This is a biopsy

It starts out in your oncologist's office when you go in for your 6 month check up. Your cancer markers are up. These are those blood markers that are every cancer survivor's nightmare. Breast cancer is notorious about hiding for years. Sometimes up to 25 years. It just finds a cozy nook in your body and settles in, undetected, for up to a couple of decades. Sometimes, usually, just for a few years, though.

And then something happens. No one knows exactly what that is. But, something pulls it out of hibernation.

And the cancer markers go off like tornado sirens. A normal blood count is under 30. Yours were usually around 20. Until 6 months ago.

37. But, you were just getting over the flu. The doctor felt that this was probably why it was elevated.

"Let's take another look at your next check up."

Stupidly, you agree. Because you want to believe SO BADLY that this is nothing. Just an aftermath of the flu.

Six months later, you go in again. The cancer marker is 96. Time to go a'huntin.

And now, you are here. Two masses have been found in your chest wall, behind your sternum. One is dismissed as a harmless fluid filled sac, a remnant from your bilateral mastectomy three years ago. The other one?

Is cancer.

Your breast cancer has awakened and metastasized into another place. You have a large lesion wrapped around one of your arteries that go to your heart. It is what is called an unnecessary artery. You can survive without it. But, it is cancer and it is not curable.

You hear the word terminal for the first time and it hits you like a sledgehammer in the stomach.

You set up a biopsy date to find out just what kind of cancer it is. You go home, tell your spouse and you both cry a lot. And then you fall into this surreal pattern:

1) You sink into gallow's humor.
God, what if I get lost on the way to the white light?
Well, at least I don't have to live with climate change. But, then...I don't get to yell, "I TOLD you so, you stupid ass TRUMPERS!" either. 
I need to live to see how Game of Thrones ends. I NEED this. 

2) Your marriage becomes a love fest.
I don't want to be in a world where you aren't in it. 
You are the love of my life. Why did we waste all those years fighting over stupid things?
Promise me that you will re-marry. I can't stand to think of you being all alone. 

3) You get fucking mad.
JESUS CHRIST. I lived through breast cancer and leukemia to get to THIS? 
I WILL NOT sit for hours and hours a day hooked up to an IV bag filled with poison just so that I can go home and puke all night. 
I am a good person. I try so hard to do the right thing. Why is @$KJ% still alive? He is a troll. He has no right to live but I have to die? 

4) You feel peace.
I had such a great life. Such a kick ass life! I am so lucky to have all these great people in my life. 
That tree is so beautiful that I cannot bear it. How can no one else seem to see it? 
I will just sit here with my coffee and my book and feel so grateful that I have this life. 

Rinse and repeat.

And then the day of the biopsy is tomorrow. A nurse calls you the day before to prepare you for what will come. You feel prepared. You have had biopsies before. No big deal.

T has to work and can't take you. You have to have a driver. T has just started a new teaching job, has no tenure, and only 12 sick days. You figure that you will need those days down the road. You ask your sister to take you, although you hate to do it. She isn't all that well, either. Plus, she's older and her balance is pretty bad. You worry that this might be too much for her, but feel as if you don't have much choice.

And you are scared. You want her face to be there. To see. To calm you down. You want someone you love there. She is your sister. She is your sister. She is your sister. You are just fine one moment and then the next are sure that you will die under anesthesia. It is an odd fear, but it keeps you up nearly all night before the biopsy.

The morning of the biopsy, you kiss your spouse goodbye as she leaves for work. You manage not to cry because that would be stupid. It is JUST A BIOPSY and you know if she sees one tear, she will call in sick. After she leaves, you go from room to room in the house and say goodbye, just in case.

You thank the kitchen for all the meals you made together.
You thank the bathroom because it is warm and well....it is NOT an outhouse. Thank you.
You thank the living room for all those wonderful movies watched, Nebraska games that you enjoyed on the TV, all those TV shows. All those late night talks with friends and family. All the times laying on the sofa in T's arms.
You thank the dining room for all the meals shared, the board games played with S, C, and L. 
You thank the bedroom for good sleep and well.....you know.

You look outside at the trees and tell them that they are the most beautiful living things. Thank them for dropping red and gold leaves, for the small green buds every spring. For the bright green, hot summer days. For shade. You wonder if you have time to go out and hug them but you are so stiff in the mornings and since your home is right across the street from an elementary school, you don't want to scare children,

It is all silly, you know this.

Your sister comes and she is good for you. She is good at distracting you. You talk of mundane things. You check into admitting and then sit in the waiting room and look at videos of her granddaughter dancing on her phone. It is soothing.

They call your name. You stand up and know that you are going to die under anesthesia. You are certain of this. You prayed that you would not die in diapers and incoherent and your wish is going to be granted.

You get sentimental saying goodbye to your sister and feel foolish. She responds by saying firmly, "I love you and I will see you VERY ,VERY SOON."  Your heart calms.


A deep breath.  

You are prepped. It seems endless. You have to change into those stupid gowns that tie up in the back and put on scrub pants that are way too big in the waist and too small in the butt. You feel like a sausage squeezed into the butt with about a yard of extra fabric at your waist. You think that even scrub pants are made to fit men, not women. Just one more thing.

The nurse asks you all the questions that the nurse asked you on the phone yesterday. What meds are you on? When do you take them? What dosage? Family history. Blood pressure. It is 152/80. Really high for you. You tell her that you asked the nurse that you spoke with yesterday to to make sure that you got a really good phlebotomist because your veins are terrible. She nods. Yes. It is on the chart. She brings a man named Eugene in to look at your veins. He makes a bad joke about you not being human because you have no discernible veins. He sighs and says he will go find Toni. She is the expert.

