Taking My Lumps

Dear God, I might be dying, and you have to butcher my blowout too?

It was about a week before the first anniversary of my husband’s death at four-thirty in the morning and I was at my desk doing my best to crack myself up. I subscribe to the Mel Brooks school of humor which says, “If you laugh, they’re going to laugh.”

This means I always take my giggling — if I’m giggling — as a good sign and not the precursor to early-onset dementia my sons insist it is.

Usually, the only parts of my body that move when I’m working are my fingers when I finally start typing — After I re-read what I’ve written, I also use my head. I pound it against the keyboard.

And now you know the real reason I wear bangs — they hide the bruises.

On that morning, the dust on my screen was distracting me. I blew on it, but that didn’t work. I cursed the woman who’s supposed to clean this place and then I laughed because, well, that’s me, and this maid’s been on strike for awhile.

Finally, I just leaned in and wiped the dust away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

And that’s when I felt it.

My right arm brushed my right breast and there it was: a nice, hard lump near my armpit. Such a discovery will undo you anytime. But if you happen to make such a find seven days before the one-year anniversary of your husband’s death from cancer, trust me when I tell you, you will flip out.

I certainly did.

I didn’t know what to do first, so I did everything at once. I ripped off my sweatshirt and pulled my t-shirt over my head. Then I sent the following calm, collected, “I was a cancer caregiver, so I never lose my cool” text to two of my girlfriends.

“OMG! Who’s your doctor???” I pleaded. “There’s a lump in my breast the size of a malted milk ball!”

Then, while frantically awaiting their replies which — since it was four-thirty in the morning took a while to arrive — I raced to the bathroom where I stood half-naked, staring at myself in the mirror, and mumbling,

Oh my God, I can see it. I can actually see it!

Hmm, I thought briefly. If this thing’s adding to my spectacularly negligible cup size — even if it’s only for one boob — who am I to complain?

And then I realized my kids are right.

I really do have early-onset dementia.

A short while later, having obtained the names of two doctors, one of whom is actually my doctor — I had just forgotten in the midst of my panic attack — and having been talked off the ledge by both girlfriends, my lump and I showered, dressed, and left for a job interview.

A normal person would have canceled and called the doctor or shown up at the door and begged to be seen. But no, I soldiered on at the interview and spent sixty minutes trying not to say things like,

“Yes, that was a highly successful program we did at Family Circle particularly since, at the time, I didn’t have a lump the size of a Lear jet in my breast!”

Clearly, it’s my flair for exaggeration and not dementia that will ultimately do me in.

Unless cancer gets me first.

Of course, that’s all I could think about for the rest of the day.

At the hair salon: Yes, please, pin-straight, no product, and would you like to look at my lump?

And the supermarket: A sale on fresh chicken breasts? So yours are acting up, too!

And on the sidelines at Cuy’s flag football practice: Monster catch, sweetheart! Now, who wants to see something really scary?

By mid-morning the next day I was finally sitting in the examining room waiting for my doctor when she comes breezing in all blonde and beautiful and business-like, asks how I am and I respond by ripping off my shirt.

“How am I? I think I’m dying, that’s how I am! And it’s so not fair. Stu’s about to be gone a year,” I reply, stabbing the damn lump which I swear has made the leap from Lear jet to Mauna Loa since the last time I checked, “And this is the anniversary gift I get!

“I’m petrified. That’s how I am. My kids are going to wind up in foster care. Or worse. With family!”

She laughs and I’m a little relieved. Even at death’s door I still kill.

“Susan, it’s probably just a swollen lymph node,” she replied, examining me.

Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.

“I’m sending you for an ultrasound and maybe a mammogram. But only if the ultrasound is suspicious,” she continued, “which it won’t be. Ok?”

I wanted to ask her to pinky swear, do the whole “cross her heart hope to die, stick a needle in her eye” thing, but the needle bit screamed BIOPSY! so I stifled myself.

And then the real fun began.

I couldn’t get an appointment for an ultrasound.

My local hospital had nothing open for the next ten days. Ten days! I could be dead by then!

But this other hospital I’d never been to gave me an appointment three days away, on Monday. Whew! That meant all I needed to do was get through Saturday and Sunday without inadvertently letting the kids know about my lump.

It was tough but, alas, Monday did finally dawn.

I jumped in the car with what I was certain was a now Saturn-sized lump and my doctor’s orders for an ultrasound and a mammogram (maybe).

I also brought directions to the hospital and called the nice people at OnStar to make sure I got there and, of course, I got lost anyway.

I’m unsure what happens first when I’m in the car. The panic attack and then the realization that the sign I just passed shouldn’t say “Welcome to West Virginia”?

Or the sign followed by the panic attack followed by my pulling over on the side of the road crying and wondering if this time I really do need a rescue chopper.

Eventually, though, I arrived and was ushered into a waiting room.

Between getting lost and panicking, I’d convinced myself that both didn’t bode well. And then, just as I started to read a magazine, the lights went out.

And came back on.

And went out again.

And then came on but only via generator, which gave the room the same comforting feeling one gets watching a slasher film.

Enough. How many more signs did I need? I was done. God had spoken. I had my diagnosis.

I was dying, and I was leaving.

But not before going to the ladies’ room.

Getting there was easy. I followed the little grey lights glowing along the floor and bumped head-on into a security guard who was none too pleased not to see me and who said, and I quote,

“You really want to go in there? It’s pitch black.” And I was like, “Buddy, I’m a mom. You have no idea what we can do in the dark.”

Just between you and me, I should’ve just held it in. The bathroom was so dark I had to open the door to locate the toilet. I stood there with what little light there was streaming in, spied the commode and thought,

Ok Suz, your butt belongs over there.

And then I locked the door, turned, and strolled confidently into the sink. It took two more tries but I finally found the bowl.

Ah, sweet relief.

But only until the instant I stood to pull up my underpants and caught my charm bracelet in the lace.

This can’t be happening, I thought, feeling the panic surge and the sweat stream down the back of my neck and into my hair.

Isn’t it enough I’m dying, God? I demanded. You need to butcher my blowout, too?

My brain raced.

I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face which was fine as lifting my left would’ve given me a wedgie and using both to reach down and grab my jeans resulted in all kinds of unwanted southern exposure.

I didn’t know what to do so I stood there, bent over in the pitch black, practically naked and cursing my bracelet and my stupid boob.

And then I heard the tech calling my name.

“Mrs. McCorkindale?” Pause. “Mrs. McCorkindale? Are you still here?”

“In here!” I yelled instantly, all fears of embarrassment evaporating. I hobbled in the direction of the door, opened it a bit, and yelled, “Yes, I’m here! Help!”

Seconds later, by the light of the tech’s cell phone, I freed myself from my Hanky Pankys, and seconds after that I was having Mauna Loa measured.

“It’s amazing you can do this without power,” I said.

“We have a generator,” she replied, pressing the ultrasound wand hard and deep into my armpit. “And you,” she continued, “have a really swollen lymph node.”

Then she got the radiologist who confirmed it wasn’t cancer and I started to cry. They both hugged me, and I thanked the tech for literally saving my butt.

Then I walked out into the sunshine and drove home without getting lost which was good, because really?

I’d taken enough lumps lately.