Thursday, November 8, 2007

A Riddle

When is a marble like a cantaloupe?

When your doctor compares the lump in your breast to a marble.

"Yes, I can confirm you have a lump, it's about the size of a marble," The doctor says quietly while gently pulling the gown over your breasts.

The look on her face? Serious. No, make that grave.

Sure, you hear the word "marble."

But as your hand instinctively goes to your breast -- you feel "cantaloupe." You tell her so.
She laughs, glad for the levity before she must deliver the news of what lies ahead: tests and then maybe more tests and then, well let's not dwell there.


After an emotionally excruciating wait of five days, Mr. Bon and I went to the first test. Nervous, doesn't even begin to describe the state of mind we collectively shared. We'd been down the cancer road once before and didn't want to tread that path again. We had the T-shirt already. Thanks, but no thanks. Don't care to go there again.


Though, with my health history, the odds seemed against us.


Sixteen years ago, I had and survived Hodgkin's Disease, a cancer of the lymph system. Great precautions were taken then to shield the radiation from spilling to the non-cancerous parts of my chest and torso. I made my way to the hospital five days a week for nearly six months.

Each day, to insure precise and accurate administration of the "medication," the technicians would tape me in place. Literally. Scotch tape was anchored on one side of the table, between my shoulder and ear, stretched over and across my chin and then attached to the other side of the table. To this day, I get a chill whenever I smell the Scotch tape.

Once the tape down was complete, lasers were lined up with the newly needled (complements of Providence Oncology) tattoos on my chin, shoulders, sternum and stomach. Finally, once they were sure I was in the line of, er, right position, a unique jigsaw puzzle of twenty-four,
two-inch-thick, lead blocks upon a glass plate was precariously suspended a few inches above my chest. Then every one left the room to push the buttons that would trigger the release of the radiation.

I laid there and hoped the tectonic plates wouldn't suddenly shift.

The plates didn't shift and the radiation worked it's magic and dissolved every single one of those cancerous tumor. On July 5, 1991 I was declared a "survivor". I was cancer free.

But even with all the safeguards, I was told way back when I was 27 years old, that the high dose of radiation vastly increased my probability for getting breast cancer in my 40's. Almost as likely as my getting chances of getting grey hair, they said.

Nearly twenty years have passed. I'm a member of Club Four-Oh. And yes, though it's nicely concealed by my highlights, I've got the grey hair. Now, I wondered, sitting next to Mr. Bon in lobby of the Comprehensive Breast Center, was I going to lose it to chemotherapy?

My answer came quickly.

The technician who performed the mammogram could tell right away that my cantaloupe-sized marble was a cyst. Just a cyst. Tears burst out of my eyes and raced down my cheeks, while the oncologist glided the ultrasound wand over my breast.

"Just to be sure," she said.

We left the hospital elated. I quickly made the phone calls to the ones who were anxiously awaiting the results. Then, Mr. Bon and I basked in the glorious relief that you feel when you have escaped a close call. When, just for a minute, you think your world is falling away from you. Or you from it. But then, grace comes along and spares you the tragedy. There is nothing so joyful as the moment when feelings of fear and terror are replaced by elation and security.

It's as divine as a slice of cool, ripe cantaloupe on a hot summer's day.