Toni comes in, takes one look at your arms, shakes her head and looks at your hands.

"Here," she says, and before you know it she has gotten the IV in you.

With. One. Try.

You are so surprised that you burst out laughing.

The doctor comes in and talks about risks. Your lung could collapse. Infection. He tells you that the lesion is wrapped around that artery and it will be very tricky to get it because so many other arteries are very, very close. But, he thinks all we be just fine. He tells you his name but he is not a warm man, not a hand holder type. It is good that he is a surgeon, you think, because he acts as if you are just another number. Which is fine. Just so his aim is true.

It is time.

You are wheeled to an operating room and the nurse says that they are doing another cat scan because the doctor did not like the vagueness of the one they gave him. He wants to be precise. You get another chest cat scan.

Your arms are placed over your head and wrists snapped into a velcro vise. You HATE this. It is not only uncomfortable, but you know it will start to really hurt if you have to stay like this for more than ten minutes. You mention this. The nurse says that it has to be this way and the procedure is not that long. Besides, you will be asleep. 

The nurse tells you that she is going to start the medicine that will make you drowsy. You say ok. She tells you that it is in. You feel absolutely nothing.

The doctor comes in and looks at you.

"She's still wide awake," he tells the nurse. You want to say, "Listen, asshole. I am RIGHT HERE. Can you please stop talking about me as if I'm a cat or that I don't understand English?" You say nothing because you want him to like you and do a good job. Your arms are numb and aching. Your hands hurt badly.

The nurse gives you another dose. You still feel nothing. Not even a little dozy. The doctor sighs. Says he needs to start. He tells you that he is going to numb you up and you might feel a little pinch.

That is some pinch. It hurts enough to take your breath away but you don't make a sound. After a short while, he touches you and asks if you can feel that. You say no.

"Let's get going, then,"  he says, You are awake for the whole procedure. It is kind of interesting to watch. He looks like he is giving you a shot right between your lungs and then he pulls long strings out of the tubing.

After several times, he says, "How many samples does she want? Did she specify?" The nurse says just get at least five.

You are silently fuming. Shouldn't he have known this going in? You are still WIDE AWAKE. And your arms feel as if they are ready to separate from their sockets.

He leaves without saying a goodbye. The nurse puts a large band aid over the area worked on. She tells you that she has been a nurse for 45 years and only three other people have not fallen asleep with the dose she gave you and that they were all men.

Thank you?

You have to pee so badly that you fear you might wet the bed. You tell the nurse. She brings a bedpan and unties your arms. Tells you to pull your pants down. Your arms are smarting so badly that you cannot get your pants down. You ask if you can just walk to the bathroom. You feel just fine. She says no. That you have to be on complete bed rest for three hours now.

You think about maybe trying to hold it and then sneaking to the bathroom after they get you in a room. You decide that this would be too risky and you have to pee so fucking badly. She ends up having to pull your pants down because your arms simply won't function yet.

You pee in the bedpan and feel your face go red as the nurse wipes off your vagina and ass.

They wheel you upstairs to a room where your sister waits. You are settled in and told that you cannot get out of the bed for three hours. Then, if you can eat, pee, and walk, and pass an Xray test, you can go home.

You are so mad. NO ONE said you would have to be tied to an IV and sit in a hospital bed for three hours. But, you tell yourself that you are lucky. You get to leave today. A lot of people on this floor do not get to leave today or even tomorrow. Someday soon, you will probably be one of those people, too. Be thankful. Stop acting like a baby. Some good news is that now your arms are working. They still ache, but are usable.

You tell your sister to go on home and come back for you in three hours. No sense in you both being stuck here, She looks relieved. Her face looks tired all the time now. She is not feeling great.

She leaves. You curse yourself for not bringing a book. But, the nurse you spoke to yesterday, said that you would be detained briefly after surgery, so you didn't bring one. ''

You try to watch TV, but can't concentrate. You try to sleep, but it is too loud and the bed is lumpy. You remember this from when you spent nearly a month in a hospital with leukemia. How lonely a hospital room is.

You have to pee again. Shit. WHY? You have not had one drop to drink since midnight. You can't sneak to the bathroom because one arm is encased in a blood pressure cuff that squeezes every 15 minutes and the other is hooked up to an IV pole behind the bed that is dripping hydration into you. Well, that is why you have to pee. Mystery solved.

You page the nurse and this time, you can at least pull down your own pants. A small dignity.

The guy comes to wheel you down for the Xray. You like him instantly. He is chatty but not overly so. He's a retired FED EX guy who does this part time now. He likes it. It is mindless. Plus, his wife is a teacher and he misses her if he's home during the day and she isn't.

The Xray comes back fine.

Your sister returns and it has been three hours. You have to ring the nurse bell to remind them that you need to go now. The nurse comes in with your discharge papers. You are not to drive today or pick up anything heavy. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Your sister drives you home. You thank her profusely. She gives you a long look.

"We're sisters. Wouldn't you do this for me?" she asks. You assure her that you would and that if she doesn't get better soon, you will be wheeling her around next. She smiles. It is a wan smile, though. You think to yourself that you would do anything for her. She is your sister. She is your sister. She is your sister.

You say goodbye and walk into the house and sheepishly inform the air that you didn't kick off and are back. It doesn't answer. 😏

You grab your keys and get in your car to go get a coffee.

You know it said not to drive, but you need a coffee so badly and you are such a badass that you couldn't be knocked out.

You get your coffee. You badass.