"We'll keep an eye on it," the radiologist said, "but for now let's focus on moving ahead with the real issue."
Amen to that! Let's move this train down the track! (Plus, if the ultrasound had led to another biopsy, I'm pretty sure I would have been forcibly and permanently removed from the hospital in a fit of vulgarity. Best to stay on everybody's good side at the hospital.)
So surgery is scheduled for Friday, and we are discovering just what a pain in the rear it is to have cancer in your 40s. Let me be clear, cancer is no fun at any age. No one deserves Lucille at any point in their life. She is a crotchety old toad. But add two careers and four schools and kid's activities, and you have a recipe for stress soup. Something has to give!
And that brings me to permission-giving. It's a trendy term in my husband's churchy circles, but it works equally well when discussing a blooming health crisis and its effects on friends and family within the blast zone. Daniel and I call it "the no-guilt zone." Here is its manifesto:
1. I, as the cancer patient, am permitted to feel zero guilt about almost anything. By default, this rule extends to immediate family members. (Examples: The flowers on the back porch are dead -- you are forgiven! You don't get home in time to get Maggie to gymnastics because of a doctor appointment -- you are forgiven! You miss a meeting because the patient needs yet another blood test -- you are forgiven! You forget to feed the dog -- you are forgiven -- but eyed very suspiciously each meal time thereafter!)
2. Friends and family have permission to talk about Lucille in the cancer patient's presence. In fact, I encourage it. Let's face it -- very few of us are comfortable talking about serious matters with those people experiencing them. We just aren't well-trained in our culture to face disease and death with ease. But if you are worried that I don't want to talk about it, don't be. (Heck, I worked in hospice, people! This is a cakewalk!) Cancer can make you very lonely. I welcome friends who are willing to listen. If I'm tired of talking about Lucille, I'll let you know.
3. But the cancer patient must give you permission not to talk about it as well. It can admittedly be a huge downer, and some of us just aren't up to the task. You, my dear ones, are the designated party crew. Keep life light and joyful. That helps us as well.
4. The patient and immediate family have a right to be angry, upset, tired, confused and downright curmudgeonly. Nothing about cancer is fair. But we promise not to stay in that place for long. Life is too short and beautiful. For my own part, I am really missing my mother right now. She died 10 years ago. (My dad knows the pain. He sent me my mother's cross pictured above to keep with me.) I miss her, because I know she would swoop in and hold me and keep the demons at bay. She would hold my children close, see them off to school, and promise them their mother will be here next Christmas and for many more Christmases to come. She would also laugh and joke with me about how at least one of my breasts will finally be as small as hers. But she is not here, and it makes me supremely pissed. However, when I am amazed by and humbly reminded of the love and support of our local friends, those even willing to be surrogate mothers and sisters, the anger subsides.
5. Finally, the cancer patient must give permission to herself to let cancer take a backseat. For several nights last week, I broke apart at the end of the day when Daniel and I descended downstairs. Before Lucille, this had been our favorite time of the day -- our quiet, "adult" time. But it turned into a sobfest. Then it dawned on me: it was Lucille's fault. She had plopped her fat butt right in the middle of us like the worst houseguest ever. The very next night, I chanted an anti-Lucille mantra at the bottom of the steps: "You are not allowed here. This is my place of peace and joy."
Guess what? She packed her bags and moved her caboose upstairs.
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