints are a bit injury-prone, but serious illness never seems to touch me.  I stay healthy when everyone around me is sick. (A few weeks ago I joked I would meet the "Corona" virus with a wedge of lime.)  Maybe it's good genes.  Maybe I was surrounded by dirt and mud at the barn for so many years it built up my immune system.  I don't know.  I have a strong constitution and I don't question why.  All I can do is be grateful.

I don't take my health for granted and I take all the tests a woman my age is supposed to take.  If the doctor tells me to have something checked, I do it.  That includes my annual mammograms.

My mammogram this year went like any other.  I suffered through the test and went home.  The next day I received a call from the doctor's office saying it was inconclusive and I needed to go back for an ultrasound.  This was no big deal.  It happens almost every time.  In fact my doctor often prescribes the ultrasound along with the mammogram because it happens so often.  I made my appointment for the ultrasound.  I lay there on the table and looked at the screen feeling fascinated by what the inside of my body looks like as the technician moved the wand around.  When she was finished she had me clean up, but told me to stay put and not get dressed.  I needed to wait for the doctor to review the ultrasound.

Soon someone else came into the room to fetch me.  The ultrasound was also inconclusive.  I needed a spot compression mammogram to confirm it.  This was also not the first time this issue came up.  The same thing happened last year.  I dreaded the second mammogram.  I didn't dread it because I thought something might be wrong.  I dreaded it because I remembered how much the previous one hurt.  Anyone reading this who has never had a spot compression mammogram, consider yourself lucky.  If you think your mammogram hurts, it's nothing compared to spot compression.  It's like having a stake driven into your boobs.  It's awful.

Once it was over I was allowed to get dressed and wait for the doctor in the waiting room.  I wasn't keen on having more tests, so I was happy to be done.  After a few minutes the radiologist called me back into the room where I had the ultrasound.

He had the results of both tests on a light board.  He showed me the ultrasound.  There was an odd white cloudy spot on it.  He explained it could have been a shadow (which is what happened in my ultrasound the previous year), but he needed to see the second mammogram to be sure.

Then he showed me the slide of the second mammogram.  There in the large blank expanse of boobage, in the same place where there was a spot on the ultrasound, was a small but distinct dark spot.

I was sort of numb as I listened to him explain that the next step would be a biopsy and what the biopsy would entail.  I wasn't scared.  I wasn't in denial.  I was barely thinking.  At worst I felt inconvenienced.  I saw this as yet another test I had to take.  I would take the test because the doctor told me to.  It would be another test that brings up negative results.  I'm healthy.  I'm fine. The doctor himself said four out of five times the results are negative and I shouldn't worry too much.

There was a breast surgeon in the medical building where the radiology office was.  The radiologist offered to walk with me over there to make the biopsy appointment.  We would get this all over with and I would go on with my life.

I made an appointment for the following week.  When I came home later, I checked my calendar and realized I had an overseas conference call at work that would be hard to reschedule.  I called the surgeon's office and asked to postpone the biopsy.  The receptionist said the only available appointment would be in six weeks.  I took it.  If this test was likely to be negative, then did the six weeks matter?  My gynecologist called me and asked why I would schedule the appointment so late and I said it was the only one I could get.  Even she confirmed six weeks wasn't going to matter.  All I had to do was sit tight.

For any of my friends and family who are reading this and asking, "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" I will say six weeks is a long time to sit around wondering what how the test would go.  I saw no point in telling anyone other than Kevin that I was having these test until it was closer to the actual date.  Why make my friends and family spend six weeks worrying?

Six weeks became nine weeks after my surgeon's office closed for two weeks due to coronavirus fears.  Then the doctor canceled my rescheduled appointment. 

At first the wait didn't matter to me.  It was Kevin who freaked out when I said I was waiting six (and then nine) weeks for the biopsy.  He made some comment that a work meeting shouldn't matter when my life could be at stake.  At the time it was easy to be calm.  This wasn't likely to be anything serious.  Anyway, even if if the spot is malignant, it won't go from a few abnormal cells to Stage IV cancer in two months.

I assumed it was nothing.  I didn't want to drive myself crazy.  What would be the point of worrying when so many weeks would pass before I could do anything about it?

Then three 'o clock in the morning would come and I would start to wonder.  With no immediate confirmation that everything was fine, I had far too much time think it all over.  As I am the queen of overthinking, there was much to ponder. 

Most of the time I didn't fear death.  In the 21st Century cancer is not an automatic death sentence.  Off the top of my head I can name five women in my circles of friends and acquaintances who have been treated for cancer in the past ten years and are still on the right side of the grass.  I would be in good company.

On the other hand, having cancer would destroy my image of myself as a healthy person.  If I had cancer, that would mean I was not only unhealthy, but suffering from one of the worst diseases I could possibly have.  What's more, the cure sometimes looks worse than the disease.  Cancer treatments are powerful and debilitating.  They would leave my fit, strong, body weak, tired, and nauseated.  Then there would be the alterations to my physical appearance.  My troublesome hair and my boobs are two of my most noticeable and distinctive attributes.  What would it be like to lose them both (not to mention I have a husband who is one of those I like long hair whiners and probably forgets the color of my eyes when I wear a low-cut top)?

Sometimes I even wondered, "What if I'm an exception?  Maybe Kevin is right.  My life could be at stake.  Maybe I won't survive this."

Here is the thing about death.  I accept my own death.  One of the reasons I couldn't maintain a belief in religion is that I can't deal with the concept of living forever.  Eternity sounds dull.  Heaven doesn't sound all that interesting.  I don't want to experience that long, dark, teatime of the soul.  I like the idea that my life will eventually come to an end.  Playing a harp in the clouds for all eternity just doesn't appeal to me.

