''I know it's not your fault, you are just a cog in this dysfunctional healthcare machine'', I said to the receptionist with tears in my eyes as I handed over most of what was left of my savings.
''Well, you could always wait and have your biopsy another day, when you have more money'', she said, as she begrudgingly accepted my fresh one hundred bills, straight from the bank. Eight of them.
''I have a suspicious lump, a history of invasive and aggressive cancer, and a high risk of recurrence. I can't wait.''
And so there I was, at the breast surgeon's office. I go there every three months for an ultrasound to monitor my lumps. I have several since my free tram surgery in August 2017.
''Usually I am fine with having you come back in three months, but with this one, even though I think it's scar tissue, I don't feel good enough about it to send you out of here without scheduling a biopsy'', the nurse practitioner said a few weeks ago.
The surgeon said today she also doesn't think it's cancer, but...it is different in size and shape to the other lumps. We had no choice, it has to be checked.
My question is, why is that a teacher with health insurance, a newly-divorced single mother of three small children, has to drain nearly all of her savings to pay for a biopsy? I know, I know...once I meet my deductible it will be sunshine and buttercups. I get it. But what about until then? The clinic wouldn't see me because I have insurance, and any other surgeon would want that much up front. I still have to pay the other $463 every month in $30 increments.
The money can be earned back, saved again. The bruising and swelling in my breast will subside.
But what really worries me, what terrifies me, is that it will be bad news. When I found my first lump I thought, ''There is absolutely no way this is cancer. I mean, how? It's impossible!''. Cancer took that innocence from me, that sweet naivety. Since those early days I have made so many incredible friends and watch them taken from recurrence, from ''mets''. I am not so innocent anymore.
It has been seventeen months since my mastectomy. I am back at work, divorced, getting on with my life. And still, it plagues me. I see the pulmonologist; I have radiation-induced asthma and a nodule on my lung. I see my oncologist; I have lab work all of the time and my tumor markers are always high. I see my OB/Gyn; she checks my uterus for thickening from tamoxifen (which I have since gone off of) and checks my fertility levels through estrogen and FSH tests. And of course, the breast surgeon, to monitor my lumps. I also see a therapist who specializes in cancer patients, but not nearly often enough because even with insurance I cannot afford the $100 visits.
I have dreams about my eyebrows falling out again. My eyelashes. Dreams about buzzing my head again. Every time I have a random pain I wonder, ''Is it back? In my bones?''. I drink liver detox tea all day long, allowing myself to, however briefly, slip back into innocence, thinking this magical tea will protect me from the big, bad cancer monster.
And yet most people never fully understand. The toll it takes, mentally, physically, emotionally. Financially.
It drains you. Even long after the treatment ends, the scars remain. I am scarred. But it's over! I should be happy. That's the thing, though; is it ever really over? I mean...is it?
I am becoming less afraid, less scared. I am learning to plan for the future again, while relishing in the present. I channel my inner warrior. I had cancer, I can do anything. Anything!
Usually when I have pain inflicted upon me, I like to have someone hold my hand. I could have asked the nurse to hold my hand during the biopsy, but I declined. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I didn't need anyone. So I flinched and closed me eyes and listened to the ''clinking'' sound of needle ejecting tissue from my breast. ''Clink''. ''Clink''. Four times. And in between ''clinks'', I remembered the sound of Glen's voice singing to me. He is a fantastic singer. So I suppose that I wasn't alone after all. And even though I proved to myself that I didn't need anyone, it felt nice to feel like someone was with me.
And now, I wait. And wait. And wait. They wanted me to come back in for the results, but I said I couldn't take time off of work. She will call me after 4 o'clock the day the results come in, so I can talk to her after school.
Guess what? I have a good feeling about this. I really do. Perhaps I am just taking a visit to Denial Land, but honestly, I think this is going to be okay. And if it isn't? Well, this isn't my first rodeo. When I was about to deliver my second baby I thought about how scared I was. Because I knew what to expect. But that was a comfort, too. I knew what to expect. I was prepared. That eased my mind. And so I think of my risk of recurrence in the same manner; if I have done it before, I can do it again. I know what to expect. I am prepared.
