Big C, Take 2 – Cancer Round 2

Stops One to Three

After the initial shock of the Big C, take 2 diagnosis, I moved into the no man’s land where time is not your own.  It’s cancer land.  Now doctors and receptionists decided where and when my appointments will be taking place.  It’s the hurry up and wait phase of the breast cancer journey.  I hate that phrase “breast cancer journey”, but it makes for nice titles.

First stop – The Specialist

My first stop was Dr. S, the breast cancer specialist.  “Fill in this form and have a seat.”

After spending a lifetime in the waiting room, wasband and I were ushered into a closet where I was told to take my top and bra off, a request I’d get used to. When Dr. S. came in, she examined me and then told me to put my clothes back on.  This was an act I’d repeat too many times to count in the next few months.

Dr. S. then handed me a huge plastic portfolio filled with books and pamphlets on everything you wanted (or didn’t want) to know about breast cancer, the treatments and the many ways you may be disfigured.

The Procedure

She began our conversation by asking me if I wanted both breasts cut off.  I was completely shocked!  “I thought it was just stage 0, is that really necessary?” I stammered.  “Well, some women go for it in order to remove the chance of getting it again,” Dr. S casually said.  “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” I said, my voice going up into the hysterical octave where it would stay for the foreseeable future.

Wasband could see that I was shutting down and started asking all the questions I was incapable of asking:  What about the operation, recovery time, post op treatment.  “When will the operation take place?” He asked.  “We’ll call you when there is space available.” Dr. S advised.

After that I don’t remember much.  In the car I opened up the huge portfolio and leafed through the overwhelming amount of information.  The book was particularly bad.  All the worst case scenarios.  Even though the tone was supposed to be reassuring, it just made me want to curl up in a corner and whimper.

It was a bright, sunny March day but I was cold and in a dark fog bank.

Next Stop – Fortifying the Ramparts

When I finally emerged from the fog bank, I realized I was going to need some serious back bone to get through the operation and beyond.  My time was no longer my own.  I was at the mercy of the BC cancer system and I was being herded into the cancer cattle pen whether I liked it or not.

Physical Labour

I decided I’d have to get out of my head and focus on my physical being for a while.  My good friend and trainer, Agent R, was great.  We worked out 3 times a week, waiting for my operation date.  He kept me laughing and sweating hard.  He patiently listened as I talked about cancer, how I was feeling, offered reassurance and just kept pushing me.  His support helped tremendously.

The BC Cancer agency portfolio was put on the shelf and I began looking for alternative advice.

Research

My neighbour, J, gave me a book written by her friend who also went through the cancer wringer.  This person’s journey was painful and angry.  I read the entire book and realized that this was not the way I was going to survive it.  I read about the New German Medicine around cancer.  I researched alternative treatments that had positive outcomes:  Dr. J. Budwig, Dr. Bruess.

Cancer Buddy

I also received a call from a lovely lady, C, who was to be my cancer buddy.  She was a good 15 years older than myself and had been cancer free all that time.  She had a calm and reassuring voice and she began by telling me her story.  Her bout had been hard but she had survived.  She chose to see getting cancer as a way of re-evaluating her life and priorities.  She took a step by step approach to dealing with the treatments, the effects and then putting her life together afterwards.  C had also explored alternative treatments, both physical and mental.  Her insights were very reassuring.

Stop 3 – Human Cruelty

I was part of the well oiled cancer system which had a prescribed path.  Part of the system entailed hopping through a few hoops before the operation.  One was an MRI.

“Are you claustrophobic,” The technician casually asked.  “No, not generally. Unless you’re putting me in a sleeping bag and sitting on me, I’m pretty good with tight places,” I answered.  The technician didn’t even look up, “Put this on and wait.”  Man, that was a phrase I was starting to hate.  “Oh, and fill in this form.”  Something I was going to get extremely good at over the course of the next year.

So I waited, and waited and waited.  Finally a little boy came out of the machine room, followed by his mom.  The poor little guy was red-eyed.  That should have been my first clue.

Finally I was ushered in.  As with any room at the cancer agency, it was an overcooked salmon pink with absolutely no comforting things in it.  It was as drab and grey as I had felt after seeing the specialist.

The Machine 

In the centre of the room was a huge machine that looked like a giant, solid donut with a bed that slid into the hole.  The technician glanced at my form on her clip board.  She began to briefly describe what was going to happen:  lie on the bed, slide into machine, hold still, lots of pinging and banging, over in 10 minutes.

I lay on the bed.  The technician began to lower giant metal clamps across my chest, clamps big enough to hold Frankenstein.  Then she clamped a metal collar across my neck.  I was completely immobile.  I could feel the panic starting.  I practiced my Quigong breathing.  “You can do this, you can do this,” I repeated to myself.

“Alright, we are going to put you in now. You may want to close your eyes.”  I did and felt the bed move as I was slide inside the donut hole.  It took everything in me not to hyperventilate.  It was hard to breathe in there.  I took a deep breath and breathed out through my nose.  The force of the air coming out of my nose was bouncing right back in my face.  My eyes flew open.  The inside of the donut was a mere centimeter or two above my nose.  It was my worst nightmare.  I was in a coffin being buried alive.  The top of the coffin a mere space of a breath away from me!

Just then the machine fired up and the banging started.  There was no stopping the panic.  “GET ME OUT OF HERE!  I shouted over and over.  It seemed like forever before I was free of the machine’s grip.

Running Scared!

I must have looked hysterical because the technician was saying, “Please stay calm, you’ll be free in a minute!”  Finally, the metal clamps were off.  I sat bolt upright and immediately began to cry.  “That was the cruelest thing anyone has ever done to me!” I said to the technician, my voice in definite hysterical range.  “Well we could have given you some sedatives to calm you down,” she said, rather miffed.  Visions of the final scene in Go Ask Alice in the closet came to mind.  “Yeah right, that would have helped,” I mumbled.  “I wish you had said you were claustrophobic.  Someone else could have had your slot,” the technician said indignantly.  Now I was mad.   “I’m not claustrophobic but no one said that I was going to be clamped down with metal brackets and shoved into a miniscule torpedo tube with next to no air!”  I shouted.  I bolted past her, got dressed and was back in my car in the cancer clinic’s parking lot within 8 minutes.   Naturally I cried.   Who needs torture when you have MRIs.

Soon – Stops 4 and 5!