It’s ok. I’m ok.
That’s what I told myself in the week leading up to my annual mammogram and first post-cancer MRI.
It’s what I told Ryan when I declined his offer to drive me to my appointment, then proceeded to back the truck into the 90% open garage door.
It’s what I told the kind receptionist when I showed up with red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
It’s what I told the tech who gently maneuvered me for my mammogram.
It’s what I told the woman who set me up for my MRI.
It’s what I told myself as I took a few shaking, deep breaths to steady myself, waiting for another round of banging, with my chest exposed and braced against a plastic bar, butt in the air, toes threatening to cramp unless I moved.
It’s what I told myself amidst the banging of the MRI machine when I realized tears were leaking out of my tightly shut eyes, snot slowly dripping into the sterile, whiteness of the machine below.
It’s what I told the tech as I bolted from the room, snot smeared down my pink hospital top, eyes averted in shame for not controlling my emotions.
It’s ok. I’m ok.
Sixteen days later, I was headed to my routine oncology appointment. About an hour before I was set to leave, I received a notification from my oncologist’s office patient portal saying I had new test results. I logged in and saw that my MRI and mammogram screening results had been posted.
“On the sagittal reconstruction an ill-defined 1.3 x .9 cm irregular finding, bright on STIR.”
I stared at the screen. Stunned.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
It’s happening. It came back. It’s over.
I can’t breathe.
Somehow, I’m on the floor of my office, curled into a ball, my body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
It’s not ok. I’m not ok.
Luckily, I was headed to my oncologist. My friend Cindy came to hold my hand. The doctor saw the images, not just the report I got. He thinks it’s a shadow. He ordered an ultrasound to be sure. I waited a week for an appointment. I made Ryan drive me; the garage door was appreciative.
The radiologist dug in deep with her wand. She told me it was fine.
It’s ok. I’m ok.
Most of us who have lived through cancer will tell you we’re grateful to be alive. It’s the easy answer. We are grateful.
We don’t tell you about the fear we live with daily. The constant pain. The doubt. The rage. How one sentence uploaded into our patient portal without explanation is the same as a death sentence, logical or not. We don’t explain how accidentally letting our mind wander in the wrong direction can send us into a tailspin of hysteria. How demoralizing it is to not be able to do the things we could do before. How chemo changes you from the inside, even if you look the same to others.
We don’t talk about the sickening in the pit of our stomachs when we learn a total stranger has a new cancer diagnosis. The true terror when it’s someone we love.
It’s ok. We’re ok.
Cancer is a cruel disease that takes so much more than you realize. I don’t remember the last time I was confident in my own skin or felt I could trust my body not to betray me.
Any moment this disease can take everything away. Again.
No one wants to hear about the real reality of living with cancer. I’m all about being positive. I try to do my best every day. I’m resilient. I’m happy. I’m grateful for medicine and science that saved me. I’m alive. I’m breathing.
But even the most resilient still have moments when the bitterness creeps in, forcing us to take stock of all the things we’ve lost along the way. I’m allowed to be angry and scared and ready to fight dirty to survive.
I am NOT grateful for cancer. Don’t ask me to look on the bright side or find a silver lining.
We’re all one test away from losing everything we’ve tried to rebuild. The further I get from my cancer diagnosis, the closer I get to the likelihood of a reoccurrence.
I can’t breathe.
But it’s ok. I’m ok.
It’s what you want to hear.
Sarah Thomas 