...should I share this news or not?

I have been seriously considering whether or not to write about this next subject, not that I'm afraid to, I just don't know where to start, and I'm not fishing for sympathy. So I'll start at what feels like the beginning.

My mom was born in December 1919, which would make her 90 years old right now...if she had not died when she was 72. Mom started showing symptoms of what I believed to be Alzheimer's disease when she was 59 -- 2 years younger than I am right now. Things she started doing made me think, "Whoa! This is so unlike my mom." From age 59 to 68, those little things seemed to increase in number and severity. My mom before: (1) ironing everything, including my dad's underwear; (2) vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, mopping every day; (3) extreme (almost obsessive/cumpulsive) organization -- she alphabetized canned goods; (4) our appliances looked showroom new; and (5) you could eat out of the toilet using her gardening tools. My mom when I started to get creeped out: (1) fingerprints on the sliding glass door that would have generated an entire window-washing frenzy, were wiped off (and none too well) with a balled-up tissue; (2) not pre-washing dishes before putting them into the dishwasher (something I had long rolled my eyes over). Dad either didn't notice it, or chose to ignore it. As time progressed, however, the symptoms became very apparent to anyone who knew my mom...(1) cobwebs on the chandelier (I pointed it out, and then pointed it out again the following YEAR when we went to visit again); (2) the refrigerator that used to look like a store display, was filled to overflowing, however much of the food was spoiled; (3) items jammed into the linen closet, where they used to be ironed and then folded and stacked with military precision; (4) turning the stove on high and walking out of the room; (5) driving an hour on a hot Arizona summer afternoon with the windows rolled up in her car...she said the AC was broken -- she'd forgotten to turn it on; (6) driving her car and getting lost on a deadend road in the desert; (7) forgetting all of us; and(8) forgetting how to chew, swallow, talk, walk).

There are many more examples of the nightmare of Alzheimer's that my parents lived through for the four years from the first noticeable symptoms, until Mom finally had a stroke and died at age 72. Mom was the baby of nine kids. Her brothers Jim, Henry (or Ben...I can't remember which one), and sister Ada all died of Alzheimer's. As a result, I have been focused on any symptoms I may have...focused, totally focused by examining everything I do, and I do mean everything. I look at my messy underwear drawer...if I realize it is messy, does the messiness count, or the fact that I realize it is messy mean I'm okay and just busy with my little grandson? My garage is a mess...is it Alzheimer's or the fact that my husband still won't build me more shelves for me to put stuff on the problem...and the fact that Matthew still has a ton of stuff here even though he moved out over a year ago? I look at myself in the mirror, and see that as I'm getting older, I am looking more and more like my maternal grandmother, and creepily like my mom did during her Alzheimer's years. Do I just look like my mom and her mom as I am aging? Or is it a sign that I'm done for??

So, as I was busy focusing on my impending doom of Alzheimer's disease, I went in for my annual (at this age, seeing the doctor when one is not sick) checkup, PAP smear, and mammogram. So, while I was peering through my spyglass, binoculars, and microscope at my possible symptoms, I got whacked upside the head with the discovery of a cancerous tumor in my right beebala boobala. First I cried. Not sobs, just feeling my throat constrict and my eyes well up with tears. I apologized to the radiologist for making him feel uncomfortable and hoped a tear wouldn't run down my face and land on his desk. Pam, the technician who has been handling my beebs for the past 20 years, gave me a hug, gave me the name of a surgeon, and sent me on my way to see my regular doctor (office upstairs from the labs) who was expecting me. Dr. Choi, always professional, friendly, and polite, but not the kind to give me a hug and say everything would be alright, said, "You know that you have breast cancer, and I'd like to set you up with a surgeon for a consultation. Do you have a surgeon?" Like I need one for Alzheimer's disease. No I don't have a surgeon...you've been examining my body since 1990...wouldn't YOU know if I had ever had a surgeon? (I thought, not said) So I gave him the name that Pam had given me. This was a week ago last Friday.

The surgeon was able to squeeze me in on Monday, although I did have to sit for 1 1/2hours in the waiting room. I thought, "maybe she was able to squeeze me in because one of her patients died..." As I sat their, I saw some of her post-op patients coming in for their appointments...wearing big gauzey-looking bandages where there used to be a boob... My intestines were in a knot, I was sweating like a racehorse, and my stomach was churning, I felt dizzy, holding back tears--not for me, but for those women who probably started off like I did..."I see something suspicious on your mammogram." And now they are shuffling through the doors like zombies, with bandages and tubes.

The surgeon, I imagined, looked like Kathleen Bates in "Misery." With a personality like Mel Gibson or Bill O'Reilly. However, when I met Dr. Reed, I found that my concern was misplaced. Fear of an evil, slash-happy surgeon was replaced by a different anxiety...Jennifer Reed is young enough to be my daughter. Probably younger than Meeghan. I thought she was a nurse's aid when she bounced into the room, with her petite, but tall body dressed in sandals, skinny black pants, a turquoise blue beaded almost-halter top, and a smile as wide as a billboard. With her long blonde hair in a ponytail. How could she have made it through college, four years of medical school, plus rotations, and surgical residency, AND have practiced medicine for the past three years?? And look like she's still in high school?? Cheating? Not. A prodigy? I think so. And her personality put me immediately at ease. If I'm going to have my boob lopped off, I'd rather have her do the honors...her mom is about my age, and I told her to treat me like she'd treat her own mother...(I hope they have a great relationship).

