The doctor coaxes me awake long enough to tell me that the pathology test, done during surgery, showed no malignancy. My brain snaps to attention long enough to register the good news and then slips back into a peaceful slumber till the effects of anesthesia wear off and I can go home.

Three days later, my husband and I are at my post-op visit for the anticipated rubber stamp of good health. We’re feeling extremely grateful that we dodged this bullet!

My doctor walks in, plunks himself in the chair and looks at me with near disbelief in his eyes. “I just got off the phone with the pathologist. After freezing, dying and slicing the excised breast tissue from your surgery, he tells me he has, indeed, found microscopic cancer cells.”

I stop breathing and the celebratory party inside me dies an instant death. Questions percolate but don’t quite make it to the surface. My brain does mental gymnastics trying to make sense of what I’ve just heard…or think I heard…but what does it mean? On some level I hear myself think; ‘microscopic’ cells… good! …Sounds harmless… But the more reasonable part of me screams, they are CANCER cells!!! That can’t be good! My mind is in a haze. I need to have the doctor spell it out for me. “What does that mean?!” I ask him.

If he had been given to sarcasm, he would have replied, “Idiot! What part of cancer do you not understand?!” Instead, with a compassionate look, he delivers the news, “It means you have breast cancer.”

No! Not me! It can’t be!! I’m healthy! I exercise! I don’t smoke, rarely have a drink and I eat quite well! I had my first of three children at 22! I breastfed them, and never took hormones of any kind! Something’s wrong here! This just can’t be!

No matter how loudly my brain protests, the more rational part of me takes over. There is no doubt here! Everything is in slow motion and sharp focus now but feels surreal. Looking for a ray of hope, my brain switches tactics, but they’re ‘microscopic’ so that’s a good thing right? That must mean it’s a mild case, nothing to get too concerned about!

 The next 45 minutes go by in a blur. Parts of the conversation register enough for me to ask clarifying questions, but other parts – information that my husband says the doctor told us that day, I swear I never heard.

We leave with an itinerary of appointments; a CT/PET scan, an MRI, and finally, an Oncologist. These tests will determine if the cancer has spread not only to the other breast but to other parts of my body as well. Unfortunately, the MRI cannot be performed until two weeks post surgery. Once performed, we must wait a few days for the results. We guess that we won’t know with any certainly for another few weeks. As we drive away, I expect at any moment I will jerk myself awake out of this bad dream that cannot be real. But I don’t… and it is.

In those first couple of hours, I realize that our lives have drastically changed; that life as we knew it is no longer. I feel awash at sea. I’m desperate to locate the shoreline but feel disoriented and uncertain in which direction to swim. My husband and I embrace and cling to one another trying to sort out everything we’ve just heard. We are in foreign territory and in desperate need for solid, familiar ground. Our life is taking on the sensation of cotton candy caught in an unexpected rainstorm. It’s quickly dissolving and we feel helpless in our ability to keep it from happening….

The clouds part just long enough for me to look inward at the situation from a more objective position. Whenever my life gets shaken up, once I’ve absorbed the initial shock, I retreat to my inner sanctum, my core. This allows me to look at the situation as an observer of my life, rather than from within the midst of the turmoil. It’s like watching the washing machine going through the spin cycle versus being inside it, spinning out of control.

From this place, I realize that it would be so easy to let fear and panic take hold, and allow the “what ifs” to dominate. But in that same moment, I also realize that the choice is mine as to how I will internalize this diagnosis. It is the only thing I am really in control of at the moment. I ask myself: Do I want to feel doom and gloom? Do I want to spend the next several days/weeks/months in the grip of depression or ‘woe is me’ frame of mind? Furthermore, will it help my situation any to mope and to live in fear? From the depths of my being, the answer is a resounding NO! I want no part of this scenario!

If I am happiest when living from loving intention, I reason, I cannot allow fear to take over. Fear clouds my judgment, robs me, as well as those around me, of joy. It disconnects me from my heart and soul, my center, my God. I feel a certain sense of responsibility not only to myself but also to my husband and family. I know that I want to learn and grow from this tough situation and also normalize it as best I can for all concerned.

In this moment, I decide to live in what Dale Carnegie calls, “day-tight compartments.” One day at a time will serve me best. I do not want to borrow trouble from tomorrow; I only want to live in the present! Without denying the uncertainty that I feel, I commit to marching forward in an effort to live each day to its fullest. I tell myself, I don’t know anything yet. There’s a very real possibility that I will survive this. However, if I discover that I have only a small number of days left, I do not want to squander them in self-pity. I want to live each to the max, making the most of every moment.

