Task number one: save your life
No doctor ever "broke the news" to me about my cancer diagnosis. No one ever said the words, "Liz, you have cancer."
I've read many books and articles written by people with cancer about the day of their diagnosis. The stories are emotional and dramatic, but I read these accounts like an outsider because I didn't have that kind of moment.
Brain tumors are special cases discovered via odd symptoms. I had one symptom, and as soon as it occurred I had an MRI and a mass was found. Doctors and I watched it change over a few weeks and decided I should have surgery. When a brain mass grows you know something is happening.
Of course, doctors said that the mass could be a tumor—cancerous even. I took everyone's positivity for granted because... why would I expect people to treat me otherwise? After surgery we requested to have the surgical report and pathology faxed to Bob. Kaiser won't email sensitive medical content and we had to twist their arm and say that he was my attorney.
Bob was the first person to officially know. He got the pathology on a Thursday and we talked later that night. He asked if I wanted to know right then (if I had cancer), or if I wanted to know later after he got a chance to digest the information and provide me with his Cliff Notes. At that moment I was at Brett's old apartment and we were watching the "When We Left Earth" DVD series about the space race of the 1960s. I figured if I didn't have cancer Bob would have been so happy he would have said it. But he asked if I wanted to know and I said no, I didn't want to know Thursday night. I wanted to finish Thursday with Brett. I wanted to watch the rest of the DVD, and go to bed that night as someone without cancer. I wanted pretend for one last day.
On Friday morning, October 3, 2008, Bob sent an email to Brett and I with his notes and a PDF of the pathology report. Brett saw it first and laid down on his bed with his face in the pillows. I read his message next. His email didn't contain the phrase "you have cancer", but it did refer to the pathology and that it said I have a type of cancerous brain tumor. (You've got to love an attorney who can "allude to a diagnosis" without specifically accusing me of having "said diagnosis".)
Over the following week I met with four different types of doctors. They didn't know if I knew what was going on. They began each appointment with a question. "So, what do you know?" But because I already knew I answered the question like this:
"I have a grade 2 astrocytoma. This is a tumor made from star-shaped cells called astrocytes. This tumor is in the glioma family. A grade 2 means the tumor is on the slow growing end of the spectrum."
The only time I felt tears was when my neurologist said, "Number one: save your life. That's number one. Then, worry about everything else."
So here I am. I'm working on task number one: saving my life.