So, first I underwent another ultrasound session, where she and the technician could get a closeup idea of what they were dealing with, followed by four or five injections of pain-killer (lidacaine--not sure of spelling...felt like novacaine injections from the dentist). After that, she used a scalpel and made an small incision, then using a large-bore needle (which looked almost like a grease-gun, but cleaner...plus I didn't feel a thing), withdrew about four plugs of tumor with surrounding flesh, using the live ultrasound image as a guide. I would love to have watched, but couldn't see the screen from where I was laying. She explained what she was doing and seeing, and after I was bandaged (a little criss-cross piece of surgical tape, covered with a two-inch piece of rolled up gauze, and held in place wih two larger pieces of surgical tape), asked if I wanted to see the tumor before she sent it to the lab. Being addicted to "Life in the ER" and other shows like that (in addition to the news), of course I said yes.

I don't know what I expected...the first mammogram (that Pam, my beebala boobala guardian angel did) and ultrasound showed an irregularly shaped black spot. But what I saw was like a centimeter-long tube-shaped (about 1/8th inch thick) piece of raw chicken meat--my flesh--with an attached piece of tumor that was the color and texture of chicken fat. All I can say is thank goodness for the medical technology that allows doctors to diagnose tumors. The lump itself feels small--Dr. Reed said that it's the size of a peanut (NOT in the shell--my initial thought w/reaction that she was quick to calm). She said, as she suspected, it was cancerous, but needed to send it to pathology for further testing. Testing?? You see it's cancer.

The next day I was back in her office with my good friend Milissa, a nurse, whom I knew would be able to translate medical mumbo-jumbo into words I could comprehend. No waiting this time, we went into her office, where she'd assembled a 1 1/2-inch thick notebook with just about everything I could possibly want to know about breast cancer. She went through the book almost page-by-page. I could ask as many questions as I wanted. My appointment was for 4pm, but we talked until 6:30. I found out things I didn't know about breast cancer, some good, some great, some depressing. From personal knowledge, breast cancer can spread to your brain and kill you, to your bones or internal organs and kill you...not quickly like a bullet to the head, but long, and grotesque like Alzheimer's but without the blessed memory loss, and all the pain of a torture chamber. Why me? I was expecting Alzheimer's, not breast cancer.

Then she showed me pictures of women who had had radical mastectomies...complete amputation of one or both breasts. Would my husband EVER want to get near me again? Even if I stayed dressed from the waist up? Then she showed me those same breasts after reconstruction...some scars (not big gaping, jagged scar tissue, only some lines)...with nip reconstruction. How do they do that? Skin and tissue taken from that little roll of fat--love handles--that I've been trying unsuccessfully to get rid of...they may come in handy afterall. Where the hell did they get pink tissue for the nips? From my twat? NO! (whew!!!). The skin is twisted around in some miraculous way to look like a nip, then tattooed to match the other side. Except for the narrow lines of scar defining where the boob had been pieced together, a great reproduction. That is encouraging. But I won't know until I am asleep in the surgical suite...actually, I won't know until I come out with or without a bandage the size of a loaf of bread. I do know I will have to undergo radiation...15 minutes a day, FIVE days a week, for 6 to 7 weeks. Then hormone therapy for the next five years. IF I am lucky, and the cancer is confined to the tumor and hasn't sent any cancer-cooties to nearby lymph nodes--I will have a "lumpectomy" where the tumor and surrounding tissue will be scooped out, and I will be left with a dent and small scar. With my small boob size, the dent will actually look more like Meteor Crater...scarcely noticeable on someone like Pamela Anderson...followed by the radiation. If it has spread to the lymph nodes under my arm, or if they discover anything in the other boob when I go in for the MRI tomorrow afternoon, I will end up looking like one of the women I saw shuffling down the hall. And then I will end up having to have reconstructive surgery, and following the radiation, I would require chemotherapy.

Not happy about the prospect of undergoing chemo...I can deal with the frigging hair loss...it's falling out already from old age. The good news is I bought a wig a few years ago, but only wore it once...the hair is so thick that my friend/catering partner Vicky knew it was a wig and told me it looked like a small mammal was sitting on my head. So it's in a drawer in my dressing table. Mallory's friend Naja has a bunch of wigs--that's why her hair always looks perfect! That was my motivation for buying it...so in the hair department, I'm good to go. Maybe it was a sign that I missed. It's my barfaphobia that is scaring the shit out of me. Chemo = nausea...my greatest fear. Dr. Reed promises drugs (wish it was "medical" marijuana) to control that.

I know breast cancer won't kill me instantaneously like a good old-fashioned heart attack, so I am grateful that I will have at least a few more years with my family before I croak. As long as Alzheimer's disease doesn't sneak up on me while I'm checking out my titties, and whack me upside the noggin.