 It’s been almost two hours since my appointment and my family has been waiting to hear. My sister, worried that I’ve gotten bad news, sends a text message, asking me if we are still with the doctor. I know I must make the calls. Even in my current state of bewilderment, I am aware that ‘how’ I frame this will make a huge difference in what they hear and how they will feel. I want them on the same page as I am on.

I take a steadying breath. I call each one in turn and hear my voice crack a bit in the delivery. It is never the news anyone wants to deliver or hear, especially when the reality of it hasn’t sunk in yet. Even though I’ve known for a couple hours, it still resembles a bad dream. When they ask me how I feel, it’s clear they’re asking how I’m feeling emotionally. Careful to avoid sending us all into a state of despair, which would serve no one, I tell them I feel great physically and that is what I am choosing to focus on; that I’m taking it one day at a time. I’m not sure what they make of this but I am determined to avoid getting sucked into a downward spiral of no return.

The first few days of unsettling news are always the most challenging so I know this will be no different. I wake frequently that first night and ask myself if I’ve just been having a bad dream, but even as I search my foggy brain for the answer, the rock-like feeling in the pit of my stomach verifies that it is indeed reality and not merely a dream.

Morning comes early with plans to meet a friend for an event. While she assures me she would understand if I want to back out, my gut tells me it’s in my best interest to do things as I would without the diagnosis. I tell her, “I refuse to behave like I’m sick before I actually am. Let’s get going!”

As I immerse myself in the day’s activities, there are stretches of time that I enjoy myself so completely, I forget about cancer. Then I have brief moments of remembrance. A wave comes crashing down on me, soaking me with the feelings of fear and uncertainty, with thoughts of what if… and my eyes are temporarily blinded with tears. I again reassure myself… I don’t know anything yet. There’s a very real possibility that I will survive this. However, if I discover that I have only a small number of days left, I do not want to squander them in self-pity. I want to live each to the max, making the most of every moment.

This chant helps me make it through the first day. After I return from running errands by myself the evening of the second day, I back into my carport space. As I turn off the engine, I am overcome by a wave of sadness. I sit in the cover of darkness and allow myself to experience the fullness of my feelings as I sit there and cry. Thoughts of my husband, children, grandchildren and the rest of my family float across my field of vision and my heart breaks at the thought… the possibility…that I may not be a part of their lives at some point in the near future. While I made peace with death a long time ago, I think to myself, I didn’t consider all the wonderful moments I’d be missing. Again, I remind myself that I don’t know anything yet and I vow not to take any of these precious moments for granted. I pull myself together and go inside.

Over the next few days, my husband and I have some great conversations about what we are experiencing. We each have moments when we are overcome with feelings of worry, fear, grief and sadness but, fortunately, we don’t seem to experience them at the same time. One of us is usually in a better place and is there for the other. There are always good things that come out of every challenge and this one has brought us closer and made us more attentive to one another.

We make it through the first week and surprisingly, we’re getting used to living in this space of not knowing… one day at a time. It heightens our awareness as well as our appreciation for all things good and beautiful, of which there are many!

After the CT/PET scan, we try to occupy our down time, hoping the four-day wait will go by faster. This is the test that will tell us if the cancer has spread to other parts of my body. The doctor’s nurse is quick to call us immediately after the results come in, a full day and half ahead of schedule. As luck would have it, I forget my phone in the car and miss the call. By the time I realize my phone is missing and retrieve it, I see a voicemail that was left three hours earlier! Ugh! We could have known three hours sooner!

We listen, hungry for news. We hear, “Other than the original site, there is no evidence of metastasis.” It has not spread to other organs! I slump in relief as my breath leaves my body in a rush of air I didn’t realize I was holding. My husband and I embrace, do a happy dance and go out to dinner to celebrate. We are not home free yet, I still need to get an MRI to make sure the other breast is not involved but we are so grateful for this good news! Alleluia! Several days later, on Friday, I have the MRI. We’re in the doctor’s office to review the results the following Monday morning.

It seems good news must always be tempered with not-so-good news. While the cancer does not appear to have spread, clear margins were not established with the last surgery so I need a second excision surgery to attempt it again. At that time, my lymph system will be checked for cancer as well. We feel cautiously optimistic, as we appear to be moving in the right direction!

~Zanne

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