I woke up at 2:30 am this morning terrified that I was going to die soon. Nothing I did would dissapate my fear. I tried all the tricks of relaxation and meditation. I listened to guided imagery. The fear consumed me like a black octopus inside my chest spreading its tentacles throughout my body.
I want to see my children get married and be successful in their careers. I want to meet my grandchildren. I want to continue my work as a sign language interpreter. I am not the best interpreter in the world, but I love what I do. I hope that for the Deaf person I am interpreting for at that moment in time, I am making a difference. I hope I am bridging that gap so that they can understand and communicate. I want to be of service in the world and spread love and compassion. I want to have fun with my husband and travel the world. I want to learn--so many things I want to learn. I am not ready to stop living.
Two months ago, I noticed a spot on my right butt cheek that was itching. It was a light blue color and it was bothering me. A few days later, when I went to see my Chinese doctor for acupuncture, I showed her the spot. She told me to go to the skin doctor and get it checked out. If it was bothering me, they could just take it off. So, I called a skin doctor who was recommended by my family doctor. It took me a month to get an appointment.
When I arrived at the office, I took off all my clothes and put on a hospital gown. An intern came in and looked me over. She said she did not notice anything suspicious. A few minutes later, the doctor came in. He looked me over as well and I was expecting him to say the same thing. He looked at the spot that had been bothering me (it was no longer itching) and told me it was just calcium deposits. Then, he focused in on a small brown spot on my upper right thigh. It was not perfectly round, but a bit misshapen. The color was not a perfect brown. It was darker on the outside and lighter in the middle. He asked me if this spot had changed recently. I told him that I could not remember. He said that he didn't think it was a concern, but he could not rule it out so he wanted to do a biopsy. Before I left, he emphasized again that he did not want me to worry--the chances of it being a "problem" (he did not mention the "C" word) were minimal.
I waited ten days. On Monday January 23rd, I had a particularly difficult day at work. I normally work 20-25 hours a week and the previous week, I had worked almost 50 hours. For a sign language interpreter that is really too much. On that day, there was some conflicts and challenges as well in addition to the quantity of work. I came home physically and emotionally exhausted and there were two messages on my home machine. One was from the doctor asking me to call him. The other was from the nurse telling me I needed to come in for surgery. Neither one mentioned a diagnosis, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that it wasn't good.
It was after five pm, so I had to wait until the following day to talk to anyone. I called the first thing in the morning and got my diagnosis of melanoma. I scheduled my surgery and then looked it up online. It was pretty terrifying. The pictures alone were enough to make me gasp. I had always felt compassion and concern for other people who were diagnosed with cancer, but now it was my turn. It was alot to wrap my head around. I called my husband Michael and other friends for support, but mostly I was numb and shaken.
At two that afternoon, I finally got a hold of the doctor and he told me that we had caught the cancer early. It was a thin layer sitting on the surface of the skin and it did not look like it had spread. He thought we could take care of it in one surgery. I asked him if he was sure. After all, he had originally told me that he didn't think there was any need for concern. He told me that nothing is100%, but it looked like it was in the early stage--stage 1A.
I got home and looked up melanoma. It is the fastest growing and most deadly skin cancer. Thousands of people die from it every year. That is the truth-- the bare, honest, ugly truth. It was hard to let that truth hit home and really enter my being. I had recently gone out with a friend to dinner and she told me she had melanoma. I had been compassionate and concerned. She also contacted me later to let me know that they got it all out in surgery and she was fine. But this was not a friend now, this was me.
Michael had been out of town now for almost three weeks. It is the longest time in 28 years of marriage that we had ever been apart. He flew home to be there for my operation last Friday afternoon. The doctor drew a circle around my biopsy and then showed me how much skin he was going to take out. It looked like a shape of a football around the spot. He explained that they needed to be aggressive to make sure they got the cancer competely out. He put the numbing medication in me and then asked if I was numb. I had no idea. He started the operation, but it turned out I was not completely numb. I screamed and then I apologized. (In retrosepct, it was the doctor who should have apologized, but he did not). He put more numbing medicine in and told me that should be enough. I was still not completely numb. At that point, the operation was almost over, but when I felt the pain, I went into shock. My body started shaking. I got very cold and I started crying and could not stop. At this point, I went with the shaking and crying and did not apologize. I had never been in shock before and there was a part of me that was fascinated and in awe with the way the body takes care of itself to deal with the shock. It is such an automatic reaction. I did not resist.
When are we taught that it is not allright to honor pain? That it is not OK to cry or scream when we are in pain? That we need to be brave and tough it out? I noticed that engrained in me. I decided that I am not going to apologize again for crying or screaming if I am in pain. The image came to me of a little child screaming when they get a shot and then being fine a few minutes later. Or, being in labor and screaming and grunting with the contractions. I allowed myself to scream and cry and shake. Then after a few minutes of that, it was done. I was shaky and exhausted, but the pain was gone.
My scar is about two and a half inches long on the top of my right thigh. I told my husband that it is no big deal as long as the cancer is gone and I can live. But, this morning when I was lying in bed, I was thinking about how the scar would look with my bathing suit on.
There was not much pain after the operation was over. In fact, I welcomed the small amount of throbbing pain that was there. It was an indication to me that I was alive and I could feel and surprisingly there was a gratefulness for that.
If I have to have another operation, I will not use that same doctor. That being said, I still am grateful for the medical profession and their ability to diagnose and do what is necessary to get the cancer out. I am also grateful that we have the ability to find out if we got all the cancer out or not.
Now I have to wait for the results.
Others who have had this cancer tell me this is the hardest part. The waiting. Why does it take so long? How many pieces of skin can there be for the lab technicians to analyze?
I have told many friends and family members about my melanoma diagnosis. Some people are more secretive about their medical issues and that is their right. I guess I am one of those who wants to share and get support.
Many people have told me "Oh, I am sure it will be fine." "It sounds like it won't be a problem." I have had some people say that they don't know what the big deal is. People get skin cancer taken off all the time. I am actually saying all those same things to myself. But, it does not make me feel any better. I am sure I would probably feel worse if the doctor told me it looked like it had spread and it was in the later stages--no doubt. But, the reassurances from myself and others are not that helpful. The bottom line is, I don't know for sure, until I get the results, that the cancer is gone.
This morning, after I could not get back to sleep, I started doing tonglen. Tonglen is a Buddhist practice where you feel your feeling completely and breathe it in. Then you send love out to all who have experienced that feeling. You can do it for yourself and for others. I spent some time feeling my Mom's pain who is recovering from an operation to get a pacemaker because her heart is beating too slow and too fast. I breathed in her pain and breathed out love to her. Then, I focused on myself. I felt the fear completely and then I sent love out to all of those who have ever felt this fear. I sensed in my heart that many, many, many people have felt this fear.
We are all going to die. I know that. I am just hoping that it is not yet my time.
