Table of Contents
For Rick, Ali, Abby, and Andrew with
adoration and affection
In loving memory of Ann Kelley
and Richard Konop
Authors Note
To all the women, men, and children who have been pierced by cancers insidious claw and to those whose diagnoses were and are more severe than mine and to all the people who do not have adequate access to health care and/or the time and resources to recover from their illnesses, my heart goes out to you and your loved ones. I wrote this book with all of you in mind. And, in a small effort to honor you, a portion of the proceeds from Cancer Is a Bitch will be donated to the National Breast Cancer Coalition and the Wisconsin Well Woman Program.
[one]
More Important Things to Do
IM PICTURING CARRIE on Sex and the City cross-legged on her bed in sexy boy-cut undies and a cleavage revealing push-up bra, her hair professionally disheveled, seductively sucking on a melting Popsicle. She made writing look like a must-have accessory, the quirky detail that set her apart from other women. All the years I watched that show, I thought, I could do that. I should have done that. I lived in New York City. I had sex. I had girlfriends who called me frantic in the middle of the night complaining about their Mr. Bigs not being so big. I could write witty sentences verging on the annoying. I could work a Popsicle with the best of them. But as much as I see Carrie out of the corner of my eye as I type, Im not Carrie. Not by a long shot. Im married. Im the mother of three. I live in Wisconsin. I dont own boy-cut undies and instead of baring my relationship with men and shoes, Im baring my relationship with breast cancer.
Ill start in the middle: Winter 2006:
Im sitting topless in the oncologists office on Valentines Day. Cancer is a bitch. It doesnt give a shit about holidays. Doesnt give a shit when the oncologist gently presses his thick hairy fingers near the wound above my nipple, tears burn the raw edges of my puffy eyes, dribble down my cheeks, and roll past blood-caked stitches, landing in a puddle in the space between the oncologists cold wedding band and my warm flesh. Still swollen, he says and I hate him. Hate that Im swollen, hate that Im here on Valentines Day instead of at Victorias Secret buying the cleavage-enhancing Miracle Bra that Redbook recommended for guaranteed flawless shape. Think if Id followed their Sizzle for Your Sweetie advice, I would be slipping into a red dress, on my way to a romantic dinner, wouldnt be hearing the oncologist saying, Even though the surgeon got clean margins, your risk of invasive cancer is four to five times greater than the average woman. Wouldnt be afraid to look at my flawed breast under the harsh fluorescent light.
It all began the morning of my annual mammogram a few weeks earlier in January. Over breakfast my nine-year-old son Alex and I discussed the puppy hed been begging for, ever since the death of our dog that past Thanksgiving. Now that Id finished my novel (about a woman who finds a lump in her breast and wonders if shes lived a meaningful life), I was ready to consider a new pet at the close of what had been a stressful, busy yearthe dog dying, my husband, Mikes, slow-healing knee surgery, and our oldest daughter, Annas, college application process. A nearly straight-A student with SAT scores comparable to my Ivy League radiologist husbands, a singer, a dancer, and a cross-country runner, and shed been rejected early-decision by Dartmouth, his alma matter. Dartmouth had been a source of tension for us all the way back to when Mike brought me home to his mother, who was disappointed that I wasnt the blond-bobbed, Episcopalian Dartmouth grad shed sent him to college to meet. Instead, I was a wavy-haired, curvy, Jewish, wanna-be poet who lived in the East Village and had gone to an experimental college (even I wondered what she could possibly make of me).
So when Anna said she didnt want to apply to Dartmouth, I said if she didnt want to, she shouldnt; and Mike said I was undermining him, turning her against his school and that I obviously didnt understand the whole Ivy League thing. Our middle daughter, Maddyalso in high school and panicked by her sisters panicsigned up for more clubs, SAT prep, and dance team, while Alex was playing indoor soccer and basketball, both at opposite ends of town. As if that wasnt enough, all year Id felt pressure from my agent to send her my new manuscript.
But that morning, I dropped Alex off at school, brought the newspaper with me to my mammogram, and as I waited in the cubicle for the technician to tell me to get dressed and go home, I circled healthy, lovable, mixed-breed pups free to good home, and thought about how much more time I would have now that the other college applications were in the mail and my new novel was complete. Id start back at yoga and cook more elaborate dinners and do something about the war in Iraq and global warming and match all the unmatched socks instead of stuffing them into that old bureau at the top of the stairswhen the technician peeked in and said, We need to get a few more films.
Not to worry, she said, as she whisked me down the hall smiling, continuing the story about her grand-son or granddaughter or grandsomething doing something grand. Doctors wives make everybody nervous, she said and rolled her eyes, gesturing for me to slip my arm out of my gown.
After seven films and more cubicle waiting, I folded up the want ads, picked up a magazine featuring a young woman with inoperable lung cancer, put down the magazine, stood and counted to a hundred forward and backward. Id had a couple of breast scares before, a core biopsy and a wide excision, both indicating cellular changes, but ultimately benign. I worried about my breasts, but still, I felt impatient with all this wasted time when I had more important things to do.
The technician poked her head back into the stall. Dr. Evans wants to talk to you, she said. No small talk, no smile as she led me into the viewing room.
I stood next to Henry, one of my husbands radiologist partners and a friend of ours for years. I knew his wife, his children; wed shared numerous occasionsweddings, graduations, anniversaries, funerals. As he pointed to an illuminated x-ray of my breast, all swirly white clouds and dissipating smoke plumes, a thin red arrow marking a teeny tiny cluster of white specks, he said, See, thats what Im concerned about. Those calcifications are new and just to be safe I think we should biopsy....
He choked and winced, looking so pained to have to tell me this news that I said, This must be awkward for you.
He nodded and said, Okay?
And I wondered, Was he asking me my opinion? Was there a choice? Was this a trick question? Was there an answer that would make this go away?
He swallowed so loudly, I felt it in my throat.
Okay, I said, wanting to make him feel better.
Murmuring okay okay okay okay all the way down the hall, in the elevator, into the parking lot, where I stood, lost, unable to find my car, the ink from the crumpled newspaper bleeding into my hand.
[two]
Does Biopsy Mean No Puppy?
CHEST DOWN ON a padded table, head cocked sideways, right breast hanging through a peekaboo hole, one arm hooked around my matted hair, the other arm twisted pinky side out along my side, the nurse positions me from below as the clear-plastic compression paddles squish my flesh into place.
