Dog Lived (and So Will I)

by Rhyne, Teresa J.

  “I don’t want you to be surprised, so I’m calling to let you know ahead of time,” he said.

  “I’ve been surprised a lot lately, so you’re kind of scaring me.”

  “Sorry. Well, you might be scared. My mom is going to call you.”

  Might be scared? In the four years Chris and I had been together, I had never had a phone conversation with anyone in his family, and I think we all liked it that way. Even though Chris had patched things up with his parents, I still felt their disapproval of me had only been ratcheted down to disappointment.

  I got no further work done but rather sat at my desk running through scenarios. I decided the likely reason for the call was to implore me to break up with Chris. Why should a thirty-three-year-old young man have to go through something like breast cancer with his girlfriend? It wasn’t fair to him. And since I’d had that thought myself, I’d be hard-pressed to argue with her. The best I could come up with, sitting alone at my desk anxiously awaiting the call, was, “It’s up to Chris.” Pathetic.

  The phone rang.

  I let it ring a second time. I considered not answering.

  I decided to be an adult. A frightened, vulnerable, defensive adult…but an adult.

  Then I struggled with how to answer the phone. A simple “hello” when I answered my office phone would sound too casual and perhaps give away that Chris had called to warn me of her impending call. “Law office” sounded too formal. On the fourth ring, I answered with “Teresa Rhyne,” realizing just a tad too late how stupid that sounded, especially the way I’d phrased it as a question. Teresa Rhyne? Maybe? Don’t hurt me?

  “Hi, Teresa, it’s Trudi.”

  “Oh, um, hi.” Ah, yes, there’s the familiar conversational brilliance under pressure.

  “I spoke with Chris, and I wanted to call to welcome you to the C Club.”

  Welcome me? Well, maybe she thought I would die and that would solve her problem. “Um, thanks…I think.”

  “No, it’s not anything anyone wants, I know that. But it is a club, and you don’t realize it until you go through it. I don’t know if Chris told you this, but I’m a breast cancer survivor myself. Sixteen years now. So I know you can do this. You’re strong; you’ll get through this.”

  I’m strong? She thinks I’m strong? And she sounded genuinely concerned. Caring. I was able to do a little math, too. If she was a sixteen-year survivor, she was the same age when she got diagnosed that I was now. And she had three kids, the youngest of whom would have been eight years old at the time.

  “Thank you. I think I will get through it. I don’t really have a choice.” Did I sound ungrateful? Remote?

  “Chris will be strong for you, too. I told him he needs to go to every appointment with you. That’s what his dad did for me, and it makes all the difference.”

  “Chris has been great. I’m very lucky there. He has gone to every appointment with me, and he’s kept me laughing.”

  “Jim was the only husband in the chemo room most of the time. A lot of men can’t handle this; it’s shocking. But the Kern men can handle it. I told Chris he’d have his mama to answer to if he doesn’t support you.”

  Wow. Had we progressed more than I’d given credit for? Maybe I’d been projecting my own fears a bit. “He’s really supportive. He’s even now set up a blog for me so I can update everyone without repeating myself all the time.”

  “You’ll have to give me the address. I want to be updated. And the girls will want to follow, too, I’m sure. They’re worried about you, too.”

  We talked for twenty minutes as both my surprise and skepticism decreased, when I finally realized cancer had given us the common ground to talk to each other as people, not obstacles. She told me about her surgery and chemotherapy and was careful to tell me how much better the treatment is now. She told me how important it was to her when she went through treatment that her illness not affect her children. She also offered to accompany me to chemotherapy. I assured her Chris would be going with me and, if necessary, my dad would as well.

  While I couldn’t quite yet conceive of she and I doing something as personal—as intimate—as going together to my chemotherapy treatment, I was grateful for the call. I felt a shift in our relationship in just those twenty minutes. No, not a shift. That’s not quite right. Before this we had no relationship. And now we did. I was no longer the person who might be ruining her son’s life, and she was no longer the person who might be trying to ruin mine. We were women who both had breast cancer and both loved Chris. This was solid, common ground. This was enough to build on.

  Chris was as surprised as I was. I imagine his parents were equally surprised. And relieved.

  • • •

  I started writing more and more on my blog:

  Breast Cancer silver lining number one: who knew I had friends that were optimists?! And then there is the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever heard “I love you” so many times from so many people (well, sober people anyway). Plus, I’ve heard from lots of friends and family, including some I hadn’t heard from in a long time. More silver linings: some people have suggested that there might be weight loss with chemo (I try not to think what they clearly think of my current weight), and there is a certain focus to my life suddenly (I have time for two things: work and dealing with “this,” and hey, I can’t spend any money on anything else either....so that simplifies things greatly).

  And then finally there is the “CANCER WINS” silver lining. No, really, it’s a silver lining. Basically “I have cancer,” while true, is also a fantastic way to get out of anything and everything!! Oh, and get my way on anything and everything! Who can say no to “I have cancer, can you do me a favor?” No one!! (Okay, except Seamus—he is completely unmoved by this.) I’ll try not to let the power go to my head. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to conserve it for when I really need help. Besides, Chris is on to me.

