I've always had a theory that we all have a calling by God. A unique and individual calling. And if we somehow in life find that calling, we will be fulfilling our potential to the maximum and bringing some kind of glory to the universe. Haven't you ever met someone who just sort of "glowed" when they did what they did best? Not sure if that explains it right, but let's see if this does.
First there are the idiots. Before my second biopsy I sat down with the technician to look at the most recent mammograms. She was a middle aged woman about forty-five with too-early wrinkled skin, I suspected from smoking. She sat in a rather slouched over manner and always seemed to have a look of annoyance on her face. Her voice was dead-pan and completely lifeless. In the theater business we would say she was "phoning it in."
She pointed out the new calcification they would be testing that morning on the right side. Then on a whim she took out the pictures of the left side, the one we already knew held cancer. She turned the computer screen so I could see and she pointed to a dense area of white specks and said "That's your tumor." Then I noticed that the white specks stretched beyond what looked like the most dense area. I also noticed that at the bottom of the screen was a little ruler with the letters "cm" at the end of it.
"They told me it was 1.4 cm." I said looking for assurance.
"Yeah?" She replied. "huh. Well it looks like your calcification stretches all the way over here."
"Well is that ruler on the bottom right? That would mean the tumor is over 5cm."
"Yeah. You're right. I don't know why they told you 1.4. From what I can see it measures about. . . 5.5cm"
"What?!?"
I had been holding on to the hope that I was reading the darn thing wrong, because I didn't understand it, but here she was confirming my worst fears. The difference between 1.4 and 5.5 was the difference between Stage 1 and Stage 4. It was the difference between lumpectomy and mastectomy.
"But - that's a huge difference!"
"Yeah I know" she said nonchalantly.
My eyes began to swell up.
"But that's the difference between Stage 1 and Stage 4!"
"Oh is it?" She sipped on her coffee.
I began to sob convulsively. But still she persisted.
"Well I'm sorry but I don't know why they told you that. All I can tell you is what I see here and it's clearly bigger than 5cm."
I started shaking between sobs. But still she persisted.
"I mean did they tell you that on the pathology report?"
I looked confused. "What's a pathology report?"
She rolled her eyes.
"You didn't get a pathology report?"
"I don't know! I don't know what you're talking about!"
Sobbing, massive sobbing, shaking, tears pouring down. I reached for the box of Kleenex on her desk. Apparently a lot of people cry in here. . . .why else would there be Kleenex? Still she persisted.
"Well look, how did you find out it was cancer?"
"They sent a sheet of paper to my OB. Here-" I reached trembling into what I have come to call my "cancer bag" and grabbed the binder with all the various paperwork. Frantically I flipped through the mass of receipts, letters, and information sheets to find that original scrap of paper. That original "You have breast cancer." Maybe if I could just see it in writing, it still wouldn't be as bad as all that. If I could just find that stupid piece of paper. What was all this stuff? Where IS IT?!?!?
Finally I found it. "Here!" I basically threw it across the desk at the woman who was looking at me as though sedated over the rim of her cup.
"Well this is the report. I guess you should trust what they tell you."
"What do you mean?!" What DID she mean? Should we ever NOT trust a report? Do they make huge 4cm mistakes all the time???
"Look I'm sorry but all I can tell you is what I see here, and that is that the tumor is, well over 5cm. See - look at it yourself."
"I don't need to look at it myself!" More tears, another Kleenex. Another sip of coffee and a lean back in her swivel chair. Then finally a moment of revelation. Maybe, just maybe she should shut up because she didn't know what she was talking about.
"Well, you know, you should really trust the pathology report. I mean, they understand these things better than me. I think you can just trust your pathology report."
Then the doctor, by the Grace of God, finally walked in. He took a look at the situation, saw his frantic patient convulsively sobbing minutes before surgery and asked what was going on. In less than a minute he confirmed the "pathology report" and reassured me that just because we see calcification elsewhere in the breast doesn't mean they are cancer or a part of the tumor.
Idiot.
Then there are the prodigies.
The day I went in for my PET scan I was greeted at the door by the smiling face of a man I like to call Wayne. That wasn't his name, but he reminded me of Wayne Brady from the TV show "Whose Line is it Anyway:" African American, semi-short, good shape, bouncy full of energy and very chipper. Right away I knew, even if subconsciously amidst the thick cloud of fear that enveloped me, that around this man there was a "glow." I tried to ignore it and proceed with my horror.
Now a PET scan is not a fun thing for a number of reasons. First of all they put you in a tube that's rather enclosed. My doctor had given me a pill to take to calm me down for the scan since I am claustrophobic, but I stupidly looked at the scanner from the outside and said "I don't need the pill." Later when they started rolling me into the tube my whole body started screaming, "I should've taken the %$*# pill!!"
