It's Wednesday morning. My boyfriend's mom is walking around the house, humming to herself, and my puppy is waiting for her to leave, sitting patiently by the door.
I'm also waiting for her to leave, just like I waited for my own mother to leave three days ago. And, after she leaves, I'll wait for my boyfriend to leave for work so that I can finally sit in silence for the first time since Friday.
I'm a relatively solitary person. I normally live alone. I work from home most days. And before I adopted a border terrier from the Humane Society last Monday, I could go days in a row before touching another living, breathing thing.
But that's not my life now, because I have cancer. It's in my left breast and perhaps in other areas of my body too: my armpit, my shoulder, maybe even my femur.
I found out last Friday at the vet, as my new hound, Lily, squealed during her rabies shot and my mom waited in the sitting area. The doctor called, and the vet and her tech probably thought I was rude to answer while Lily cried out on the cold, metal operating table. I didn't leave the room but tried to duck my head down near the seat of my chair, to better avoid their line of vision and, therefore, their judgment.
I was surprised, but the doctor wasn't. As he told me that the biopsy had come back positive, I hoped I hadn't been previously rude to him because I was irritated that he had been treating me like a cancer patient before I even got my results. I had privately bashed him for extorting me for unnecessary tests that already cost more than $600. This is the problem with health care, I told a nurse at the time. Expensive, unnecessary tests.
Talking to him, my head between my legs, trying to pay attention to the important things he was saying, I felt terrible for those comments. I suddenly felt grateful for all those expensive tests and for his serious, quiet demeanor; for his quick action.
More ...
https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2018/08/19/im-coping-with-cancer-by-reporting-on-it-219372