  • • •

  I had full confidence in Dr. Karam. But that is not to say I went without my panic moments before the surgery. And each time I panicked, he responded with equal parts humor, information, and tranquility. Although he asked me to call him by his first name, Amer, I began to call him Dr. Good Karma instead.

  When I heard from a former secretary at my old law firm about a painful blue dye shot into the nipple for purposes of finding the sentinel lymph node pre-surgery, I emailed Dr. Karam as near tears as I had been yet in the process (save for the loss of Chloe, the cockapoo). The shot had been described to me as an eleven on a pain scale of one to ten, and I needed assurance (I needed denial!) from Dr. Karam. I sent the email just before I left my office at about seven in the evening. I should have just stayed put and waited for his response. I would have saved myself the agony of my overactive imagination for my entire fifteen-minute commute. Instead, although he’d responded almost immediately, I didn’t get his email until I was home, pouring the whole story out to Chris and elevating the pain level to something like 426 on a scale of 1 to 10.

  Dr. Karam’s response to me from his Blackberry was this:

  “The blue dye is the one I use in the operating rm when u r asleep so u won’t feel it plus my skilled hands will keep any pain away ;-). u may get some staining of the breast that is temporary and ure urine turns blue and green for a day (the college kids I teach always get a kick out of that). The shot u get in the morning is for that tiny bit of radioactive material that also goes to the sentinel lymph node and that is not painful. I use both techniques so I can make sure to find the sentinel node.”

  I was amused by the shorthand texting language. It looked not unlike what my niece posted on Facebook or in her rare text messages to me, only slightly easier to decipher. I knew what he was saying: Anesthesia is my friend. As is Dr. Good Karma. For life.

  Other pieces of advice, mostly unsolicited, came my way as well. Sometimes I
ignored it, and sometimes I emailed Amer with questions. He always answered quickly and thoroughly.

  My assistant Michelle was pregnant with her first child during this time. We compared stories of inappropriate comments from well-meaning (we hoped) people and both wondered why anyone felt that their own gruesome stories, be they of childbirth or chemotherapy, were going to be helpful. Michelle also let me know when one of my clients called inquiring after my health because she had overheard two men talking about my cancer diagnosis in a local restaurant one evening.

  Although I had set up a public blog, I hadn’t yet determined how I wanted to handle my diagnosis and treatment where my clients were concerned. Since I practice in estate planning, I am frequently discussing illnesses and death with my clients, but it didn’t seem right to bring my own illness or mortality into the conversation. And, from a practical standpoint, it wouldn’t do to have people thinking I was too sick to handle any clients or, worse, dying. Knowing that my right breast had become casual dinner talk made me realize I’d have to handle this head-on. I decided I’d be open and forthright about my cancer and the treatment—and I’d emphasize that I was still carrying on in my practice. I’d be that thing that I’d resisted for so long—perky and upbeat. Well, maybe just upbeat.

  • • •

  I went to the mayor’s State of the City address on Thursday, my first public foray post-diagnosis. From this small but extremely scientific survey, I can tell you there are four basic responses a person has to encountering someone who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, to wit:

  1.Person assumes serious, even pained, facial expression, grabs “cancer person” by hand, and winces in a barely audible voice, “I’ve heard about your situation/diagnosis/illness” (no one can utter the word cancer). “I’m soooooooooooooooooo sorry.” Then cocks his or her head to the side and continues peering at “cancer person” as if she is dying on the spot.

  2.Person assumes stoic face, says, “Hi. How are you?” to cancer person while glancing furtively at cancerous breast but refraining from in any way outwardly acknowledging that they’ve “heard.”

  3.Person rushes over to cancer person, hugs, smiles, or just generally effuses and says “Oh my god, I read your blog. It’s so great that you are keeping your sense of humor.” And frequently there’s the “If there is anything at all I can do, please let me know.” OR

  4.Person rushes up to “cancer person” and immediately begins a barrage of things “cancer person” must know, people who must be contacted, information that must be gathered, doctors’ names, other “cancer people” who must be talked to, and graphic descriptions of things that cancer person may have to endure but is in no mood to contemplate at the moment.

  Guess which response is my favorite? That would be #3. I think that if you know someone who has been diagnosed with cancer, and particularly breast cancer, there are a few things you should keep in mind. Early on, the person feels fine. I can’t tell, physically, that I have a disease right now. Other than the yellow-green fading bruise from the biopsy, physically I feel fine. So why wouldn’t I continue on with my normal life? So when you encounter a “cancer person,” if you know this person at all—treat her the same way you normally would! For those who may in the future be in categories 1, 2, or 4 above, a few comments:

  1.This response most frequently actually comes from men. I understand—men want to fix things and solve problems, and this is not one that most men can fix (Dr. Good Karma can, however!). But the response is awkward at best. Again, I still feel fine. And it makes me feel like I have to comfort YOU and assure YOU that everything will be all right. And hey, this is about ME!!

  2.You’re kidding when you look at my breast, right? Are you expecting to see something bursting Alien-like from my chest? I’d prefer “so I heard you’ve had some bad news lately” or something that at least opens the door for me to say “yes” or change the subject or do something other than think, “Wow, this person is really uncomfortable right now; I wonder what I did?”

