Ready, get set, cut!

I remember piecing it all together--the phone calls, the appointments, the testing, the research, the look on my Ob/Gyn.'s face when it was confirmed that I had what everything in my being told me I already knew I had...cancer! And even when your brain reminds you that you had a hunch, your soul still takes a punch to the gut and your heart aches for what is surely to come. Or, even scarier, what you've yet to learn. I know ignorance is bliss, but where cancer's concerned, that's a death sentence...the unknown.

So we sat waiting in this little exam room...waiting for the next phase of my life to be explained in detail to me. In extreme detail. :( Matt sat in an appropriately uncomfortable chair behind me as I took my place on the exam table. Little did we know, this would become a routine position for both of us--me on the exam table and Matt sitting quietly behind, taking it all in. Most men avoid these situations at all cost--sitting idly by while their wives get poked, prodded and cut apart by another man in the most intimate of positions. Girls, you know that position all to well--the "yearly" position. ;) For the past 5 years, this was my thrice yearly position. You see, I have been battling cervical dysplasia since I was pregnant with my second child. Never before that did I have an abnormal pap, but for whatever reason, my body decided age 27 was a great time to start. And they weren't even that abnormal...just a few cells here and there, enough to warrant the more invasive testing (colposcopy). That was my routine, abnormal pap, absolutely, 100% normal colposcopy...once, twice, sometimes three times a year for five years. My Ob/Gyn. said that I was his perpetual colp patient and that I was a champ-barely a flinch each and every time a piece of me was taken away for testing. In all reality, for most women, cervical dysplasia just fizzles away on its own or the colposcopies chissel away at the abnormal tissue and the diseased portion is eventually gone. He'd light me up with the dye and ready the microscope and always, the same response was uttered from his mouth..."I don't see anything at all, but we'll take some samples anyhow." Year after year, this was my routine and both the doctor and myself truly believed that at some point, I would be cured. I mean, come on, how can such a diligent patient end up with cancer? I was the faithful one, the one who did everything I was told to do. The one who DID NOT have HPV. I'd been tested several different times by a couple different doctors and never once did they find any strain of HPV, the leading cause of cervical cancer. Not that it would matter if I did, my care would be the same either way. But I didn't have it and to this day, my tissues have been sliced, diced, tested and retested and still, no HPV anywhere to be found. But I've digressed, as always. ;)

Where were we...oh yeah, Matt sitting behind me as I get the one over by a new doctor. But not just any doctor, a gynecological oncology surgeon at a renowned hospital. Let us call him "Dr. Meany" which is really funny since his real name may or may not rhyme with his fake persona. He's a million years old if he's a day and has the personality of a dishrag. I don't know quite what to make of him, but he lets us in on the secret soon enough. He finishes the VERY invasive testing as my husband sits quietly by and exits the room so that I can dress. Dr. Meany reenters with the same blah face and demeanor and says, "well, you have cervical cancer and its a bad one." (was there a good one I didn't know about?) Dr. Meany, "you're going to need a radical hysterectomy where I will remove the upper part of the vagina, don't worry, you've got enough that it'll stretch back into shape (geez, thanks doc), your cervix, uterus, appendix, maybe that left ovary with a cyst on it and ALL of your abdominal lymph nodes from one side, clear to the other. You'll need to live with a catheter for 6 weeks since we have to go around your kidneys, uretars and bladder. There could be permanent damage to the bladder..it's common with this major surgery." Huh?? I attempt a winded response, "wow, let me just process all of that for a moment!" To which he blandly replies, "uhm, you don't have to process it." WHAT? Who the Hell gets informed that they need a 7-8 hour gutting and doesn't feel the need to be a tad taken aback? Oh wait, dead people, that's right. Not a normal, 31 year old woman with two very small children at home! No one in their right mind at the very least! We finish our appointment together and he walks us over to the surgery scheduler who is just as "pleasant" as Dr. Meany. Matt and I just sit in the chairs staring at one another..."what just happened? how did it get this bad? where did we go wrong?"...all thoughts that are in silent conversation between us. WTF is really what we wanted to say! The bland lady recaptures our attention as we attempt to gather our thoughts and anxst. "We can perform your surgery either March 11 or March 23...which would you prefer?" Neither thank you. "Well, the 11th is my birthday," She interrupts, "oh, Happy birthday." Yeah right. I tell her to pen me in for that day and I notice Matt's face turning different and darker shade of red as each second passes. His leg has also started to shake...not a good sign. I can just imagine the obscene language that is going to be purged from his mouth once we exit this hospital...it is going to be ugly (and it was).

