Oh, Hello Cancer

The Day I Knew

The sweet ultrasound technician had a worried look. I watched her while she worked—an ultrasound of my right breast. When I couldn’t take the silence any longer, I asked,

“It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

She nodded. She said something about vascular activity, and: “We don’t like to see that.”

I asked what that meant. “It’s being fed.”

She flipped the screen toward me. “Those red and blue dots?”

She nodded. She said more things after that, but I wasn’t really listening anymore. I was weirdly calm, even proud of myself for not screaming or overturning medical thingamabobs and running down the hall in the crappy, threadbare gown.

Shouldn’t I be doing that?

She finally finished up and said I could take a seat while she sent the scans to the Breast Diagnostic Center (BDC) for a radiologist to review. She told me it could take about 20 minutes. I sat down and went back to my Kindle book, Theology and Sanity. I even tried to strike up a conversation—this could be my chance to evangelize! I mentioned the book. She asked if it was biblical theology. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I was pretty sure she was trying to evangelize me.

I think I muttered something like, “Oh, yeah. Of course. It’s a really good book.”

So much for my chance.

She came back a lot faster than 20 minutes. A doctor was already on the phone. Would I talk to him?

Yep. Here we go.

The doctor said a biopsy was needed, and echoed the technician’s words:

“We don’t like to see that.”

The Biopsy

Even the word biopsy felt enormous. It was just a shot to numb the area, and just a needle to take a little tissue. I kept repeating that to myself.

The BDC office was small. HGTV was playing in the lobby—“Flip or Flop,” I think—and for a second, I wondered if it was an episode I hadn’t seen. But I was too rattled to focus. My hands were shaking so badly that I could hardly read my own writing as I filled out paperwork.

Bob was beside me, calm, drinking coffee, scrolling Facebook. I wished I could borrow his serenity.

And can we talk about the paperwork? Why must we fill out endless forms every single time? Aren’t we past that? Doesn’t someone somewhere already have this in a digital file? Hand me a keyboard.

A nurse came to get me, a friend’s daughter, though we’d never met before. She hugged me and asked how I was doing.

“I’m a wreck,” I said.

She nodded with understanding. She said she’d try to get my results fast-tracked.

When the tech came to take me back, I told her,

“Just so you know, I’m a mess. There will probably be tears.”

She smiled gently and said her only rule was that I couldn’t make her cry.

“I can’t promise that,” I said.

The building had been designed to feel like a spa—cute changing rooms, gowns like little jackets, coffee stations, dim lighting, soft music. Even the biopsy room felt oddly upscale. There was art on the walls, a table, a large armoire (what did they keep in there?), and two low-slung leopard-print chairs. The only giveaway was the table and the equipment in the center of the room.

The nurse fired up the ultrasound and found the lump right away—it wasn’t hard.

“Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Uh-huh.”

Before leaving to get the radiologist, she covered me with a towel—a gesture I appreciated more than I could say. There’s so much vulnerability in that moment. Sometimes a towel is dignity.

Dr. P arrived and tried to make small talk:

“Where do you live?”

“Oh, I board my dog there.”

“I ride my bike in that area.”

Yadda yadda.

The shot of anesthetic burned like hell.

“This is what it’ll sound like when I take the tissue,” he said.

CLICK.

It sounded like a staple gun. He said he’d warn me before each one so I wouldn’t flinch.

“I can’t promise I won’t flinch even with a warning,” I told him.

Three clicks in, I asked, “How worried should I be?”

“About malignancy? This is most likely malignant,” he said.

I have to hand it to him. He answered the question.

Two more clicks, and it was done. That was the biopsy. That was the day I knew I had cancer.

Twenty-three days after I found the lump.

The Diagnosis

I was standing in the stairwell at work when the call came.

Or had I paced back to my desk? I think I was at my desk—I was taking notes as Dr. P spoke in his steady, calm way.

He didn’t use the usual language you hear when people talk about breast cancer. So I asked,

“Can you tell how serious or advanced it is?”

He said it was unusual. The tumor was squamous cell carcinoma. (In my notes, I spelled it “squeesma.” It became a word I’d have to say a lot.)

Squamous cell carcinoma is very rare in the breast. It might be a metastatic cancer, he explained.

“I diagnose,” he said. “I don’t treat.”

And that was that. His assistant came on the line—my appointment with the breast surgeon had already been scheduled.

That was August 2nd.

And then the internet happened. By the next day, I was convinced every twitch, itch, headache, or sneeze was cancer. I felt like I was wearing a cancer suit. The appointment wasn’t until the 11th. What if those nine days mattered?

A friend suggested I call the surgeon’s office and ask if any preliminary tests could be done sooner. I said yes.

After a long conversation with the nurse, I realized I had no symptoms beyond the painful lump. But in the end, the surgeon ordered an MRI.

At least there was something on the calendar.

The MRI

That morning began like most others. Coffee. Daily Mass readings. My examen. A puzzle game with Riley. I felt almost human, almost grown up—packing my bag, getting ready to drive myself to the appointment.

I knew the MRI would be loud. I didn’t know it would come with a dog fight.

Out in the garage, I let Riley out one last time. For whatever reason, the neighbors’ two St. Bernards didn’t like how close he got to the road, and they charged. Both wore invisible fence collars. I watched the first one stop short at the boundary—whew.

But when I turned back, both were in my yard, facing off with my little dog.

The screaming started.

This was happening: I was about to watch my dog die, and then I’d have to leave for a cancer scan. Riley growled, and the larger dog lunged. But somehow, my dog circled the big one and herded him back toward their yard. I heard the St. Bernard yip. I was stunned.

I got Riley back inside, but I was already shattered.

Then came traffic. I hate driving in traffic on a normal day, let alone while shaking like a leaf. But there was no option. I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t stay home. I couldn’t cancel.

I got myself there. But it was ugly.

I won’t lie—I was a wreck. Everyone could see it: nurses, techs, even the people in the waiting room. (Could they also see the huge lump? At times like that, you feel transparent.)

More paperwork. Large waiting room. Small waiting room. Gown. Bathroom. Locker. MRI room.

A nurse had walked me through it in advance: a series of 2-3 minute pictures, then one long, 7-minute scan that mattered most. Move, and you’d have to come back.

I said Hail Marys. The Undoer of Knots. The Memorare. A few Our Fathers. I wished I’d asked to hold a prayer card. (Next time.)

I stayed still. My arms hurt for two days afterward.

The MRI results showed no cancer in the other breast. Relief, yes—but somehow also a letdown. I wanted more reassurance. A wider sigh of relief.

“Polly, you don’t have cancer in your lymph nodes either! Celebrate!”

But—

The dog didn’t die.

I got myself there.

The MRI was done.

I didn’t have to go back.

Turns out cancer is not proof that God hates me.

It could be proof He loves me.

Author’s Note

This post was originally written as three separate entries, in real time, in the strange in-between of tests and results, fear and waiting. I’ve gently edited it for clarity, but I’ve left in the jagged pacing and shifting tenses—the places where my brain jumped ahead or circled back. It felt important not to smooth it too much. This is how it was. Not polished. Not linear. Just the inside of a life being cracked open.

If you're in one of those waiting places now, I see you. It’s not easy to find words for those days. Sometimes all you can do is keep breathing. And that's enough.