Without Hesitation

Now in the recovery room, the effects of the sedation are fading. My first reaction to the cancer diagnosis, strange as it may seem, is…RELIEF. I know I’ve been hedging my bets for a long, long time. I’ve been pushing myself, overwhelmed by my responsibility as a single parent. Working too hard, at times six and seven days a week, following the example of some of my worst workaholic nurse role models. When I worked as an ER nurse a few years back, I had idolized my head nurse, known for working two eight-hour shifts back to back for as many as fourteen or fifteen days in a row. One of our colleagues once joked that if she could catheterize herself on the floor of the ER she would, so she didn’t have to waste time in the bathroom. I would say to myself in an attempt to assuage my exhaustion, as well as my anxiety, “Next year I’ll take care of myself. Next year I’ll ease up and take some time to enjoy life.” My second reaction to the diagnosis is TOTAL, UNMITIGATED TERROR! I lie on the stretcher knowing that, despite the IV valium that’s still in my system, I can’t relax. All I want is to be up and dressed and talking to my doctor. I ask a nurse nearby to remove my IV so I can get dressed. She coolly informs me that it’s advisable for me to wait for an hour to allow the effects of the IV sedation to wear off. After thirteen years of working in a hospital, I know the nurse riff well. She’s following her protocol. I don’t fault her. I’m just not buying it. “I’m not sedated,” I hear myself say, “I want this IV out of my arm so I can get dressed. If you won’t take it out, I’ll take it out myself.” I’m fully aware that I’m being a “bad patient.” But I’m in no mood to be compliant. My whole life is being turned upside down. I sit upright on the edge of the stretcher and again threaten to remove my IV. Although the nurses continue to protest, I sense a flurry of activity in the background. Someone has apparently obtained permission to waive the customary routine. My IV is removed. I walk as if in a trance to the changing area and get dressed. I’m then led to an adjoining room that I realize is actually a classroom. Dr. Schaeffer sits at the head of the class in front of a series of blackboards. She motions for me to sit in one of the student desks, arranged in rows in front of her. The Kafkaesque nature of this set up is not lost on me. I’m about to receive the most bizarre lesson of my life. Dr. Schaeffer’s expression is stern, her comments succinct. “With the type of cancer you have,” she explains, “there is a 30% chance that it will spread to the unaffected breast. I advise bilateral mastectomies and a dissection of the left axillary lymph nodes. If the lymph nodes are positive, you’ll need to have chemotherapy. Can I schedule you for next Monday?” I suck in my breath. Images of myself breastless and scarred flash through my mind. I’m terrified. Of the cancer…of the surgery. The cancer fear is winning. All I can think of is—Do anything you need to me; I just want to live to see my daughter grow up. Yet I don’t say this. Even with the desperation I’m feeling, I’m unprepared to give an unqualified “yes” to her question. As a medical provider, I know I have time. The lump has been there for nine months since I first discovered it. A few more weeks will hardly make a difference. So why rush into a decision? Panic wells up in me, nonetheless, as I feel Dr. Schaeffer’s fear feeding into mine... In this moment only, I decide I must follow her recommendations. My doctor continues to speak as these conflicting thoughts and feelings suddenly converge in a mental whirlpool threatening to pull me under. “I also recommend that we do the reconstruction immediately. We can start right on the operating table. We’ll get a more symmetrical result if we remove both breasts and do both reconstructions at the same time,” she says, as if describing a kitchen remodeling. She waits for my answer.