First Person: A phone call, discomfort and temporary insanity

Editor’s note: This is the first in a multi-part diary of one woman’s journey through breast cancer treatment.

In early June 2011, I learned I had breast cancer. This is my story and mine alone, and I wanted to share it during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Countless others have fought this with far less sarcasm and far greater dignity, but this was my way of coping. There is no right or wrong way. We are in a fight for our lives. Some surround themselves with friends and family, others just disappear into their personal space to deal with their fears. I fell into the last category.

Fear is a four-letter word for one of the strongest emotions a human can feel. When a person is attacked from outside, there is a fight- or-flight reaction. When you are attacked from inside — well, that’s another story.

Day 1

I had a phone call, the kind women fear receiving after they’ve had a mammogram. I’ve gone in faithfully for mammograms. Only once was there a sketchy result.

I was asked to return and have a more magnified mammogram that day. I was told a doctor would review the results immediately. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. On my drive back to the hospital, I recited Hail Marys and the Lord’s Prayer until I forgot the words.

After filling in paperwork I was escorted to a changing room and asked to put on the gown that never seems to fit. “Opening in the front, please.” I sat until I was taken into the lab with the machine that would press and mash my right breast into a blob resembling a piece of bread dough. I was too nervous to worry about the discomfort. I knew in my heart it would be another false read — but it wasn’t. The doctor later showed me a spot that hadn’t been there the previous year. I was told they would like to do an ultrasound to see if it was a cyst or a suspect nodule.

Changing back into my clothing, I went to radiology where I again changed into the requisite gown and submitted to an ultrasound. Less painful, but since I’d been squashed two days in a row I was quite tender. I heard the doctor and technician talking softly and then was told that it appeared the lump was not just a cyst and they wanted to perform a biopsy.

I don’t remember changing back into my clothes or doing anything but wanting to find a corner and curl up. I felt tears flowing down my face and neck. I had to pull myself together to get to my car but my legs felt disconnected. I sat in the changing room then locked myself in an adjacent restroom. When I finally got it together I went back outside and was handed a card with a date and time for the biopsy.

Back in my car, I went into “why me?” mode. There is no history of breast cancer in my family. I don’t smoke, rarely drink alcohol and am practically a vegetarian. I eat copious quantities of broccoli, Brussels sprouts and blueberries — “cancer-fighting” foods. On the drive home I remembered the words to the prayers.

I wanted to call a friend or my spouse for encouraging words but chose not to tell anyone. Please don’t judge me. There is enough for them to worry about in their own lives. I don’t want to add to that stress when perhaps there is nothing to worry about. I am hopeful the most I have to worry about is a long needle and a tender breast. But just in case, please say a prayer for me.

Day 3

I spent the last few nights not being able to sleep. I have never been good with needles. As a kid, I used to bolt from the doctor’s office and run as fast as I could until I’d come to a busy street where I would wisely stop to be hauled back for what awaited me.

The hospital biopsy room consisted of a table with a hole in the center where you would lie down and insert the “offending” breast. This machine was not built for comfort. I was informed about the process — sounds, discomfort and the length of time the entire procedure would take. I was frightened more than I can say.

As I lay in a semi-contorted position, one side of my face down, the other looking at a pink wall, I can still tell you how many strands of hair fell over my one open eye as I was pressed, probed, stuck with needles — blessedly filled with Lidocaine — until finally I heard the “noise” and knew a portion of the “nodule” had been removed and a marker inserted.

Bandaged and given a card with the name of a surgeon “just in case,” I left for home feeling relatively confident. But, by the time I arrived home, I had hemorrhaged. I drove back to the hospital. In retrospect, driving alone was probably a pretty crazy thing to do, but I was oddly calm!

Once there, I covered my right side so as not to frighten others. But seriously, I looked as though I had been shot. Apparently the biopsy needle had grazed an artery in my breast. The nurses and the doctor worked on me for what seemed forever, calming me at the same time. When I started shaking, I was given some apple juice.

After the bleeding was stemmed, I was trussed tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey. A nurse called my daughter, who had someone drive her to the hospital. I hadn’t anticipated the actual mess in my car. I’d lost more blood than I thought. Face it; my clothing drenched in blood was a bit of a give-away. Even though it had been placed in a hazmat bag and I’d been given a hospital top to wear home, my secret was out. I had to tell my husband, which I hadn’t wanted to do until I had results. You see, as a kid he lost his mother to breast cancer.

Day 4

I received a call from my doctor at 11:13 a.m. The results of the biopsy were in and “the results were positive for invasive ductal carcinoma.”

I couldn’t breathe. I probably needed more apple juice right about then. My daughter saw my face and knew instantly the news was bad. This is pretty much all I remember of this day.

Day 6

I phoned the surgeon’s office, scheduled an appointment and was emailed a 20-page questionnaire. Still numb from the news, I called my internist who said, “Yep, you have cancer. Good luck, you found it early.” Until that moment I really hadn’t heard the “C” word. Until then, it hadn’t seemed real.

It was like he was congratulating me for winning a lottery! “Yep, lucky me,” I remember thinking as I slammed the phone down. I started screaming some pretty bad words. I remember hitting the refrigerator hard enough that I thought I broke my hand.

My husband ran in to check on me and I thought he was laughing. Later, I learned he had been crying. I screamed and shouted, “Don’t laugh at me, don’t you dare laugh at me.” I know I pushed him away. I went to the garage and to my still-bloodstained car and locked myself in. I put the seat down all the way and sobbed. I was afraid of myself. I wondered how I would tell my other children and family members. I don’t know how long I was in that car, but the gardeners came and went and I didn’t care that they blew all the dirt toward the house instead of away from it. When I finally got over my meltdown, I went inside and my spouse was just sitting in the chair, in the fading afternoon light, waiting for me.

I now believe there is such a thing as temporary insanity.

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ELAINE LA MARR is a La Cañada Flintridge resident. The is the first of a multi-part series of “First Person” columns containing the journal entries she made during her treatment for breast cancer.