Catherine Guthrie - Flat: Reclaiming My Body from Breast Cancer

Copyright 2018 by Catherine Guthrie

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Jenny Zemanek

Cover illustration: iStockphoto

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3291-9

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3294-0

Printed in the United States of America

Flat is a true story constructed from memory. Because not everyone enjoys being immortalized in a memoir, some names and characteristics have been changed to protect identities. Any resulting resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

For Mary

CHAPTER 1

The lump appeared in January 2009.

Correctionit didnt appear so much as reveal itself.

I was alone in bed. A place Id always felt safe or, more accurately, at home. It still rankles me that the lump found me there.

But Im getting ahead of myself. On that cold Sunday morning, I was alone in a tangle of bedsheets that still held the heat of two bodies. Sounds of morning filtered up through the heating vents. The rhythmic clank of the dogs tags against her metal bowl, the murmurings of NPR hosts, the click-click-click of the gas stoves ignition. Amid this serenade, I stretched and lolled. With a yawn, I rolled onto my stomach.

Ouch!

My breast felt bruised. My fingers prodded the area, taking their job seriously. With determined tenderness, they tried to reproduce the sharpness of the pain but found nothing of note. They did, however, find a tender spot, the size of a nickel, above my left breast. Near the sore spot was a small mole. As innocent as a freckle. As familiar as a signpost. No bigger than a lentil. That mole was flat, not raised. A perfectly round dot. The mole had been there for as long as I could remember. Or had it?

A few minutes later, in the shower, beneath a drumbeat of water, my fingers returned to the tender spot, like bloodhounds circling a scent. Yes, there it was. My brain sketched a quick story about how the seam of my bra had irritated the mole, causing the soreness. In hindsight, that was ridiculous. Id had the bra for ages, and the tender spot was not on the mole so much as in the proximity of it. But, when faced with trouble, the mind is a nimble storyteller.

And then I felt ita protrusion the size of a pebble.

My reaction was on par with my personality. Outwardly calm but inwardly freaking the fuck out. When in doubt, go through the motions. Pumping more bath gel onto the washcloth, I ran it over my arms and legs. I squeezed conditioner into my palm and worked it through my close-cropped hair. Adrenaline cracked and popped through my veins like a cheap string of firecrackers.

I knew a thing or two about breast lumps. I was a magazine journalist, and womens health was my specialty. Writing about breast cancer was my bread and butter: how to prevent it, how to detect it, how to survive it, how to talk to your best friend about it. Risk factors, statistics, and treatment options rattled off my tongue at the slightest provocation. Over the years, survivors had taken me into their confidence. Breast cancer surgeons had walked me through evolutions in the fieldhow the standard of care had transitioned from mastectomies to lumpectomies, cancer carved from a breast, like a worm from an apple. On the subject of breast lumps, I also had firsthand experience: a benign lump in my right breast. The harmless fibroadenoma had arrived in my late twenties, its discovery and diagnosis triggering an avalanche of twenty-something angst. Was this new lump the thirty-something sequel?

Out of the shower, onto the white bathmat. I cinched the towel around my waist. Rivulets of water ran down my legs as my fingers re-familiarized themselves with the fibroadenoma. Then, they moved to the lump in the opposite breast. Back and forth. Compare and contrast. My eyes squeezed shut, as if to amplify the transmission of information from my fingertips, crowded as they were with touch receptors.

The new lump was everything the old lump was not. Solid, unyielding, jagged, a broken tooth. Against the tips of my fingers, the benign lump was rubbery, slippery, friendly. My knees wobbled. I sat down hard on the lid of the toilet. Stark winter sunlight glinted off the bathrooms high-gloss subway tiles and silvery chrome fixtures. A year ago, wed remodeled. It was our first home-improvement project, our first real effort to turn the downtrodden house into a home. Wed chosen glossy white tiles and polished fixtures because they were bright and clean, but now they only felt cold and sterile.

Downstairs, Mary stood at the stove holding a slotted spoon, her eyes fixed on a simmering pot of water. With the exception of poached eggs, the woman cooked everything on high heat for maximum efficiency. The higher the flame, the faster the cook time. The faster the cook time, the sooner she could get back to work. Most days I was surprised she ate anything at all.

I dressed, padded downstairs, sidled up to her.

Somebody needs a hug, I said, using a line wed cribbed from a TV show.

I want one of those, she responded on cue.

She lowered the spoon and opened her arms. I snuggled into the warm crook of her neck and the soft folds of her plush bathrobe. The sweet smells of clean laundry and morning musk muffled the firecrackers.

What if I said nothing?

Silence was my go-to strategy. Heres one way this could go: two weeks from now, wed be sitting at the breakfast table. Id tell her Id had a scare and gone to the doctor. Dr. F had checked it out and said not to worry. Just another fibroadenoma. Mary would be hurt, but shed get over it because I would be okay.

But, no. Our relationship had issues, but secrecy wasnt one of them.

What up, nut-nut?

I found a lump.

Where?

She stepped back. Put her hands on my shoulders, slid them down to my elbows. Her eyes roamed my clothes, as if she could see through them with X-ray vision.

My boob.

Let me feel?

My left hand pulled the neckline of my shirt aside, while my right guided her hand to my chest, placing her fingers on the tender spot near the mole.

Her face clouded.

Call the doctor?

I will.

And just like that she swiveled back to the stove. A flip of her wrist snuffed the burner, the spoon rescued the egg and slid it onto a piece of toast. Mary was a social scientist and a researcher. She liked facts. The lump was merely a starting point for investigation, no quantifiable data yet. Mary refused to traffic in fear. Me? I turned into Chicken Little at the slightest whiff of worry. When that happened, my clucking sent Mary deep into Mr. Rogers territory. The more I squawked, the calmer and more sing-song-y she got.