<\/p>\n
Two years ago, my life took a left turn.
\nThe phone rang.
\nThe biopsy was positive.
\nI had breast cancer.<\/p>\n
I am not alone. Look around any Starbucks. Chances are every eighth woman in line will get that call eventually. Twelve-percent of American women are diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in their lives. How many women are you friends with on Facebook?<\/p>\n
I\u2019m luckier than most. My cancer was caught early. I was treated at Memorial Sloan Kettering. I literally had some of the best care in the world. And because of recent advances in genetic testing, I didn\u2019t have to go through chemo or radiation.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m incredibly grateful.<\/p>\n
And I\u2019m pissed as hell.<\/p>\n
Most of my women friends can do that \u2013have two wildly different emotions at the same time. I\u2019m not sure that many men can. Most of them seem to have a specific emotional bandwidth. My best friend, Liz stage-managed my wedding as she was filing for divorce. She was full of joy for my marriage and devastated by her own, at exactly the same time.<\/p>\n
Before the phone rang that day, I thought I knew where my life was going. I\u2019d been a work-at-home mom for a few years, but I was moving out into the professional world again. My life had led me to the \u201cnonprofit sector\u201d mainly fundraising, management, and grant writing. It made sense. I was moving forward, headed somewhere.<\/p>\n
But then my life slid sideways.<\/p>\n
After the phone call, everything moved quickly, but the time between diagnosis and treatment felt like forever. The weeks revolved around anxiety, doctors\u2019 appointments, and a pretense of normalcy.<\/p>\n
People tell you that \u201cNot knowing is the hardest part.\u201d
\nBut knowing is the hardest part.
\nTreatment is the hardest part.
\nSurgery is the hardest part.
\nRecuperating is the hardest part.
\nFinding your life again is the hardest part.
\nThe hardest part is the part you\u2019re going through.<\/p>\n
Every doctor\u2019s appointment reminds me of how lucky I am.
\nAnd I hate each and every one of them.<\/p>\n
The lobby of the Memorial Sloan Kettering Evelyn Lauder Breast Center on Manhattan\u2019s Upper Eastside is like walking into a really nice business hotel in Cleveland or Dallas or San Diego. There is no shocking pink or sharp smells of illness. Plush sofas and armchairs of forgettable, muted sage and beige invite you in to relax. Carpets hush the clipped footfalls of the nurses. The thermostat is adjusted for the comfort of women experiencing medically induced hot flashes. The rest of us wear sweaters and scarves.<\/p>\n
Even the exam robes are thoughtful designed. Gone are the deposable blue, straightjackets that I always find myself clutching closed, so that my boobs don\u2019t flop out. Instead, Sloan Kettering swaddles you in soft, spa-like, dusty coral, seersucker bathrobes. Every time I put one on, I wonder, \u201cWhose job was it to pick out these robes?\u201d<\/p>\n
Yes, this is as good as it gets. I\u2019m lucky.<\/p>\n
And I hate it.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve been fileted and rearranged. In other words, eight hours of on the operating table for reconstruction by the head of plastic surgery, an artist with a bad bedside manner. He did a great job. They match. I can wear low cut dresses without feeling like a freak. I buy department store bras, no special contraptions needed. Sure, I\u2019ve lost sensation, but that\u2019s to be expected. In fact, I have more feeling than I thought I would have. At my last appointment, he proudly announced to the visiting surgeon trailing him, \u201cThis is as a good as it gets.\u201d<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t have anything to complain about.
\nAnd yet, I\u2019m angry.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m told I\u2019m brave, that I\u2019m a survivor. I\u2019m not sure what is brave about doing something that will let me see my daughter grow up. It\u2019s not like there were any other options in my case. If I hadn\u2019t shown up for surgery, the cancer would have killed me eventually.<\/p>\n
Today, the cancer is gone, but there\u2019s no such thing as cancer-free or remission anymore. I\u2019ll always be a cancer patient.<\/p>\n
I wake up stiff from drug therapy. There are \u201cbeautiful scars\u201d that will never disappear. I may never be able to go back to kickboxing, which I had discovered the year before the phone rang. My daughter will always worry about me and about herself.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m closely watched by some of the best doctors in the world. I have follow-ups with them every four to six months. If there\u2019s even a hint that something might be wrong, I\u2019m whisked off to an ultrasound or an MRI. If the cancer came back they\u2019d catch it.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m lucky. I know I\u2019m going to be OK.
\nAnd every time I walk into that lovely, non-invasive lobby, I want to scream.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
This post is part of the series\u00a0\u00a0<\/em> P.T.A. : Parenting Through the Apocalypse (my occasionally fictional life.)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Two years ago, my life took a left turn. The phone rang. The biopsy was positive. I had breast cancer. I am not alone. Look around any Starbucks. Chances are every eighth woman in line will get that call eventually. Twelve-percent of American women are diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in their […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":496,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[17],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-491","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-parenting-through-the-apocalypse"],"yoast_head":"\n