Diagnosis

Friday, July 27. Dayton is in a pissy mood. He wants to be out on the boat, but we have to go the Doctor's office first. It's cutting into his day. We get everything packed and ready to go, we'll go from the Doc straight to the marina. Just as we get ready to leave, the nurse calls. "Doctor B is still in surgery, running late, could you come in at 11?" I say OK, then tell Dayton. He's ticked even more. "This is taking up my whole day! What a waste of time."

Since we're packed and ready to leave, we decide to stop for breakfast on the way. Stockholm Inn has great Swedish pancakes. It's been rainy and cloudy all morning, and that's good, since we want to bring Geronimo with. He can guard the car (he does an excellent job of that), and then we can go straight to the boat. But with the hour delay, the clouds are beginning to break up when we reach the clinic. "I'll go out and check on him if we have to wait long," grumbles Dayton. "I hope this Doctor doesn't make us wait."

The waiting room is the busiest I've seen, and it seems that all the women are pregnant or carrying new-born babies. It's odd to be sharing the room with them, my problem may originate in the same organ, but they are normal, and I am not. It's a little depressing. Don't get me wrong, I've never had children, and I've never wanted children, and I've never regretted that decision. I just feel like an outsider.

At 11:05 am., the nurse calls my name, and I ask if Dayton can come in too. "Of course," and we are escorted to one of the tiny exam rooms. She takes my blood pressure, then says the doc will be right in.

Dr. B comes in. He shakes Dayton's hand, he takes my hand, then stands at the desk with my file. "I wanted you to come in today, because we got the biopsy results late yesterday. I almost called and asked you to come in last night, but it was late. And I thought about waiting until your follow-up next week, but this is your life, and you deserve to know. We found cancerous cells in your uterus."

I have cancer.
I have cancer.
I have cancer.

The world is still and quiet. Dayton has stopped breathing - the man who is never still is as still as a statue.

I have cancer.

I watch Doctor B as he pulls out the biopsy report. "Here, I want you to see it in writing. I want you to see that this is the report on your biopsy. See, here is your name. See, here is the result." He reads the words. I understand.

I have cancer.

Dayton moves, and takes my hand. I can't look at him. I just keep looking at Doctor B. He keeps talking. I start shaking. I'm so cold. Dayton puts his arm around me, Doctor B hands me the box of tissues. I hear him saying things like "I am so sorry. I was so surprised. I thought the tissues looked fine. But that's why we sent them to the labs, so they can find the things we can't see. You deserved to know, you needed to know."

I have cancer. I have cancerIhavecancerIhavecancerIhavecancer.

Oh my God, how can I tell my mom that I have cancer?????

That's when I start to cry. Not hard, not long. Just a short weep. But I can't lose control right now, I have to listen to what he is saying. And I can see how much he hates telling me all this.

And I can feel Dayton shaking, and I can hear him trying to control his breathing, and I know he's trying so hard not to fall apart, and I can't do anything to comfort him. Because this is me. I'm the one with cancer.

He's talking about more tests, and referring me to a specialist. I will have to have a full hyterectomy, and they will pull the lymph nodes and check them, too. But there is nobody in town that specializes in gynecologic oncology. He suggests Rush, Northwestern, UW-Madison. I latch on to Rush - that's where my Mom had her cancer surgery years ago. He asks if I want him to go ahead and set things up, and I say, "yes, please."

He leaves the room, and Dayton holds me. I start berating myself. "It's my own fault. It's my own damn fault. Why was I so stupid to go so long without being checked? I know better than this! I knew the risks! Why didn't I get myself checked?" Dayton tries to soothe me, "Hon, it's not your fault." Dr. B walks back in and Dayton says, "Tell her, it's not her fault."

And Dr B says, "No, it is NOT your fault. Even if you had come in 6 months ago, we would not have found this. This is not a cancer that is normally tested for. We don't usually find it until the patient is in pain. Please, if nothing else, don't blame yourself. It is not your fault."

I'm absolved. I'm still in shock, but the blame is gone.

He wants me to schedule a pelvic CT and a chest X-ray. I'm to call his office as soon as the tests are done. We'll move on from there. He gives me a prescription for Vicidin, so that I'm not in as much pain. He's going to be gone all weekend, but he offers his pager number in case I want to call him. I don't want it. I just want to get out of this building as fast as possible.

