The Cake That Saved My Life
On December 19th, my friend Aubrey made this cake for a friend of hers who was having a sort of Happy Birthday/farewell to your boobs party before she had a double mastectomy. She was in her mid-30s and this struck me as cruel, as it tends to when something terrible happens to someone your own age. When Aubrey showed us the picture of the cake the next day, I remember commiserating and grabbing my boobs in a show of solidarity...and feeling something.
I let it go that day, but I woke up the next morning with the cliche nagging feeling and checked it out, just to be sure I was imagining things. But it was there. I wasn't imagining it: a definite lump--hard, like an angry little grape.
It was the Thursday before the start of Christmas vacation and I knew I couldn't get in with the doctor over the holidays. I went online and Google said to wait a few weeks and see if it would go away with natural hormonal fluctuations. So I shelved the worry as much as possible for the holidays. But the lump didn't go away.
I've been seeing the same GP for almost 9 years, and she used to be an amazing and wonderful doctor for all my needs, but ever since she opened a medi-spa on the other half of her clinic, the care has suffered. After an unapologetic medication error by her PA in 2016 sent me into a medical tailspin and eventually up to Boston to find a PCOS specialist, I've been meaning to get another doc. But when you find something like a lump, it just feels like a waste of time to find a new doctor. How bad could she be in this situation?
It was the first full week after the Holidays--the first Monday back in the office--and Aubrey and I were in the copy office alone that day. I think it was mid-morning when I closed the door and explained to her that I had found something, but to not be alarmed by my phone call to the doc, because I was just getting it checked out. The first call was unsuccessful because they were at lunch. I forgot about it for a few hours. Later that afternoon, Aubrey closed the door and made me call again. I somehow got an appointment the next day and scheduled to work from home the next afternoon.
Before I knew it, I was in & out of the doctor's office and was making an appointment for a mammogram & ultrasound that had to happen ASAP. I had to argue with Humana to even make the appointment because they kept telling me I was too young for it and the diagnostic lab wouldn't book me unless Humana approved the procedure. I had to call between the two places about 6 times to convince them that this wasn't a screening procedure, but was rather a diagnostic procedure, and that I was indeed old enough for the procedure. They finally relented.
The mammogram happened that Friday. It wasn't as bad as I feared, but it was the first time I got what a friend would later explain was sad cancer face. After the mammogram, they ushered me over to the ultrasound and the tech took her time going through everything. She paused a lot, took a lot of measurements, left the room to talk with the doctor, came back, took some more measurements, and then said to get dressed. The doc came in; pure sad cancer face. She cautioned that from what she saw, she wanted core needle biopsies done, and then roughly explained the process. All I took away from it was the sad cancer face. Shit, this was serious.
I talked to my friend Aislinn from the parking lot and later that day she sent me the Morticia Addams arrangement from my favorite florist with a "don't panic" card. It was beautiful; the perfect thing. A reminder that I'm so lucky to have the best friends who know me so well.
Several more days of arguments with the insurance getting them to pre-approve the next steps, calling back and forth between the doctor and the diagnostic clinic, more "we faxed it" and "we never got the fax," as I project managed my own healthcare, and the biopsy was finally scheduled for the following Wednesday, 12 full days after the mammogram. Nobody seemed to be lighting the fire under this process, so I started to second-guess the sad cancer face that I had seen.
It was 3pm the Thursday after the mammogram, 6 days before the biopsy, and I was working from home. The dog barked at the mailman, so I checked the mail and there was a letter from Diagnostic Imaging Services. I opened it and it was the radiology report. Scanned it and saw in bold letters "HIGHLY SUGGESTIVE OF MALIGNANCY" and then on page 3, "BI-RADS 5." I promptly Googled BI-RADS 5 and saw >95% change of malignancy on every site I saw. I lost it.
I panic texted Anna and I think I gasp-cried on the phone "I just got a letter and I think I probably have cancer," and she practically flew across town to bring me soup and wine. She talked me down until I was calm enough to take the dog for a walk on the levee, where I made a plan with my friend Eileen on how to handle work and how to tell my parents.
