running through my mind—Should I make a peanut butter or turkey sandwich for Nicholas’s lunch? Should I put green or blue hair ties on Bella’s braids? I need to stop by the grocery store before work. Nicholas has soccer this afternoon.
The mundane thoughts are soothing, welcome, but it still lingers in the background, watching me with cold, unblinking eyes. Waiting.
I try to focus on practicality, the things that need to be done, both in our everyday lives and in this new, freakishly horrifying world in which we’ve found ourselves.
I get through the next few days by reminding myself to breathe and telling myself everything I’m doing. Now I need to pick out Bella’s clothes. Now I’m helping Nicholas brush his teeth. Now I’m taking orders for a Mad Hatter tea party. Now I’m boxing up a dozen chocolate cupcakes.
Only once during my shift at the café do I have to lock myself in the office when an onslaught of tears hits me too fast to stop. At home, I’m able to keep my fear and pain suppressed until nighttime, when I fall against Dean and let myself cry until my throat is raw and I’m exhausted enough to sleep.
I suspect mornings will continue to be especially awful, as I pull myself out of sleep with the vague sense that I’ve just had a dreadful nightmare…and then I remember the nightmare is real.
The nightmare is inside my body.
It’s such an insane thought. I don’t look sick. I certainly don’t feel sick. Just the opposite, in fact. Half the time, I think the diagnosis is some horrible mistake. The pathologist read the samples wrong. Any minute Dr. Nolan will call and tell me it’s really just a benign tumor, nothing to worry about, nothing at all.
Except that she doesn’t.
Instead she calls to tell me what my next “step” will be—surgery—and encourages me to meet with several doctors before choosing a surgeon and an oncologist. We’re forced to wait over the Thanksgiving holiday before scheduling appointments.
Dean and I don’t talk much in the immediate aftermath of the diagnosis. Outwardly, he also focuses on getting things done, but anguish burns in his eyes, and he hovers around me as if he’s a hawk wanting to swoop in and save me.
Just like he always has before.
After spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home, our first meeting is with Dr. Holt, a highly regarded, experienced surgeon who extends his hand to Dean first.
“Pleasure to meet you both,” the doctor says as we sit in front of his desk. “I’ve had a look at your wife’s file and will give you several options as to course of treatment.”
He starts telling us what we already know—the location of the tumor, the need for further testing, the results of the biopsy. Then he explains that while I might be a good candidate for a lumpectomy, which would remove only the tumor and surrounding tissue, he would recommend a mastectomy. The removal of my breast.
I nod, feeling oddly detached from myself. Ever since Dr. Nolan mentioned it as a potential option, my instinctive response has been that yes, I want a mastectomy.
It’s a grueling, painful procedure, an aggressive approach, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is getting this horrible thing out of my body and resuming my life as it was before.
Except that my life will never be as it was before.
Dr. Holt rambles on about the surgery, glancing at Dean as he talks about how reconstructed breasts will look and feel.
“Breasts are important to men too, you know,” the doctor tells me.
I feel Dean tense with irritation.
“What’s important,” he says coldly, “is getting rid of the cancer.”
I put my hand on his arm. His muscles are clenched tight.
“What about the lumpectomy?” I ask the doctor. “Dr. Nolan said that might be an option too.”
“A mastectomy will give you more peace of mind,” Dr. Holt says. “You don’t want to put yourself through the fear of screenings since you’re the kind of woman who will worry. You sure don’t want to put your husband through that.”
Before I can respond past the tightness in my throat, Dean addresses the doctor sharply.
“What do you know about the kind of woman my wife is?”
“Most women worry about screenings,” Dr. Holt replies. “And the survival rate with either surgery is about the same. Of course, if the cancer has spread, the game changes.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s voice slices so fast through the air that Dr. Holt and I both