  4.Um, wow. I can’t carry that kind of information in my head. And while I know you mean well, every woman’s situation is different, and I’m really, really squeamish so lots of the details need to be left out. I’ll deal with it when I have to. It’s better if you write something down or just say, “I know of a good doctor/someone who’s recently been through this/a great website” etc., followed by, “Would you like me to SEND you the information?” Much, much better. Because then “cancer person” (who has very little control over the disease she is recently battling) can at least maintain control over information and decisions. And the information is available when it’s needed. I can barely keep track of the number of doctor’s appointments, restrictions, instructions, tests, results, etc., that I currently have, let alone things I may encounter in a few months’ time.

  • • •

  I received a call about my stellar performance when getting my MRI. Or, at least, that’s how I liked to think about it. UCLA called to ask if I was willing to participate in a research study being conducted by more of those genius twelve-year-old scientists who seem to congregate on the UCLA Medical Center campus. Research was being conducted to find a way to diagnose breast cancer through a magnetic resonance spectropscopy rather than the more invasive biopsy. They needed volunteers who’d been diagnosed with breast cancer and were willing to have this additional procedure done before surgery. They were having a hard time recruiting volunteers.

  The time between diagnosis and surgery is a stressful time, and I understand that many folks need sedation in order to stay still in the MRI tube, so it was easy to see why getting volunteers might be difficult. But where others needed sedation, I merely needed a good idea—the blog—and I was set for an hour of confinement well spent inside my own head. I’m more frightened of those three-day cancer walks than I am an opportunity for a noble nap, so I agreed to participate in the study. Since Chris and I had already decided to stay the night at a hotel near the medical center the night before my surgery, the research scientists agreed to do the MRS that night as well.

  We headed into Los Angeles on a cool, windy January day with our suitcase packed for two days, a bottle of wine (for Dr. Karam), and reservations at the Angeleno Hotel, a high-rise, iconic round building with views of the city and the Getty Center, about a mile from UCLA. Shortly after we checked into the hotel and made our way to our room, Michelle emailed me a photo of flowers that had been sent to the office by clients. Later she emailed a photo of her and my paralegal wearing pink ribbon bracelets in solidarity and wishing me luck. Chris and I sat on the balcony enjoying the view for a few moments before the wind sent us back inside.

  The MRS was scheduled for 8:00 p.m. The building we had been directed to was empty when we arrived. We cautiously made our way down deserted hallways until we were met by another young, white lab-coat-wearing doctor who introduced himself as Scott and thanked me repeatedly for agreeing to participate in the study. After explaining the study again and having me sign paperwork, I was once again dressed in a hospital gown, lying on my stomach in a magnetic resonance tube. The noise the machine made was quieter and I didn’t have a blog to be creating in my head, but otherwise the procedure seemed similar to what I’d undergone before.

  Dr. Good Karma even appeared again in person to follow my treatment and, as he said, see what the scientists were studying. I only knew this when he spoke to me through the intercom of the machine and woke me from my nap.

  “How are you doing in there?” he said.

  Even waking from sleep to a voice with no body present, I recognized his distinct accent and happy cadence.

  “Well, I’m good so far. Thanks.”

  “We’re out here discussing wine and France.”

  I knew these to be two of his and Chris’s favorite subjects. “Well, just don’t forget me in here. And speaking of wine, am I allowed to have an
y tonight? As long as it’s before midnight?”

  “One glass. But make it a good one.”

  He was gone before I was removed from the tube, but it was nice to know he’d stopped by to answer the really important medical questions.

  Doctor’s orders: Chris and I had a delicious meal of poached egg on frissee salad with lardons and croutons, steak with gorgonzola butter, and truffle fries at West, the restaurant on top of the hotel. I savored a glass of Chateauneuf du Pape. Calories consumed the night before cancer surgery cannot possibly count.

  At five in the morning I was wide awake, but it wasn’t because of the food.

  Chapter 16

  GOING NUCLEAR

  We dutifully reported in to the surgery center at seven in the morning. So did about 163 other people. And apparently it was half-off-surgery-for-children day because they were lined up out the door. And crying. Children cry when confronted with surgery. I cry when confronted with 7:00 a.m. and no Starbucks. It was not a pretty or quiet scene. Again, I thought, the surgery center could learn from Seamus’s veterinary surgery center. Since Seamus received green dog bones by the handful each and every time we went to the Veterinary Cancer Group clinic, he associated that drive and that building with nothing more than adoring fans and nearly unlimited cookies. He raced into the building, tail high and wagging. Perhaps the human surgery centers should hand out something equally distracting. Seamus had his green bones; I could do with a little green Starbucks cup. I’d be more willing to submit to medical procedures.

  After they took everybody else back to surgery one by one and the family members dispersed, Chris and I were still huddled in the corner. When the clock ticked past 7:30 and then past 7:40, I approached the woman at the desk.

  “Hi. I’m supposed to be in nuclear medicine at 7:30.”

  “That’s not here.”