Mom & Dad were as shocked as I was. "What? Breast cancer?" It doesn't run in our family at all. Dad said to come up north ASAP. I told them I wasn't ready to fly away from my life in New Orleans without any hard evidence, so Mom booked a flight and came down here before the biopsy the following Wednesday. I went to sleep and woke up the next morning totally sick with a fever and a snotty cold, and spent the next 2 days in bed Googling all possible worst-case scenarios and how I need to prepare for being a person with cancer. And my doctor never called me with the radiology reports; she left it to the scary letter. The only person to call me before the biopsy was someone from the clinic, making sure I knew that I was expected to pay $400 out of pocket before they would perform the biopsy, and did I still want to confirm my appointment. This just seemed like a weird extortion. Like a 1920s gangster asking for their payout, lest anyone prevent something bad from happening. But I agreed; what choice did I have?
Mom got in Tuesday night. Biopsy was Wednesday (and was super violent) and then they said I'd have results Friday or Monday. Friday morning I woke up thinking "is this the day I find out I have cancer?" It wasn't. Neither was Monday. It was just days and days of feeling on the edge of disaster while also feeling like maybe I was just being super melodramatic, like this was all going to turn out to be nothing but a bunch of wasted personal days from work.
Mom & I tried to pretend it was like a fun vacation weekend Mom visit. We had King Cake and went to fun restaurants and did fun Mom & Kate things, despite the fact that I was recovering from the biopsy and had a Frankenboob. I met with the architect and finally saw the plans for the renovation I'm about to start on my house. I got excited about blueprints and possibilities and how awesome it'll look, and what I'd change before we got to the final version. I started to get estimates with the new drawings, just like normal life was going to keep happening.
At 9:31 am on Tuesday morning I was alone, working from home, when I got the call. It lasted 6 minutes and changed everything.
It was cancer. I had cancer. I have cancer.
I heard the words "invasive" and "grade 2" and that they were sending things out for more testing. I took notes. I hung up. My friend checked in with me at that exact second. This was the exchange:
Full disclosure: I did freak out a little.
Ever since I hung up the phone, it's been a blur of text messages and tears and errands and tests and all the dental work I've been putting off for years, because apparently that has to happen before possible surgery or chemo. I haven't yet really massively freaked out, per se, but I've broken down a lot, mainly when I tell other people. I kind of accidentally told some strangers who were unfortunate enough to be in my path on the day that I found out, like the shuttle driver from the dealership when I dropped my car off and had to get a rental. I cried in her van and she took me under her wing when Hertz didn't have a car for me and I was standing in their lobby, looking out the front window in tears, paralyzed, just repeating to myself "I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do now."
She saw me there and came back and got me, asked if I needed help, and I said I did. She ushered me to Enterprise and told me she was going to call her pastor and add me to the prayer list, and that made me cry even more. But she was the savior of the day. She caught me when my mental-emotional Turing machine came to HALT, and was able to redirect me to get me back to moving forward. Shark-mode. Don't stop moving forward or you'll float. She prevented me from going belly-up in the water. I'll never forget her random kindness.
I've been astounded at the responses different people have had, the support that's been offered, the varying reactions, from sadness to fear to anger. I'm humbled, even though I know that's a total cliche. I'm terrible about asking for help or accepting it when it's offered, so when Aubrey showed up at my house on Wednesday afternoon with an armload of well-wishes and cards and delightfully irreverent flowers from friends at work (purple "to match your tit"), and with my very own low-carb Fuck This Shit cake, I was genuinely moved, and in a way I felt my armor was reinforced for this whole thing. I have a whole ton of awesome people on my side to help me through this process.
It's going to SUCK. I know that. But at least I have the kind of friends that make jokes about zombie boobs and make me a Fuck This Shit cake.
This entry was meant to be more profound. It's not. It's just a catalog of what happened these first few weeks. But I guess that's the reality now.
On Tuesday I fly to Boston, and by the end of the week I'll know what stage my cancer is, and I'll have a treatment plan. I'll know if it's chemo or radiation or both, and how much of my original rack will be left after the surgery, if any. And I'll know whether I can convince the doc to give me a little bit of a boob lift if they're going to be getting in there anyway. Can't hurt to ask, right?
So for now, it's just patience, soft foods because of the stupid dental work I had done, humor, tissues, and an occasional piece of delicious Fuck This Shit cake.