We leave with our big white folder of fun and the cursing begins..."that piece of #^%$ doctor is not going to lay one f^%*ing finger on you! Over my dead f^%$ing body!!" I haven't seen Matt this mad in years, if ever. I'm normally quite verbose and have something to say about every and anything, but at this point, nothing. I can barely see through the intense tears that are falling from my eyes. Matt just cusses along as we proceed home. As for me, I just sat in the passenger's seat, waiting for the coherent thought that did not come till' much later that evening when I was all alone. We make it home and Matt needs to head back to work to relieve the friend who came in for him. He asks, "do you want me stay home with you? I will if you need me to?" And although it was tempting, I needed some time to make peace with at least part of it before I could really let him in. If I could handle it, I knew he could to (and he knew it). I wipe my tear-stained face with a baby wipe and go to meet my Mom and kids inside awaiting our return. Matt gives the kids a kiss and hugs me with more vigor than I can remember in a long time and leaves to return to the station. I chat with my kids for awhile and they go back to playing whatever it was before I came home. My Mom asks how it went and I tell her everything from start to finish. There's just something about discussing traumatic things with your Mom specifically that induces major tearage. Thankfully, my kids weren't around to see me lose it. I tell Mom about the 7-8 hour surgery where I'm going to be gutted like a halibut; the fact that I have to be in the hospital and away from my kids for 7-10 days (I've never been away from them for more than 2 nights); Dr. Meany was just that, mean! And on and on and on. She says, "well, you just have to do it." To which I reply, "duh, of course I have to do it, I'm just not happy right now." I take her to dinner, a thank you for watching the kids while we went to my appointment. I refused to answer any anxious phone calls or text messages will we ate. Again, I just needed to be able to wrap my own mind around everything before I could let everyone else in on the sitch without breaking down every time (and not in front of my kids). And quite frankly, I just needed an hour or so to not have to replay the whole horrible ordeal again and again in my mind. Every time I uttered the words "catheter" and "radical hysterectomy" I audibly heard my heart break a little more. Whether you are done bearing children or not, those parts of you assist to make a woman, feel like a woman. I knew there'd be a grieving period coming soon.

The next day, the tears were gone. I allowed myself a minor pity party and decided to give my primary Ob/Gyn. a call to see if there were any other gynecological oncology surgeons around that I could approach for a second opinion. The bitch of it is, there are very few of these wizards around, in fact, only three hospital in this area that can do this surgery-Loma Linda (uh hum, Dr. Meany), UCI and City of Hope. My doc informs me that he's never been able to get a patient into City of Hope under my medical group specifically and UCI doesn't have a contract with Blue Shield of California (huh, its blue shield, doesn't everyone take b.s.? NOPE). I told him that I was confused by the consultation and I wanted to see another doctor. He reminds me that "Dr. Meany" is an oncology surgeon and many times, that's just the way they are...brilliant, but inhuman and robotic. I had other adjectives in mind, but whatever. ;) He also says, "he's the best at what he does and he will get it all."

I eventually got in to see another doctor out at UCI who was better able to explain everything in its entirety. He took a look at my insurance carrier and said, "whomever does your surgery, and I don't think it'll be me..." Ugh! My heart breaks all over again and I don't hear a single word he says after that for about five minutes. He does say that "Dr. Meany" has been doing this surgery forever (no kidding, he's a million years old) and I'd be in great hands out at Loma Linda. That was comforting. I knew that getting my surgery performed at UCI would be an uphill battle with the insurance company and I was running out of precious time. I didn't need to be set back anymore than I'd already been. So there it was...my life was literally going to be set in the hands of Dr. Meany, whether I liked it or not. I decided that very moment that I was not willing to spend the next weeks on the phone fighting for a lost cause and battling the insurance company for a doctor that I would eventually never see again...I accepted my fate out at Loma Linda. And that leads us to now...

Matt has come to every single appointment with me, sat by my side when most husbands would run for the waiting room while their wives are "opened to the World." He's done hours of research on my cancer; bought me reassuring books; knew when to ask questions and when to keep quiet. He has been my activist when I wasn't able to fight for myself or just didn't want to. He never once believed that this was my death sentence-and if he did, he was damn good at hiding it. And although I know he's just as scared as I am, he has been able to disguise it as strength and a willingness to witness exams that no spouse should have to see. Matt is my hero and my rock. Our lives have been forever altered. The thing of it is, this test that's been thrown our way, has brought us closer together. It has challenged us as individuals and as a partnership. And, we haven't even gotten to the hard part yet...the surgery on March 23, 2010. But even though I know it is going to be difficult and extremely painful, I know that he will be there the whole way through...my quiet partner sitting idly by on that appropriately uncomfortable chair.

Here's to all of the cancer families and friends out there--if you think cancer only affects the patient, you're dead wrong! Here's to the whatever it takes to get home to my precious angels, Cole and Delanie, who I'd fight to the death for. Here's to hoping that Dr. Meany has a change of personality in the next week or so, and if he doesn't, well, at least I'll be heavily sedated. ;) Here's to my family who proves day in and day out that they are incredibly devoted and possibly psychotic (God love 'em). Here's to my husband who has been more than willing to live up to our vows of "in sickness and in health." Here's to the next road, wherever it may take me...