Saturday, Oct. 9th, 2010
Terri sat on the examination table looking more frightened than I'd ever seen her.
"I'm afraid to have a mastectomy, but I'm afraid NOT to," she whispered hoarsely.
Terri's husband Paul, Deb, Mary and I were crowded closely together in the examination room while Dr. Janet Grange., the kind, attractive breast cancer surgeon, stepped out to retrieve Terri's pathology report.
"Wait for Dr. Grange," I whispered. "She'll help you decide."
It wasn't by accident that we were here. Paul's brother-in-law Steve was a prominent Omaha neurosurgeon, and his wife Shari was a cancer survivor herself. I'd taught them both years ago at the little Catholic high school in Grand Island where all my younger brothers and sisters had attended school, too. Steve and Shari were two of the finest people I knew, and it was because of them that Terri was here.
"All right," Dr. Grange breezed back into the room. She scanned Terri's report quickly and looked up with a confident smile. "You have," she said, "the best kind of breast cancer you possibly could. Congratulations for being so diligent about your yearly mammograms," she said. "You saved your life."
We all heaved a collective sigh of relief - all but Terri who still sat tensely with that hunted look.
"Because your cancer is so early," Dr. Grange. tried to reassure her, "you're an excellent candidate for a lumpectomy with radiation. I see," she bent over the report again, "that your mother had breast cancer?"
She looked up with a question.
"She did," Terri said. "She died when we were young."
"Oh," Dr. Grange studied Terri's face. "Well, now it seems we may be talking about something else. Young women who watch their mothers die of breast cancer sometimes have emotional issues with a simple lumpectomy. How are you feeling about it?"
My sisters and I stared at each other. Nobody had ever told us that our irrational fears about Mom's death might not possibly be so irrational after all. Every yearly screening was torture. As soon as we set the appointments for our mammograms, the dark clouds settled above and followed us morning, noon and night.
"People tell me all the time how much they look forward to summer," Terri said flatly. "I hate summer. Summer means my mammogram." Now she drew a long, shaky breath. "I'm thinking about a double mastectomy," she said to Dr. Grange.
For the better part of an hour, we listened and asked intent questions. And afterwards, on the way home in the car, Deb asked the question. "What do you think, Ter?"
Paul, who was driving, glanced at Terri sideways. "I think she's made her decision."
Terri nodded. "I'm having the mastectomy."
Just like that, we all felt better. A plan was in motion, and Terri would defeat this thing that held us all hostage.
We talked over the possiblities of reconstructive surgery at Arby's over lunch. For some reason, Terri was remembering the odd man who had been their next door neighbor when their oldest children were young. She and Paul had gone to great lengths to keep their kids away from him. He'd plastered pictures of bare-breasted women all over the walls of his house which could be seen from the outside windows.
"Maybe I'll go back after my reconstructive surgery to pay him a visit," Terri joked. " 'Wanna take a picture of these, Buddy?' " With a drunken leer, she pretended to rip open her shirt. " 'Don't have my nipples yet, but they're on the way!' "
We screamed with laughter. Terri's wicked humor had been locked up for a long time, it seemed to us.
It was good to have her back.
Terri sat on the examination table looking more frightened than I'd ever seen her.
"I'm afraid to have a mastectomy, but I'm afraid NOT to," she whispered hoarsely.
Terri's husband Paul, Deb, Mary and I were crowded closely together in the examination room while Dr. Janet Grange., the kind, attractive breast cancer surgeon, stepped out to retrieve Terri's pathology report.
"Wait for Dr. Grange," I whispered. "She'll help you decide."
It wasn't by accident that we were here. Paul's brother-in-law Steve was a prominent Omaha neurosurgeon, and his wife Shari was a cancer survivor herself. I'd taught them both years ago at the little Catholic high school in Grand Island where all my younger brothers and sisters had attended school, too. Steve and Shari were two of the finest people I knew, and it was because of them that Terri was here.
"All right," Dr. Grange breezed back into the room. She scanned Terri's report quickly and looked up with a confident smile. "You have," she said, "the best kind of breast cancer you possibly could. Congratulations for being so diligent about your yearly mammograms," she said. "You saved your life."
We all heaved a collective sigh of relief - all but Terri who still sat tensely with that hunted look.
"Because your cancer is so early," Dr. Grange. tried to reassure her, "you're an excellent candidate for a lumpectomy with radiation. I see," she bent over the report again, "that your mother had breast cancer?"
She looked up with a question.
"She did," Terri said. "She died when we were young."
"Oh," Dr. Grange studied Terri's face. "Well, now it seems we may be talking about something else. Young women who watch their mothers die of breast cancer sometimes have emotional issues with a simple lumpectomy. How are you feeling about it?"
My sisters and I stared at each other. Nobody had ever told us that our irrational fears about Mom's death might not possibly be so irrational after all. Every yearly screening was torture. As soon as we set the appointments for our mammograms, the dark clouds settled above and followed us morning, noon and night.
"People tell me all the time how much they look forward to summer," Terri said flatly. "I hate summer. Summer means my mammogram." Now she drew a long, shaky breath. "I'm thinking about a double mastectomy," she said to Dr. Grange.
For the better part of an hour, we listened and asked intent questions. And afterwards, on the way home in the car, Deb asked the question. "What do you think, Ter?"
Paul, who was driving, glanced at Terri sideways. "I think she's made her decision."
Terri nodded. "I'm having the mastectomy."
Just like that, we all felt better. A plan was in motion, and Terri would defeat this thing that held us all hostage.
We talked over the possiblities of reconstructive surgery at Arby's over lunch. For some reason, Terri was remembering the odd man who had been their next door neighbor when their oldest children were young. She and Paul had gone to great lengths to keep their kids away from him. He'd plastered pictures of bare-breasted women all over the walls of his house which could be seen from the outside windows.
"Maybe I'll go back after my reconstructive surgery to pay him a visit," Terri joked. " 'Wanna take a picture of these, Buddy?' " With a drunken leer, she pretended to rip open her shirt. " 'Don't have my nipples yet, but they're on the way!' "
We screamed with laughter. Terri's wicked humor had been locked up for a long time, it seemed to us.
It was good to have her back.
No comments:
Post a Comment