LUMPECTOMY FOR BEGINNERS - The other F word

My friend was right.  It is a shock to hear the word cancer on the phone or in the doctor's office. My supportive neighbor says I'm handling it well.  I don't talk about fear -- but now I'm thinking about it

Learning about the steriotactic biopsy was Fear and resistance - the procedure sounded barbaric to me. And yet it went well and I had a good time at the hospital.

And I was able to compartmentalize about the lumpectomy.  I trusted the surgeon, and after all, I've had plenty of successful experience with surgery.  I didn't even feel fear beforehand.  Maybe the doctor's telling me he had said a prayer was a help.

Then the post-op two-week appointment!.  (The surgeon had told me when we met that he would recommend I see a radiation oncologist and a medical oncologist.)  I read the pathology report again, more thoroughly.  Nothing on the report, as I've mentioned, gave me any hope of avoiding radiation.  So after we talked a little about the incision and the size of the specimen, he gave me the paper with the oncologists' contact information, and his reasons for choosing them.  

 I went home and put the contact information sheet in a red file.  I talked with my neighbor, I blogged about when to call the radiation doctor's number.  I reminded myself that she couldn't make me do anything I don't want to do.

I focused my research, still a lot of it from Mayo Clinic, on radiation.  I read other women's stories, and I felt Fear.  I made a list of my radiation concerns and felt FEAR.  I quoted some things, and felt FEAR.   I included a list of medical conditions I already have, and the one thing I've shared with friends:  how many x-rays I've had.  

I copied statistics from Sloan Kettering on how much longer I would be free of cancer if I had radiation and certain long-term meds.  They were compelling.  But . . .

There is a pattern here:

 In spite of having lost a best friend to cancer, I'm obviously more afraid of the treatment than I am of getting more cancer.  Or is the Fear of cancer buried so deep that I don't feel it, and so huge, that I don't dare feel it?

LUMPECTOMY FOR BEGINNERS and Don't leave the locker room without this

There are legions of women my age who know more about sports than I do.  This does not stop me from writing about hoops and pigskin and jocks.   

In the movie Hoosiers, and a million other films and books, the players don't leave the locker room between halves (or whatever) even after an avalanche of abuse, without some bit of encouragement like:
Plow 'em under! (Yes, I"m in Texas) Or Make me Proud!  Get out there and make  HISTORY!   Or Show 'em whatchu got!

The advice I get in hospital locker rooms is usually:  Put the gown on open to the front and go thru the brown door.   This is somewhat inadequate to prepare me for what's behind the brown door,  and leaves WAY too much to my imagination.   

Before I go out the brown door next time, I should have locker room wisdom in my pocket, or hidden in my underpants if necessary.   For instance:  I'm a Healer!   Some of the best moments in life are in the future!  I've got plans!  Or, to be more locker-roomish,  “You gotta play till the ninth inning, man.” * And even  Show 'em whatchu got!

What I got is a surgeon I trust.  What I got is a successful lumpectomy.  What I got is a history including  successful recovery from spine fusion despite postponing too long. (Note to self:  If I agree to more cancer treatment, don't wait too long.)  What I got is the prayer and meditation.

What I got is good-looking, active CHEERLEADERS who lived through what's in this next quarter.  I got them by daring to speak up about DCIS.   And I spoke to these men and women because they didn't keep their own cancer a secret.


I hope what you got is PLANS for your own particular future.  GOALS.  Show "em whatchu got!  


*John Croslin in Austin Kleon,