The doctor called today. We've known one another for two and a half decades. He delivered my daughter. He has seen my netherparts more often than my undies have. His voice was quiet and sad, but professional.
'Yeah, Lynda, the biopsies do show that the cancer has become invasive.' He knows I am a critical care nurse; he knows I'm not gonna freak out or misunderstand. I asked him some specific questions about the behavior and susceptibility of the tumor. Partly for some information, partly for something to say while my mind was screaming for air.
'Okay... where do we go from here?' He outlined the next steps; referral to the surgeon (one I know well, I have recovered dozens of his patients following lumpectomies and mastectomies), surgery, radiation, chemo, possible mastectomy. 'Unh-hunh, unh-hunh, okay, thanks, Randy'.
Phone in cradle, steady hands, no tummy flutters. Self assessment complete, I calmly told my husband the news. Then began looking for answers on the internet. The ones I wanted weren't there.
I sit, not wanting to go for a walk, feed the chickens, ride my horses, talk, think.
If I'm supposed to die from this, I wish I wouldn't have to go through all the bullshit of trying to survive. Just take me now.
No comments:
Post a Comment