The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

Yesterday morning on the way to the hospital, Jeff and I passed a fresly harvested corn field.  Hundreds of blackbirds pecked at the blonde-colored stubble, taking off and landing in waves near our car.

"Well, that's got to be a good sign," Jeff said dryly.

"Vincent!" I smiled. 

Both of us were remembering the following vignette from Akira Kurosawa's Dreams, a favorite film of mine for twenty years.  The famous Japanese director re-created some of his most memorable dreams, and one of them was about being lost in Vincent Van Gogh's paintings (check out Martin Scorsese as V.V.G.).  The technology making this possible was truly amazing at the time, and it always makes me cry.  I showed it to Jeff on the night that he first told me he loved me.

 

We stopped at a red light a few blocks from our destination.  The Jeep ahead of us had a spare tire on its back end at eye level, and I stared at its decorative cover: a large Chicago Bears logo (the raging bear face, not the big C, which would have been a lot more ominous now that I think about it).  I had never really considered what a loose cannon that bear seemed to be, but it did look crazy against the black vinyl background.

"Well, that lunatic bear is obviously another good sign," I said.

"He looks like he's entering a portal to hell."

"Love it."

We followed the bear the rest of the way to the hospital.

Fifteen minutes later, Jeff and I sat in one of the inner-sanctum waiting rooms in the mammography unit, awaiting my appointment.  And may I just say: I am so sick of looking at this waiting room painting.

We were the only people there and thus had control over the television.  Let this be a lesson unto thee: it pays to snag an early morning biopsy.  We flipped over to Bravo.  An episode of The West Wing, one of Jeff's favorite shows, was wrapping up. During our first few months as a married couple, Jeff kind of forced me to watch his many DVDs of The West Wing, whose grandiose theme song I mocked by adding my own lyrics, and I also mocked the name of its composer (W.G. "Snuffy" Walden--whenever I see his name I snuffle/snort).  I particularly hated his music during the end credits, which reminded me of poodles frolicking near the rim of the Grand Canyon.  He's done some great stuff for shows like Friday Night Lights, but I found his West Wing music twinkly, twee, and obnoxious.

 

Anyway, the episode was about whether President Martin Sheen was going to allow a man to be executed, which he did, but then he felt bad about it.  FUN STUFF, and totally apropos as I have come to think of my mammogram odyssey as the stress equivalent of being on trial for capital murder.  My doctors had had a couple of weeks to examine the evidence, and now it was biopsy day, i.e. closing arguments.  I'd then have a few days to wait while the jury decided if I was guilty of cancer or not.  Oh, West Wing.  How you soothed me during those tense moments in the waiting room.

And then it was time to meet new people!  I kissed Jeff and followed an unfamiliar, motherly nurse to an ultrasound room, where another unfamiliar, sisterly nurse bid me a cheery good morning.  Betty and Joanie (not their real names): meet Kelly, apparent love child of Steve Martin and Carol Burnett.  I was suddenly brimming with witty asides and self-effacing humor that lasted throughout the entire procedure.  I'm sure those two women were trained to keep the mood nice and light, but I was genuinely cracking them up with lines like, "I come from a long line of fainters and sweaters--it's a proud family tradition," and (at the end of the procedure, where Joanie was cleaning the brown iodine off my breast) "Oh, I thought that was going to stay on and Jeff would finally get to see what I'd look like with a tan."  At the same time, I was totally honest when answering their chatty questions while they did a preliminary ultrasound. 

"Do you have any kids?" grinned Joanie.

"No. I married Jeff knowing that having a baby wasn't in the cards for us."

[kinda big pause] "Honestly?  I totally envy you.  It's just so hard."

They explained the procedure, and I relayed my anxiety over not wanting to follow in Jeff's late wife Nicole's footsteps.  I also told them about my art.  I think I came across as a Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment type, although I don't want to think about that too much because we all know how that turned out...

 

...either that or a Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias type, although I don't want to think about that too much either because we all know how that turned out. 

 

After about ten minutes of getting-to-know-you-chit-chat, the radiologist appeared.  His name was Dr. Sussman (Appropriate! He susses out the tumors!), and he was all smiles, reminding me of a geekier version of my Dad in his forties.  He immediately put me at ease, explaining that he would be using a vacuum needle, which I was led to believe was the "easy" needle, and the whole thing would be over very, very quickly.  I assumed my arm-over-the-head position and my hand found a metal piece on the end of the table to grab onto.  Dr. S. gave me a shot of lidocaine, which I've never experienced before.  I thought I would have to wait ten minutes to become numb a la novocaine, but this worked instantly and I barely felt it going in.  "Well, that was a walk in the park," I told him. 

It was time for the vacuum needle to do its thing.  I did not want to watch, so I stared at the ceiling, which featured a lovely close-up of Dale Chihuly's glass installation at Las Vegas' Bellagio hotel.  Which I remembered from Top Chef last season.

