You're not going to believe this . . .

(I'm not even sure I do.)

I keep this out all year round—especially now.

So, a couple of essays ago, I referred to some additional tests I had to have—because “something” was discovered that bore further examination. One of the test results was unimpressive (my doctor’s words) and the only outcome was a more frequent exam than the yearly one I get anyway.

That second one, though . . . that didn’t go so well. I ended up having to get a breast biopsy, which in itself is no easy experience. All in all, I’ve had three mammograms this year—in the space of a month and a half! The third one, though, was accompanied by a needle the size of a Bic pen which was repeatedly plunged into the compressed breast. Ouch.

Then, to add insult to injury, the results came back. This is the part you’re not going to believe--it’s cancer. I have breast cancer. Honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Annie has it, and now I do. Mine, though, is Stage 0 and, unless all that stabbing loosened up the cells in the ducts in which it was growing and sent it careening through my body, it is “curable.” After a couple more procedures.

First up—an MRI. I feel like men get to have their tests and procedures in modern facilities and women have to report to the Pit of Despair for theirs. My new doctor (one of two new ones—I now have a breast surgeon and an oncologist with more to come) described the MRI to me—“you’ll have dye injected into you and then you’ll lay on your stomach so your breasts can fit into a special section to get viewed.” Cool. I looked it up—she wasn’t wrong.

https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/breast-mri/about/pac-20384809

See the similarity? Pit of Despair – © The Princess Bride 1987 Rob Reiner

After the MRI, I will get a lumpectomy. Although an actual lump wasn’t detected, I guess they just like to keep calling it that. A lumpectomy. I hate that word. It’s so inelegant. All I can think of is Lumpy Rutherford—remember him? From Leave it to Beaver? He was a living onomatopoeia. As I suppose I will be post-surgery.

Leave It to Beaver — © Universal Studios Home Entertainment, All rights reserved

When I shared the news with a friend of mine, he confessed that he couldn’t even believe I was telling him this latest update. “I know,” I said, “I feel like I’m making it up. I’m my own Munchausen by proxy.” How many times can I report the most recent health challenge to our family without feeling like I should just keep it to myself? What more can anyone possibly do or say? It’s wearying and it makes people feel helpless. People don’t like to feel helpless and they might decide they can’t be around so much anymore. I know this is true—it’s similar to compassion fatigue and people have to take care of themselves, too.

But here’s the thing—I am experiencing a surge of support and compassion. For the last two and a half years with Annie, for the previous four years when I was caregiving for my dad and I suspect now, with this most recent revelation, I have the most ardent and giving family, friends and colleagues. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t reach out with an expression of love or words of support. And that helps me—more than I ever imagined such kindness could. All of it turns into a cache of joy that I can dip into when my own reserve is empty.

Because even though I am dumbfounded and sometimes reeling from the relentless onslaught that is our family’s day-to-day challenge, I am going to eke out every little bit of joy that I can. It’s not always easy to remember that joy is still part of our lives, but it is. And I am determined to hold fast to it. Cancer is doing a lot of things to our bodies and energy and resources, but it will not rob me or my family of joy.

Believe it or not.