Marie deHaan - Cancer Is a Funny Thing: Reconstructing My Life

CANCER IS A FUNNY THING
RECONSTRUCTING MY LIFE

Marie de Haan

Copyright 2017 by Marie de Haan. All rights reserved.

The names of the authors caregivers have been changed to protect their privacy.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional when appropriate. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, personal, or other damages.

Cancer Is a Funny Thing: Reconstructing My Life

By Marie de Haan

1. Biography & Autobiography : Personal Memoirs 2. Health & Fitness :

Diseases - Breast Cancer 3. Religion : Christian Life Inspirational

ISBN: 978-1-935953-72-2

Cover design: Natasha Brown

Printed in the United States of America

Smashwords Edition

Authority Publishing

11230 Gold Express Dr. #310-413

Gold River, CA 95670

800-877-1097

www.AuthorityPublishing.com

I dedicate this book to my caregivers:

Dr. Williamson

The Surgeon

Dr. Hoffman

The Oncologist

Dr. Burton

The Naturopath

You saved my life.

&

Dr. Miller

You gave me back my life.

Weeping may endure

for a night,

but joy cometh in the morning.

Psalm 30:5b

Prologue

Excerpt from

Cancer Is a Funny Thing:

A Humorous Look at the Bright Side of CancerAnd There Is One

As I sat on the piano bench, teaching little Anna how to run up and down the B major scale with her nimble fingers, I resisted the urge to grab my right boob and yell, Ow, ow, ow! at the top of my lungs.

Probably not the most professional way to act.

I shoved my long, blonde bangs out of my eyes, breaking into a cold sweat. My breast had hurt for two solid days and I was about to go off the deep end.

March 19, 2009, I wrote at the top of Annas notebook. Anna, I want you to practice this scale with your left hand this week, okay? I said through clenched teeth, while her mother, Karin, watched onoblivious to my tormentin her customary station on the rocking chair next to the piano.

I had found the lump seven months earlier, in August.

Hey, Ken, I asked my husband one night, do you think this is anything?

Hmm, it sure is. He raised his eyebrows. I knew that look in those deep, brown eyes.

Im serious. I found this lump.

I dont know. Let me check it out. He nestled his face into my chest.

This wasnt going anywhere. Not the way I thought it would, anyway. Of course, he thought it was going somewhere.

Do you feel it?

I sure do. His hand groped my breast.

What was I asking him again? Oh, yes. The lump. I tried to guide his hand to the spot, but he couldnt feel it at all. I could barely feel it myself.

After seven months of inactivity, I finally decided to be responsible and get a routine pap smear and breast examination.

Youre right, its probably just a cyst, Dr. Morrison said, observing my insides up on his screen. He frowned.

It sure hurts, I answered. What would you do? Surgically remove it? Lance it? I felt a shiver go up my spine at the word lance.

I think Im going to send you for a diagnostic mammogram.

Before I knew it, I found myself not only getting a mammogram, but an ultrasound and an extensive biopsy in rapid succession.

Over the next couple of days, I called Dr. Morrisons office for the results of my tests and kept getting the runaround. I wanted the cyst taken care of as soon as possible. Our family was leaving for California and I wanted to be able to heal from the outpatient procedure enough to be able to ride the roller coasters at Knotts Berry Farm.

By Friday, I couldnt wait any longer. This time, I would show up in person and not leave until I had my answer. My 16-year-old daughter, Adriana, sat out in the car waiting, while I marched inside. We both should have been at home packing.

So, have you heard anything yet? I asked at the front desk, not quite succeeding in keeping the anger out of my voice.

The receptionist stared at me with a blank look on her face. A nurse walking by, however, saw me and asked, Oh, did they tell you about the MRI appointment?

I shook my head.

We made an appointment for you on the fourteenth of April.

Fourteenth of April? Ive told this office several times that I wont be here then. Im parking my butt on the beach in California. I looked at my watch. In fact, were leaving in three or four hours. Youre confusing me with another patient.

Maria Ann de Haan?

Yes. I was losing patience.

We have you down for an MRI at the hospital.

What for? This woman was obviously very confused.

She whispered in my ear, Maybe you better come back here.

I was annoyed because they hadnt returned any of my phone calls, but had all the time in the world to set up MRIs for me when I was going to be out of town. They werent listening to me.

I followed the nurse down the hallway to a little office and sat down.

Dr. Chen will come and talk to you.

I normally see Dr. Morrison.

Dr. Morrison is out right now and Dr. Chen will talk to you instead.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. This cyst was bloody interfering with my life.

Adriana, still out in the car, was probably wondering what in the world had happened to me.

I was herded down to another room, the same one where Dr. Morrison had performed his exam ten days earlier.

Dr. Chen was a short, Chinese man who didnt look to be any older than 20. He handed me a thick stack of papers and said, with no preamble, You have advanced breast cancer.

Pardon me?

Advanced. His accent was pretty thick, but I heard that word loud and clear.

I looked down at the pathology report in my hand. These words might as well have been written in Chinese, his language, for all the sense they made to me. I honed in on the first one. What does invasive poorly differentiated ductal carcinoma with abundant necrosis mean? I asked Dr. Chen, calm as can be.

Advanced.

How about poor tubule formation 3/3, high nuclear grade 3/3, and low mitotic rate 1/3?

Advanced.

This guy was starting to tick me off. Pick a new word already. Nottingham Grade. I dont know what that is. It says I have 2 out of 3.

Advanced.

I didnt cry at all, because I didnt believe he knew what he was talking about. It was a cyst. There had to be some kind of mistake.

Realizing I wasnt getting anywhere, I stood up. Dr. Chen followed me out to the receptionists desk.

I think he was waiting for me to break down into hysterics and when I didnt react in a typical fashion, he patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, and went about his merry way.

I asked the receptionist who I had to call to cancel my MRI appointment and went my merry way out to the car.

What did the doctor say? Adriana asked me, clearly petrified to hear the answer.