As we stand, he gives me a big hug. "You're going to be OK," I think he says. He shakes Dayton's hand. "Call the office if you need anything." I can't talk. I walk out of the office. Dayton catches up with me at the elevators. "Do you want to go make those appointments? They are on the first floor." We reach the first floor, and I walk toward the outside doors. They are so far away. "Hon, do you want to go make those appointments?"

"I need Geronimo. I need to see Geronimo." We go out the doors to the parking lot. As soon as the outside air hits, I start to whimper. "I have cancer. Oh, God, I have cancer. I could die of this."

Geronimo is frantic when we reach the car. It's gotten sunny, and he's hot. Dayton clips the leash on and the pup and I take off. There a grassy area surrounding the parking lot, and I take the pup over there. I walk him - but I feel blind and empty. I don't know where Dayton is, I just need to walk.

After a while Dayton comes to me and holds me. I'm just stunned, I can't process this. "Come on, hon, let's go make those appointments." So I go back in the clinic, find radiology, and ask to be scheduled for the tests. Monday morning at 8:00 is the first opening, and I take it. The cheerful clerk hands me a jug. "Drink half of this 2 hours before the CT, and the rest 1 hour before." She gives me a page of instructions. I tuck them into my red folder, and go back out to the parking lot to Dayton.

He's already started calling people. His daughter Shawn is there in the parking lot. She sees me and comes running up, throws her arms around me. "We love you, Leanne. I called my brothers, and I called my mom, and we're all praying for you."

Of course I cry and she cries and Dayton cries and Geronimo fusses because he's hot and nobody is paying any attention to him. Shawn asks, "have you called your mom yet?"

"I can't, I can't, I can't tell my mom. I'll tell her next week. She has my niece with her this week, let her enjoy their time together before I have to tell her this." Shawn insists, "No, you need to tell her." I try again. "I can't tell her over the phone. I have to tell her in person. And we're going to the boat now. I'll go see her next week and tell her." And Shawn fixes her eyes on her dad and says, "If you want to go tell your Mom in person then Dad will take you now, won't you, Dad?"

But I can't tell her right now. I promise that I'll call her later today, after we get to the boat. I promise. I will tell my mom.

It's a 90-minute drive to the marina. Sometimes we talk, sometimes I just stare out the window and weep. About 15 minutes before the marina, we pull over in Galena so Dayton can take a call on his cell phone. I remember that my phone is still turned off, so I turn it on.

There is one message. It came in at 11:11 a.m. "Hi, it's Mom. Just calling to see if you're doing OK."

11:11. That's when Doctor B was giving us the diagnosis. She didn't kow about the appointment this morning. I didn't tell her. But Mom already knows. I'll have to confirm it, but deep inside, she knows.

That's when I lose it. Deep, wracking sobs. I'm curled over again, but this time the pain is emotional, not physicial. When Dayton comes back to the car, it takes a long time for him to quiet me down.

At the boat, I make a cup of tea, then run down the battery of my cell phone. Mom's not home, so I call Donna, Linda, Mom again (no answer) Sue, Karen, Mom again (no answer), Kathy, my sister (no answer), Mom again. Dayton goes off to do boat stuff while I'm calling, and it's good to have some privacy for the calls. Each call gets a little easier. It helps to tell people. Everybody has a pearl of wisdom to share that will help me get through this. I am so blessed with my friends.

I finally get hold of Mom on her cell phone. She's at the mall with my niece. I can't give her the news there. I keep my voice light. "Oh, I just thought I'd fill you in on my week. We're about ready to go get dinner and groceries. How about I call you at home when I get back."

It works.

I have a glass of wine at dinner. I deserve it. I have cancer, and if I want a drink at dinner, then I will have one. I won't take the Vicidin until bedtime anyway.

Back at the boat, I try Mom again. And she is home. I ask her about her week, she tells me of the fun she and Shawnee have had. But we're not fooled. She knows, and when she is ready, she asks.

And I tell my Mom that I have cancer. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. She does OK, we both hold it together. She asks me to call my sister, and I tell her I've already tried a couple times, but I'll keep trying. We hang up.

Dayton asks, "how did she take it?" And I tell him, "I know she fell apart as soon as hung up the phone. But Shawnee is there, and my Uncle Bill is staying there too, and so she is not alone. And she will be OK."

I call my sister, and tell her the news, too. And finally I'm done calling for the day. I'm done with the day. There is nothing left to do but take the pill that will help me deal with the cancer pain, and try to sleep.