One phone call. That's all it
took to take me from a feeling of calm happiness to a turmoil of toxic sludge
running through my veins wanting to suck every piece of life out of
me.
"You have cancer. The doctor will want to meet with you today
to discuss your options".
Who says that so cavalierly over a phone call? This nervous nurse
didn't know me from Adam and yet he had just ruined my life. I am 25 freaking
years old! I don't tan, couldn't even if I wanted to, and I don't usually get
to see sunlight. Let's not forget that I am not all that confident about my
body so any chance I get to cover these flabby white appendages in a cardigan,
I take it.
No. There is a mistake. I don't have cancer. I can't. Obviously
this ridiculous excuse of a person has misread my file. All I did was get a
couple moles removed because of vanity. Ok, maybe one of the two had me a
little worried but that's it, worried. Not a death sentence. That's what cancer
is, right? A death sentence. It doesn't matter if you are 8 or 80, you hear the
words "she has cancer" you immediately start counting her breaths
expecting that any minute she is going to be 6 feet under. It's sick. It's a
sick joke. That's all it is.
Wrong. I'm sitting here in the doctor's office and he's looking at
me telling me I have melanoma. I have the cancer that killed my uncle. The
cancer that ripped a father from his children when they needed him most. I have
the cancer that is so dysfunctional that you can't tell what it's
going to do next. All you know is it kills and it doesn't even go about it in a
polite way either. It attacks like a starved, caged lion that has just seen a
gazelle for the first time in months. No holding back, no sense of regret, it
just attacks and takes everything it can. That's what's inside of me.
A ravenous monster bent on taking my life and leaving me with
nothing.
The doctor has me talk to some other doctor in Salt Lake City. The
infamous Huntsman's Cancer Institute wants to meet with me. Oh and by meet I
mean they want to chop me into little pieces scrutinize me and then
dump me on the side of the road after the cancer has killed me and hopefully,
just hopefully find something that can help the next poor soul who gets the phone
call I just got.
These are the words I'm thinking but do you know how I'm acting?
Just the opposite really. I am happy, almost nervously and
unnaturally happy. I sit there stunned with a stupid smile on my face just
looking at this room full of a Doctor, his 3 nurses and my husband. John is
sitting there stunned and scared but masking it behind a supportive stare.
These 5 people all expect me to die. Maybe not right now, but the initial
thought I'm sure is "She is going to die".
So, what do I do? I try and lighten the mood. I smile,
say I'll think positive, call my family for insurance information and just
pretend that this will all go away soon. I'm ridiculous. I feel like I'm not
allowed to be sad. I'm not allowed to show weakness. What will that do to my reputation?
I have a testimony of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and by so
believing, sometimes I think that means I can't be afraid. I can't be sad, I
know the larger plan but you know what? Sometimes I do get sad. Sometimes I get
really sad and really mad and I just want to scream and cry and beat my fists
against a wall in defeat. I'm tired. I'm angry, I have faith and I know it will
all work out but right now, I'm done. I'm done. You know that old story that
says if everyone sat down at a table and showed the weight and demons they pack
around and offered a trade, everyone would just take back what they brought? I
would love to trade someone else right now. Nothing looks as bad as this does
to me. But then again, who would want to trade me? Let's review shall we:
November: I get into a horrific car accident that required months
of chiropractic visits and pain; lots of pain and no car.
December: I have a cyst that is at the end of my
tailbone. I didn't know what it was so the chiropractor
tried to pop my back to help what he thought was a knot get loose. This cracked
the cyst and caused it to leak through my skin. I was in so
much pain I didn't think I could physically take it any longer. This got
infected to I had to drop pants in a doctor’s office and have two needles
jammed into my infected, painful skin to then have them cut me open and drain
the fluid. This hole had to stay open for 2 weeks and my poor husband had to
clean it three times a day.
February: Malignant Melanoma.
Sure doesn't get worse than that. Well, maybe it does.
I don't want to find out.
My poor husband John. I know everyone says the first year of
marriage is rough, but I don't think he signed on for any of this. Dating
wasn't this hard, nothing really happened all that much when we were dating. In
fact, all the "big problems" we had now look like a walk in the park.
Did we even have problems? Pretty sure we didn't.
Now he's here and sometimes I feel it would be better for him to
cut his losses and try again with someone who isn't such a fantastic mess. But
at the same time I am so in love and so dependent on him I don't know what I
would do without him. He is my best friend, my one true love and the man I had
been hoping for since I was young.
Today is March 3rd. I got surgery on my arm to remove the cancer
on the 1st.
On February 28th, John and I drove to the hospital to get a
"mapping" done. What this means is they injected the site of the
melanoma (my upper left arm) with 4 shots
of radioactive material that would show up on a scan. The
material would travel where melanoma usually travels and show my surgeon where
to cut. The lymph nodes I guess would light up and *snip *snip she would take
them out.
The doctor who was explaining the procedure to me said "This
won't be bad, it's just like 4 little bee stings". In my head I was
thinking "are you crazy?! bee stings? Those hurt! Really bad! I don't want
them anywhere near me!"
Oh well. Remember my cyst? Those painful little needles
they jammed into my skin? Well, I got four more. Not only does the needle hurt,
the radio active crap lingers and stings as it moves. I cried, bit my shirt and
hung onto John's hand for dear life. Call me a wimp, call me faint of heart, I
don't care. No cancer, no opinion.
