We go to the Cancer Support Community, as Evelyn directed, as Robert insisted. He has to go with me. I cannot do this alone. We meet with several interns there who provide us with a brief tour before we are taken to a room to learn about the center, how they are funded, what services they provide, and for them to learn about us. I feel small. I feel insignificant. I feel lost. I can do this. I feel lost…
There are three of us with cancer: a gentleman with bladder cancer and only one kidney, and his wife, who I can tell is desperate to have something to cling to. A young woman who almost died of Leukemia is waiting for a bone marrow match. And me, the one with the aggressive, triple-negative breast cancer.
There is another person in our “Welcome” group; her brother is dying, and she is distraught. Her parents died when she was 7; I gather her brother raised her. And my husband. My black and white, sarcastic, dry-witted, loving husband. The man who thought at a way too early age that he would not live past 50 had a bucket list by age 10 and started working on it by 20. This deep-hearted, compassionate man who hates drama hates dramatic, over-emotional upheavals. Who thinks he cannot benefit from being in a group all sitting around feeling sorry for themselves rather than taking some sort of positive action? I sit next to this man and realize he needs this as much as I do. We must get through this together and with as much help as possible.
As we’re all being handed the paperwork necessary to fill out to continue with placement in a support group, I tell him if I have to join a support group, he does as well. There are three support groups offered, three nights a week. One for spouses/companions, one for newly diagnosed breast cancer patients, and one for other cancer patients. We pick Tuesday nights. We will start next Tuesday. We are shown more of the facility. I am trying to remain calm, to keep the fear-laced anxiety contained. It bubbles up and threatens to consume me. With all my willpower, I push it back yet again. I can do this. I have so many in my life I can call on for support. Oh my God, how is this happening to me….
I have to talk to my family about this. They have been so patient about this. I still have not processed this, this lump, this process; why am I struggling so much? I am still so lost, small, and frightened, and The Lump is so big. How did I miss it for so long? What is WRONG with me? I can do this. I can beat this; who cares if I have no boobs? Who cares if I have fake ones? Will I care? I have fucking CANCER! Breathe… I feel like I’m constantly on the verge of tears.
We finish up at the Cancer Support Community, and because it’s National Ice Cream Cone Day, stop for an Ice Cream Cone. I go back to work. I should be exhausted. Sleep is still not coming to me. Will I still be able to be attractive when this is over?
My husband purchased Pink Die-Cut tape-backed letters and stuck them on the bathroom mirror: Treatable, Curable, Survivable, Temporary. I love him.
Life is big and scary.