That’s how I feel right now. The doctor came into the room, felt my armpit, looked at my breast, asked if my family lives in the area . . . no, they’re all back in Canada . . . then told me I have cancer.
Never have I been so physically moved by so few words. I gasped, cried, and listened. I’m still gasping, crying and listening (as my husband reads through the Breast Cancer Care booklet and describes the possible treatments and surgeries I’ll have – sweet, but more for his sake than mine at this point; I can’t listen at all).
And all the while I just can’t believe I have cancer. Me? ME? Are they sure it’s me?
I cannot fully believe it. I wonder if people who win lotteries share a similar disbelief.
Before, in the waiting room, I watched families and pregnant women filter through the system and get called into hospital rooms. They all looked so calm, like things were going to plan. Zsolt and I were planning on having kids soon, but that will have to wait. The nurse said there is a possibility of freezing my eggs, in case I don’t become fertile again after treatment.
More good news – did you know I could lose my entire breast? It’s not even unlikely. It’s a possibility. My tumour is near the nipple, and I have small breasts. Oh my god.
They’re sending me on scans to check whether the cancer has spread anywhere else. I’m praying it hasn’t. Praying very hard.
So I guess this will become a blog about cancer. My name is Catherine, and apparently – unless I can switch places with the latest lottery winner – I have cancer. Frig.
There will be more to write later. But for now, this is enough.
Oh yes, and I’m scared. That too. I’m really quite scared.
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