Trust it. It’s real.
Maybe having my Dad die when he was only fifty-years-old allowed me to entertain the possibility that, I too, might get cancer.
Breaking into tears, surrounded by girlfriends, on a run years prior to my diagnosis. Fearing; I might have it. Something wasn’t right.
Months past. But with gentle nagging from my accountability partner, I finally made an appointment. It wasn’t until the end of that meeting, I casually (and hesitantly) mentioned the strange symptoms I had been experiencing.
She ordered the tests.
After a colonoscopy (because of my family history) and an upper scope… I was squeaky clean. <deep sigh>
The anonymous doc, who did the procedure, asked-in passing-why we were doing this? I told him my symptoms. He suggested an ultrasound.
I eventually called.
Thyroid ultrasound completed. Radiology reported nodules. Next, schedule a follow-up with an ENT.
I opted for a needle biopsy. (And, I thought natural childbirth was scary? Pfttt…)
Next, hurry up and wait…
The call came. Pupillary Carcinoma.
Perfect. Military orders had taken us 3,000 miles from home and I had a spouse that would soon be deploying to Afghanistan…
I couldn’t believe it.
“At least it’s curable. A very good cancer to get,” they kept telling me. I didn’t feel entitled to be scared. Or mad. Or anything.
So, the surgeon cut it out. I woke up with an incision across my throat and a secret fear.
I f’ing have cancer. I have two kids with special needs! What if…?
What followed was a series of secret lows. I knew I should be grateful; every time I traveled to the Cancer Center, I was the lucky one with the easy one while others were in wheelchairs, losing their hair and/or emaciated.
So I bottled it.
Here I sit. Three years later. Cancer free.
I am only beginning to truly digest the gravity of how that diagnosis effected me; As a mother and wife. Moreover, how IT changed me.
I had f’ing cancer.
At least it was a good one…
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