1. Just Keep Dancing
I’ve had my pushes against death and dying; a cervical fracture (in my twenties), a major surgery when I was six months pregnant (in my thirties), a daylong surgery to remove an acoustic neuroma that buddied up to my brainstem (in my forties), and a bout of breast cancer (in my fifties).
My battle with the head tumor was big, scary, and left me with life-changing things to deal with, hearing loss in my left ear, some facial paralysis, never-ending vertigo, and a sense of vulnerability to which I was v.e.r.y. unaccustomed.
My skirmish with cancer, however, was short and to the point. I had a tumor removed, had the sentinel nodes checked, did the radiation, and the oral chemo/hormonal drug for five years. And then in October, 2017, I was sent on my way to imagine the worst was behind me.
I really haven’t thought much about breast cancer and never really considered myself a survivor, maybe because I never really thought I was going to succumb to the disease in the first place. Sure, I was scared when I received the initial diagnosis, and before surgery, and during the first radiation treatment, and during the hospitalization for cellulitis and radiation burns, but I never really had that pit in my stomach — I never thought I wouldn’t survive the experience.
I think part of the reason was because the professionals who deal with breast cancer know their shit — and they know it because there are so many women, too many women, who get the diagnosis and need to get on with it. I remember remarking to my husband, Tim, the man I tongue-in-cheek refer to as Mr. Wonderful, that I got the diagnosis and was immediately put onto the breast-cancer-conveyor-belt: “We’ll do an ultrasound, and a needle biopsy, then there will be surgery, and radiation, and perhaps chemotherapy — all you need to do is show up.”
Perhaps that efficiency, coupled with my showing up for the breast cancer two-step and being sent off with the welcomed pronouncement, “That’s it. You’re five years out. You are a survivor, so off you go, now,” were at the core of my belief that the worst was behind me. Those words lulled me into a state of stupid. Well, that state of ignorance was bliss and it is now over. I now know breast cancer is forever. I now know the crappy cells of this insidious disease are stealth muthafuckers. When you least expect it, they will drag your ass into another dance through Hell.
Sadly, my dance card has been filled with a partner, metastatic breast cancer of the bones. I do not want to go for another dance with this disease. Sadly, it doesn’t matter what I want. What does matter is this disease has claimed me as its partner by taking residence in my bones. Lots of bones. Important bones: my skull, my cervical, thoracic, and lumbar spine, and in my pelvis, and my hips, and my femurs, and for shits and giggles, a few of my ribs.
As I write this, I do not know if my organs are already part of my new cancer dance. While I wait to see what two-step I’m doing, I’ll hang out with my family and friends, and then I will reluctantly move across the dance floor.