I also am not interested in having a life that is so long it extends beyond my ability to enjoy it.  I may be healthy now, but my body will break down eventually and it might take my brain with it.  If I don't have the physical and mental capacity to do the things I love, then what's in it for me?

Furthermore, I don't want to be alone for decades.  I am married to a man eleven years my senior.  I have no children.  As I grow older more of my friends and family will die off.  I might not have company when I come to the point when I am too old to go out and do stuff. I won't have the simple pleasure of watching my grandchildren grow up that women with children do.  Will there be anyone around to hang out with when I'm too infirm to go out and meet people?

What I'm saying is, I want to live a long time, but I don't want to live so long I spend too many years as a sick, bored, lonely, old widow.

But I'm not that old yet.  I have many good years left in me.  There are places I want to go and experiences I want to have before my time comes.  I am content to have my life end, but I don't want to have it end for a few decades.  Besides, I don't think Kevin is ready to be a bored, lonely, old widower.   I'm willing to meet my death - and accept the finality of it - when my time comes, but my time has not come.

One of the worst aspects of cancer is the uncertainty of it.  Cancer isn't black and white.  There are times when you can be diagnosed and the doctor can tell you, "This is treatable.  Your prognosis is excellent," and if I were to hear this from a doctor, I would undergo whatever horrible treatments were needed secure in the fact I would come out of it alive.

If I were told, definitively, "This is terminal.  Any treatment we give you might buy you a little extra time, but this cancer will kill you within a relatively short period of time," then I would make up my mind to accept it, forgo all the painful treatments, and try to live as much of my life as I could while I was still able.  I'd attack that bucket list for as long as I was strong enough to do so.  In the end I would take lots of drugs for the pain (although I suppose marijuana would continue to be out of the question - see above about my respiratory system reacting to strong irritants) and die peacefully at home.

What I wouldn't want to hear is anything in between.  I wouldn't want an uncertain prognosis. It is one thing to deal with all the treatments and the accompanying sickness and discomfort knowing in the end it was worth it.  I wouldn't want to spend years dealing with all those treatments and find out they are not going to work and I will die soon regardless.  I would be furious I wasted all that time treating something that didn't improve when I could have spent my remaining time on earth having fun.

Are these thoughts too morbid?  Am I too negative?  I suppose they are, but it's what I was thinking at 3AM when I knew I had weeks to go before I would know if I had nothing to worry about or everything to worry about.   Good health and life itself were always things I took for granted.  Cancer doesn't happen to people like me.

I had enough time to forget the test as the weeks went by.  I may have believed that I was nearly immune to COVID-19, but I wasn't going to live my life that way.  I am spending my time as I am supposed to, staying inside, only going out when I need to, and taking a few long walks outdoors every week in places where I can keep my distance from others.  I wash my hands until they raw and carry wipes and sanitizer with me.  I wear a mask indoors when I'm not in my apartment.  Most of the time my thoughts of isolation, boredom, and disappointment have been enough to overtake whatever worries I had about this biopsy.

Two weeks before my rescheduled appointment the surgeon's office called with another cancellation.  That shifted my focus yet again.  She didn't even bother to reschedule this time.  I was going to be walking around with this spot and I had no idea when I was going to confirm what it was. 

I was fortunate the office called me back only a week later.   There was a new protocol in place for visits.  I had to have an introductory video call with the surgeon and we would schedule the biopsy during that appointment.  To my surprise the assistant who spoke to me said I could have the video call the next day.  That was even sooner than the date of my canceled appointment.  I had my video call with the surgeon and she told me the biopsy appointment was set the day after that.   Everything was unexpectedly happening sooner than I thought.

During our video chat she explained the entire procedure to me and told me what I would need to do for aftercare.  I was more upset at her telling me that I would have to keep my breasts immobilized and avoid strenuous exercise for five days than I was about the idea that I might have cancer.  I didn't want this sort of disruption in my routines.  My life has been disrupted enough.  It all ties back to my trying to be healthy.  I didn't want to lose my healthy body routine due to tests that were a far bigger determinant of my health.

I took all necessary precautions and headed to my biopsy appointment.  I won't get into the uncomfortable and undignified positions the nurses put me in, but I will say it wasn't pleasant.  I kept waiting for the surgeon to come in and do her thing.  I waited and waited.  Finally one of the nurses confessed  she was unable to find the spot they were supposed to be targeting.  They told the surgeon who ordered yet another mammogram.  I was back in the biopsy room and the nurses still couldn't see anything.  That meant yet another mammogram.  This time they put a sticker on me to pinpoint where the spot was supposed to be.  Back in the biopsy room they tried to find the spot again.  Once again, it wasn't there.

The surgeon ordered another ultrasound.  She saw nothing troubling on it.  It was time to give up.

What was on that mammogram?  What was that spot and why did it disappear?  The surgeon doesn't know, but she said we need to watch it anyway.  She wants me to come back in six months and see if there are any changes.

Am I so strong and healthy my body beat back breast cancer?  Did the radiology office do a bad job of cleaning their mammography machine?  I have six months to worry about it.

I have six months to spend contemplating what could happen to me.  If I had taken the immediate biopsy appointment would the spot be there or would it have disappeared in less than a week?   Did that spot disappear forever, or will it regrow with a vengeance?  What is going on with my body that spots are appearing and reappearing on imaging tests?

All I can say is that if there is one thing I have learned from COVID-19 isolation is that I am becoming skilled at survival.