After that was done, they took photo after photo with this giant
MRI looking thing. I have no other word for it. I'm not a medical student nor
do I have any interest in the field other than an occasional Grey's Anatomy
episode. It took 4 hours of waiting, scans and finally having a doctor come out
and say we can leave.
That night John and I stayed at a quaint little place called
"The Pavillion Inn". We swam, soaked in a hot tub and watched tv like
any other couple. John gave me a beautiful blessing. The words of my Father in
Heaven swirled around me a like a fleece blanket. I will be ok, financial
burdens will resolve themselves, John and I have a lot to accomplish still, I
am loved and will be fine...money couldn't buy these words. I clung on to them
as I prepared myself for tomorrow. I have to face so many unknowns. I've never
been under anesthesia. I've never had to have surgery and I don't like it. At
all.
That morning, I woke up, dragged myself through the routine of
getting ready and way too soon it’s time to go to the hospital. This hospital
is huge! Building after building passes by as we look for number 5. I feel like
grabbing the wheel and driving until I hit San Deigo and living forever on a
beach. Yeah right, what am I thinking? I can’t see the sun anymore. I’m a
vampire.
I check in, fill out some
paperwork and am led back to a room where a nurse tells me to hop on a scale,
takes my measurements, I pee in a cup and now I'm dressed in a hospital gown
and pants. I feel so small and out of place. I don't want to do this. Someone
please tell me I don't have to go through with this. I don't want to look at my
gorgeous husband and see his eyes look back with fear. I don't want to pretend
that I'm ok. I don't want to do this. Please.
No one comes to the door
saying "Stop! It was a mistake! There's another Kayla that has cancer, not
you!” No one comes to my rescue; just an orderly who tells me to put on a hair
net and to lie down.
As I am wheeled down the hall, David Bowie's "Heroes"
plays in my head. I wish this was a dream that I could just wake up from. We
take an elevator, then I have to say goodbye to John. I’m lying there, looking
up at my best friend thinking “what if this is the last time I see him? What if
I never wake up from anesthesia?” These thoughts make little stinging tears
come into the corners of my eyes. John just looks back at me, smiles, kisses me
and says “See you soon, I love you!”
I miss him all ready. He is
taken to a waiting room and I am rolled down a hall where one door says
"Chemo". Comforting.
I am lying in my bed, rolling through my thoughts and all I can
think of is a hymn. "I Need Thee Every Hour". I sing in my head, both
in English and Italian and wait to meet my surgeons. I feel someone shaking my
arm. I had fallen asleep and now had two smiling, masked faces peering down at
me. Yep, there's that same look. "I'm sorry you are dying". They
introduce themselves as my doctors, tell me I'm not going to remember a thing
and that everything will be fine. Dr. Aden is my anesthesiologist and he comes,
shakes my hand and then starts putting something into my IV. I know he's
talking, but I don't understand what he's saying. Everything is
getting kind of fuzzy.
I am just bawling. I can't stop. Everything hurts. My heart hurts.
My tears sting and my arm is a butchered mess. I feel
like Frankenstein's monster. I don't know where John
is and whoever is trying to wake me up has got to STOP! Enough! I am
done! Where is he?
I am so nauseous. I hear voices and I talk but what on Earth did I
say? I have no idea. I try and wake up but everything is so fuzzy.
A machine is beeping. Ugh! It is so annoying!
"Breathe!"
Who said that? I think it's a nurse. Is John flirting? No. But in
my head all I see is mascara and blonde hair.
The machine doesn't let my breath go beneath 98. What does 98 even
stand for? Stupid machine.
I'm so tired. John tries to
help me but I am so mad! Why do I have to breathe so hard! Enough!
"You have to move". This is barked at me by someone with
a very thick accent.
Two people push me into a more sitting position and it HURTS! My
arm is on fire! Can't anyone tell? What did they do to me? Why don't they give
medicine? Have they no compassion??! LET ME ALONE!!!
Ok. I'm awake. I want to go home.
Gingerly and with no small amount to moaning and ribbons of pain
shooting up my armpit, I get into a wheelchair and one of the nicest nurses
I've been introduced to takes me outside to see John.
"Get better and eat a frosty".
That's all I remember apart from the delightful hug she gave me.
On the way home, I am so sick. And mad! Why am I so mad? I don't
remember much of anything else but just being mad. We stop at a Wendy's in
Ogden and I grab a cup and crush it, shooting watered down coke and ice all
over John's car.
I'm crying again. John seems kind of afraid. I don't know why
I just did that. Why would someone do that? That was so dumb.
Crap. Now I'm crying.
I cry and eat my stupid frosty as John goes in and pays for gas.
Stupid frosty. Everything is so just STUPID! I'm mad again.
Oh no.
I'm going to throw up.
"BAG! Help!"
I just lost my frosty. And while trying to open my door with my
hurt arm, I cry, am in pain and have just dropped my bag of barf on the
concrete ground and watched helplessly as it splatters all over me.
This is not my favorite day.
John isn't even fazed. He just hops out of the car and starts
cleaning my disgusting, second hand ice cream out of his car and off of me.
And what am I doing? You guessed it, crying.
I'm so tired. So, I sleep. Hoping it will just
all go away in the morning.