''Well, you could always wait and have your biopsy another day, when you have more money'', she said, as she begrudgingly accepted my fresh one hundred bills, straight from the bank. Eight of them.
''I have a suspicious lump, a history of invasive and aggressive cancer, and a high risk of recurrence. I can't wait.''
And so there I was, at the breast surgeon's office. I go there every three months for an ultrasound to monitor my lumps. I have several since my free tram surgery in August 2017.
''Usually I am fine with having you come back in three months, but with this one, even though I think it's scar tissue, I don't feel good enough about it to send you out of here without scheduling a biopsy'', the nurse practitioner said a few weeks ago.
The surgeon said today she also doesn't think it's cancer, but...it is different in size and shape to the other lumps. We had no choice, it has to be checked.
My question is, why is that a teacher with health insurance, a newly-divorced single mother of three small children, has to drain nearly all of her savings to pay for a biopsy? I know, I know...once I meet my deductible it will be sunshine and buttercups. I get it. But what about until then? The clinic wouldn't see me because I have insurance, and any other surgeon would want that much up front. I still have to pay the other $463 every month in $30 increments.
The money can be earned back, saved again. The bruising and swelling in my breast will subside.
But what really worries me, what terrifies me, is that it will be bad news. When I found my first lump I thought, ''There is absolutely no way this is cancer. I mean, how? It's impossible!''. Cancer took that innocence from me, that sweet naivety. Since those early days I have made so many incredible friends and watch them taken from recurrence, from ''mets''. I am not so innocent anymore.
It has been seventeen months since my mastectomy. I am back at work, divorced, getting on with my life. And still, it plagues me. I see the pulmonologist; I have radiation-induced asthma and a nodule on my lung. I see my oncologist; I have lab work all of the time and my tumor markers are always high. I see my OB/Gyn; she checks my uterus for thickening from tamoxifen (which I have since gone off of) and checks my fertility levels through estrogen and FSH tests. And of course, the breast surgeon, to monitor my lumps. I also see a therapist who specializes in cancer patients, but not nearly often enough because even with insurance I cannot afford the $100 visits.
I have dreams about my eyebrows falling out again. My eyelashes. Dreams about buzzing my head again. Every time I have a random pain I wonder, ''Is it back? In my bones?''. I drink liver detox tea all day long, allowing myself to, however briefly, slip back into innocence, thinking this magical tea will protect me from the big, bad cancer monster.
And yet most people never fully understand. The toll it takes, mentally, physically, emotionally. Financially.
It drains you. Even long after the treatment ends, the scars remain. I am scarred. But it's over! I should be happy. That's the thing, though; is it ever really over? I mean...is it?
I am becoming less afraid, less scared. I am learning to plan for the future again, while relishing in the present. I channel my inner warrior. I had cancer, I can do anything. Anything!
Usually when I have pain inflicted upon me, I like to have someone hold my hand. I could have asked the nurse to hold my hand during the biopsy, but I declined. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I didn't need anyone. So I flinched and closed me eyes and listened to the ''clinking'' sound of needle ejecting tissue from my breast. ''Clink''. ''Clink''. Four times. And in between ''clinks'', I remembered the sound of Glen's voice singing to me. He is a fantastic singer. So I suppose that I wasn't alone after all. And even though I proved to myself that I didn't need anyone, it felt nice to feel like someone was with me.
Guess what? I have a good feeling about this. I really do. Perhaps I am just taking a visit to Denial Land, but honestly, I think this is going to be okay. And if it isn't? Well, this isn't my first rodeo. When I was about to deliver my second baby I thought about how scared I was. Because I knew what to expect. But that was a comfort, too. I knew what to expect. I was prepared. That eased my mind. And so I think of my risk of recurrence in the same manner; if I have done it before, I can do it again. I know what to expect. I am prepared.
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