Another reason a PET scan isn't fun is they inject you with something they like to call "radioactive material." Yummy. For someone who has always been such a health-freak she wouldn't drink soda, the thought of this glowing green smoothie going into my veins was just a joy-ride.
Lastly, the PET scan results can save or condemn you. It basically tells you if the cancer has spread to other organs in your body. A clear PET scan is a whoo-hoo! A positive PET scan is a call to the funeral home. Basically a PET scan is a scary scary thing.
"Hey how you doing to day?" He chirped as he bounced up to me in the waiting room. I had been told to strip down and put on a hospital johnny. "Don't you just love those johnny gowns? " Sarcastically with a grin.
"I'm cold."
"Alright well I'll take care of that for you - you just come back here and follow me, it's much warmer where you'll be waiting, and I'll get you a nice warm blanket too."
Wayne almost skipped down the hall. I was at first annoyed by it. Didn't he know this was a serious place? Didn't he know that the results of today could determine the rest of my life? Shouldn't he be more subdued?
As he prepped me for my procedure he talked gaily about things like they were nothing. Everything I was doing today was no big deal, piece of cake. He asked me about myself and got me talking to him. I caught myself laughing a couple times reluctantly. He found out I'd met my husband on EHarmony and expressed with enthusiasm a desire to know all the details of our matching experience. Of course everyone loves to tell their love story. We shared our philosophies about romantic love and expressed our mutual life-contentedness at having a partner with whom we were so in love. He told me his love story.
At some point during all this sharing and talking he had put the IV into my arm. There was no fidgeting or searching around for a vein like their usually is. No plucking or pricking or tapping my arms and looking at my veins with a deep concern that "there might be a problem." The darn thing just went in and that was it. Less than a second. It was so easy and smooth and he hadn't even stopped talking that I was surprised that it had happened. I looked at my arm and realized there was an IV in it and I said "How'd you do that?"
"What that?" He pointed at it and laughed. "The -uh- IV?" More laughter. He actually buckled over.
"No I'm serious - everybody always tells me I've got small veins - it's usually such a torment."
"Nothin' wrong with your veins. You've got a good vein right there. Whoever told you that's a bunch of idiots." (Interesting choice of word).
"Huh- you just like, put it in."
He laughed again. "Well what'd you expect me to do?"
"Well a lot of people like to go fishing in there." More laughter.
"Yeah well - you flinched a little when I put it in, I could tell you must've had some bad experience or something."
I had flinched?? I had flinched??? Surely I know when I flinch. I haven't lost all sense of body awareness yet. And besides, I'm the one who's flinching here- shouldn't I notice it before he does? And did he even stop for a second when I did? I didn't notice him noticing me flinching. I didn't notice squat.
I flinched??
He gave me some magazines told me they were all terrible and left me to absorb the radioactive material into my bloodstream. He checked on me every couple minutes. How was was I doin? Dd I want another blanket? Was I warm enough? Would I like some juice or a snack or something? Did I need him to just come in an sit and chat - cause he could do that if I wanted him too. . .
Then the scan and that terrible moment of panic as they rolled me in. Wayne kept talking to me from the outside for the first couple minutes.
"Are you alright? You sure? I can wheel you out now if you need it."
My whole body was screaming in terror, I forced myself to keep my eyes closed the whole time and prayed and tried to visualize myself somewhere else.
"I can stay right here and talk to you if you need me to. I'm fine with that."
I let him go. Somehow I thought I needed to put all my focus on keeping myself calm.
Regardless he came in a couple times to "check on me."
"Do you like music - I've got music I can turn on if you think that will help."
"uh- yeah I guess that would help."
"What kind you like?" I've got Satellite Radio - I can get you anything you want."
"Uh I guess, Classical?"
"Okay you got it."
I couldn't see him but I swear I heard him bounce over to the far side of the room and then suddenly there was music (which in a cruel sick twisted sense of fate happened to be John Williams theme music from the movie Superman. Talk about surreal.)
At the end of my test Wayne guided me to the exit and finished our conversations. I actually felt like my day was better for having come here that day. I felt like MY DAY WAS BETTER FOR HAVING HAD A PET SCAN.
Prodigy.
I think everyone should try to find their gift. That job that they were meant to do - and never settle for the one you know - or that's convenient, or safe, or just a paycheck. Everyone should keep looking - their whole lives even. Because even if Wayne became a PET scan technician two days before he died. . . they would have been a great two days, and made somebody's tip through cancer a lot better.
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