Official Results

March 7, 2011: Today was a day to be forgotten, never to be relived, even in words. But I can't stop composing every waking second until my mind is a tangled mess. Dr. Bradley's nurse calls and asks if I can come to the Bountiful Clinic "right now", as the doctor has received the official results of my biopsy. My sweet daughter-in-law leaves her three littles with her neighbor and drives through the pouring rain to be at my side. Dr. Bradley is the sweetest, most compassionate of doctors and begins right away to tell me that the news is bad...in fact, it is the worst. I do not have lymphoma--I have melanoma, and the fact that it has already spread to the lymph nodes in my neck is not good at all. I am stunned. Heartbroken. Shocked. Rocked to the core. It cannot be. There is no treatment for melanoma. There is no quick fix of radiation or chemotherapy. In my numbness, I am subjected to a long tube-like scope of nostrils and throat, then nakedness to examine every inch of me to find the entry point. It comes after careful finger-combing of my out-of-control hair from my new favorite dermatologist, Dr. Robinson. It's a spot on my scalp on the crown of my head. How would I ever see it there? How would anyone ever see it there? They wouldn't, he says. Don't beat yourself up. And it wasn't caused by hot Las Vegas sun or brown hair dye or any of those things...it just is. I am saved by doctors who are already lining up appointments for tomorrow (which only they could do) for scans and tests and action...because, quite honestly, I can't even tell if I'm standing or sitting. I break down once in the doctor chair, and he quietly gives me a tissue. This is my life now. They'll wait while I blow my nose. I also break down when I'm left alone with my mommy and we look at each other like we've suddenly come to the edge of the cliff and there's no turning back. I also break down when I see my tall, handsome son with tears in his eyes, and later, as he takes the hard task of calling my sweet Chels. I can only hug my little Nessi. I can only kiss my sweet husband. This is not just me. It is my whole world. It is all the people in my world. It wrenches every fiber of my being.

March 8, 2011: Thanks to Dr. Bradley, I am scheduled for a PET/CT scan at the Murray IHC. I've been up three times in the night with a nervous stomach. Really? On top of everything else? Before we leave home, my sweet sister, Dionney, calls. The first thing she says is, "All of our pom-poms are in the air!" What a great visual. Lindsey arrives to drive us to the appointment. "My boxing gloves are on!" she says. Okay, I'm now armed and ready. I have to fill out more papers and Mom and Linds joke that we should just photocopy everything for the next time. It's so strange to answer the question, "Have you been diagnosed with cancer? When?" and write, "Yesterday." While I am given an IV and am drinking nasty lemonade sugar water ("contrast") and letting it soak in, my poor mommy and Linds are freezing under an air conditioning vent in the waiting room. It is a sunny day, but p-l-e-a-s-e, there is still snow on the ground. The scans are like something out of an science fiction movie. Sliding in and out of tubes, stopping and scanning, I repeat the mantra, "Miracles and hope, miracles and hope..." over and over. When I get antsy, I go down the list of the people I love the most: "Lois, Dean, Janessa, Aaron, Lindsey, Ally, Avery, Jane, Chelsea, Robby, Lachlan, Olive, Knox..." over and over. Then I start on siblings and aunts and uncles, cousins, and nieces and nephews. It passes time, time spent staring at the underside of a tube that will neither spit me out soon enough or let me escape. I imagine the technicians behind the glass, circling little cancer spots on a monitor, and I have to start singing hymns in my mind, especially when they stop for a long time in one place. When it's over, and I'm reunited with my frozen family, I am spent. Later, I get visits at home from my sweet Ann and my sweet Alice Ann and my sweet Britnee. They make me laugh. They cry with me. They tell me they love me and they tell me it will be okay. I know. I KNOW. Janessa says it was a good day because we didn't get any bad news. That's how our days will be measured from now on, I guess. Bad news, bad day. No news, good day. I just wonder if there will be a good news, good day in the course of this journey...or will I have to steel myself to jump to the no news, good days?

March 9, 2011: No doctor visits today, but doctor phone calls. Dr. Bradley's nurse, Carol, calls and says I have to have an MRI and lab work done tomorrow. New worries. New stress. All results should be known by my Friday appointment. I get a phone call from an old friend, Judy, who tells me her melanoma survival story. It almost sounds too good to be true, but she is positive and gentle. It is inspiring to talk to her, to hear her say she loves me, as I love her. She is one of my tender mercies today. I go to Walmart with my mommy and Janessa, and I almost feel normal, like there isn't a big sign on my forehead that says, "I've got cancer." I have to tell people--again--who don't know that we've gone from bad to worse, and it hurts. I don't want them to look at me with pity and fear. I don't want them to wonder about the hard questions. I'm doing that just fine by myself, thank you. One bright spot of my day is a tiny dream I had just before I woke up this morning. I'm standing in the bathroom, getting ready for something, and Mom hands me the phone. She says, "It's a happy day!" and I think, really? I say hello and hear the voice of my beautiful, 9-months pregnant Chelsea, as she says, "Mom! My water just broke!" I wake up smiling. That WILL be a happy day! I can't wait to kiss Knox's darling face. For now, I'm just trying to do what the doctors tell me to do. My life is a blur. Was it really just one week ago that I had my neck surgery? It feels like a hundred years of worrying and waiting and praying. "Miracles and hope, miracles and hope..."