Call me naive, but I have always had this mental picture of how needles work when they are inserted into a body: the needle enters, and tissues and muscles gently part like the Red Sea as the needle pushes through.  Shocker: they do not do this.  In fact, they want to stay together!  Dr. S. warned me that, "You'll feel some pressure.  We can get rid of the pain, but we can't do anything about the pressure."  That's OK, doc.  Lay it on me.  Let me tell you: the pressure was trembly and intense and hard and WEIRD.  And he had to go deep into my breast to find the problem spot. 

Meanwhile Joanie and Betty were asking me all kinds of rapid-fire, boring questions about teaching, presumably to keep my mind off of something that at the moment was just a whole lot more fascinating in its dreadful way.  That was when I noticed that I had forgotten to breathe.  "I'm feeling faint," I sort of drawled.  Betty was at my side in an instant, putting a damp towel on my forehead and fanning me as I broke into one of my family's trademark flop sweats.  "There, there, this happens to a lot of women."  I stayed awake and everybody cheered me on as I endured the final twenty seconds of cell harvesting.  Dr. S. inserted a speck of titanium into the problem area to mark it forever, and try as I might I cannot find the right way to connect the words "tit" and "titanium" in a hilarious way.  I want to say, "I put the tit in titanium" but it doesn't quite work, does it?  Jeff was absolutely right when he compared the placement of the titanium speck to the deposition of the pharaoh's sarcophagus into one of the Great Pyramids.

I got bandaged up and after a few bonus mammogram images, I was done.  I thanked everybody for being so kind to me, and they wished me well.  I now have several scary days to wait for the results, and I am spending most of that time on the couch, comforted by my cat Bun, who is clearly a psychic healer (see photo at top). 

I think we can all agree that so far I have been a good sport, but I want to say right here, right now, that this is where the charm stops.  Attention, Cancer: I have no intention of becoming one of your Inspirational Cancer Women.  If I have cancer, rest assured that I will be gloomy about it and I will bitch and I will not wear pink sweatshirts emblazoned with ribbons.  I have every intention of  continuing my award-winning role as Artistic Woman Finally Happy After 17 Years Of Public Service And Loneliness. 

"It's the part I was born to play, baby!" --Troy Mc Clure, re: his role as the human in the Planet of the Apes musical.

Thanks to all of you for your kind words a couple of days ago.  They meant so much to me, whether they came from relatives, friends, internet pals, or complete strangers reading my blog for the first time.  I felt like I was in the middle of an ever-expanding huddle of positivity, and I needed that.

Comments

[GinaE]

I waiting with you, Kelly. I had to go through it too and it is so hard, this waiting. I'm thinking of you daily and so glad you have Jeff. I know Bun IS a healer, because my cats and dogs also got me through the waiting. Super Big HUG to you!!!!

[Tassoula]

You are still in that bubble of positivity, Kelly. We're thinking of you!

[bj]

Kelly, just a thought, my OBGYN told me years ago that women w/ dense breasts (I am in that club too) just tend to develop areas of "density" (not the word he used but I can't remember it just now). (Caveat, we also don't sag! ;-) Glad your docs are not being cavalier though and jumping right on it, so to speak.

Furthermore w/ that attitude nothing negative stands a chance w/ you! Brava!!! And remember, of all your parts, it's your heart that is the painter. And that's looking mighty fine!

Once again, prayers to you.

[Sara Poskas]

Kelly, you rock. I fainted after over an hour of prodding around in my breast. Please know I follow your story and I am with you!

[Carolyn]

I found you through your sister and your beautiful art, dry sense of humor, and quick wit always make me smile! Your lil troublemakers are in my thoughts and prayers. During the "Not Knowing" part, feel free to cry it out, scream, whatever, as long as you get it out. I'll be hoping for a clean bill of health soon!

[Alison]

I often want to believe, in every mammography or ultrasound that I have, that if Cancer strikes my boobs that I will be the picture of positivity and pink ribbons. But I think you're right in so many ways, and it's right to be gloomy about it. At points.

You are still surrounded by positivity even at your gloomiest!

the not knowing is TRULY the hardest part, I think!

[Erin]

Praying for a happy result and some peace of mind. :)

[Elizabeth Mackey]

Virtual hug to you both, and still hoping with you that all turns out well.

[Nik]

Hi Kelly,

I have been reading your blog for a while now (I stumbled upon it after watching your sister Emily on YouTube) and I must say I am so sorry for what you are going through right now. It's crazy how things can happen so fast.

I hate to ask this now, but I've been reading your blog for quite some time and you have mentioned on numerous occasions that 'children were not in the cards'. Have you ever blogged about why this is or is it just something not for the blog world?

I hope you feel better and be brave :)

[The Beautiful Kind]

I have a fiery Latina girlfriend who had a lump in her breast. She told the doctors, "That is NOT MINE. I DON'T WANT IT. IT HAS TO LEAVE MY BODY NOW." Six weeks of praying and positive thinking later, she went back to the doctor for another test. It was gone. They were shocked. She was not.