One week ago I got a call from my surgeon — the biopsy came back positive for more cancer.  She thought that the cancer was there all along, but not big enough to find during the surgery I had 6 weeks ago.  The path report said the margins weren’t clear (i.e., there were cancer cells at the edges), so I had to go back 5 days later and have a wider biopsy.  She took so much tissue, it took 15 stitches to close the skin.

Until I got that news, I was doing okay.  Every piece of bad news and every biopsy and every scan and every treatment was a hurdle that I was able to jump over.  But hearing the words ‘It’s Cancer’ for a third time — in spite of the surgeries and chemo I’d gone through already — was not like jumping over a hurdle; it was like smashing up against a brick wall. 

I cried most of that day.  And the next day.  And the day after that.  I didn’t want to get out of bed or eat or answer my phone or leave my apartment.  I didn’t have the energy to want anything, really. 

My parents came and prayed for me, and I tried to think of how I could get out of this big, black void.  I used to think that the physical part of cancer — the surgeries, the chemo, the radiation – was the most difficult battle, but this emotional strain surpassed the physical challenge. 

My mom sat on the edge of my bed one afternoon while I cried uncontrollably and told her through my tears that it didn’t matter how chemo or radiation turned out because even if I got through treatment, I was going to be permanently psychologically damaged. 

 ”I’ll be a cancer-free crack pot,” I told her.

Last year after my mastectomy I did some research on depression and cancer.  One of the studies I read said that 25% of cancer patients meet criteria for clinical depression, but only 9% of them receive treatment for depression.  I decided to make myself one of the 9% and try to irradicate cancer from my mind as well as from my body.

I still pray and ask God to heal me.  I still ask for peace and strength and hope.  And I also take an anti-depressant called Lexapro and see a therapist who has experience with breast cancer patients. 

I may still end up a crack pot, but at least I can say I tried…

Yesterday I woke up with a short — albeit full — head of hair, and I went to sleep last night completely bald.  Yesterday marked the 17th day since I started chemo, and I woke up to what I think every chemo patient dreads: the morning when there seems to be more hair on your pillow then still attached to your head.

My parents are visiting for the weekend, and my mom agreed to help me shave my head in the privacy of my bathroom.  So yesterday morning she cut my hair with scissors as short as she could, then we used shaving cream and a razor to shave my scalp all the way down to the skin.

My mom was incredibly gentle while she was cutting and shaving away the blonde hair I’ve had all my life.  When she was finished, she took a step back and said, “I’ve never seen you bald before — you have less hair than when you were born.” 

I didn’t look in the mirror until it was over, but on my first glance I thought, “I look like a monkey.”  I don’t know why a monkey; maybe the lack of hair accentuates my ears or something – but really, my ears aren’t that big.  I think I was just searching for a word that meant less-than-human, because that’s how I felt.

My second observation was that my skin looked pale and there were dark circles under my eyes.  “I look like a chemo patient,” I thought.   I took a shower to rinse off all the stubbles of hair on me, then dried off and covered my head with a white and black bandana, and wore it the rest of the afternoon. 

When I went to dinner with my parents at a sandwich shop near my apartment, I wore an oversized black beret with a little bow on it that was made for chemo patients (it’s larger than most hats so it covers the scalp all the way around).  While the cashier was taking our order, she looked up and said, “Sweetie, I love your hat.  Where’d you get it?”

She meant it as a compliment, but it made me want to cry.  “Thanks,” I said in barely a whisper.  And I ignored her request to tell her where I got the hat.  What was I supposed to say?  I’m doing chemo right now, I just lost my hair today, I have cancer…?  Silence seemed the better option.

After my parents left my apartment for the evening, I put on my p.j.’s and took off the black beret and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking for any traces that the girl staring back at me now was somehow a part of the girl I used to know.  I couldn’t find her anywhere.

And as I was falling asleep, I thought of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah (Judges 16), where Delilah learns that Samson’s hair is the source of his strength, so she chops off his hair and disempowers him. 

Last night I thought, maybe Samson’s hair wasn’t his source of strength; it was a signal of his strength.  And maybe when Delilah cut off his hair, he didn’t lose his power because he he lost his hair; he just woke up the next morning and looked in the mirror, and suddenly for the life of him couldn’t remember who he was.

I’m two days post chemo.  Yesterday I slept and slept and slept.  Last time I had a big problem with nausea and vomiting, so this time my onologist gave me stronger meds, but they really make me sleepy.

 I left my apartment around 6 pm last night and took a walk and got a lemonade and sat outside for a while.  Just getting out of the house is a huge accomplishment some days.  I keep hoping that the cancer cells feel as crappy as I do.  Except they don’t have any meds to take the side effects away.  I hope they are dying as I speak.

The day before this week’s chemo session, I went to my surgeon’s office because I’ve noticed a small (maybe 1/4″), hard nodule on the R side of my chest for a few weeks.  It’s not getting bigger or smaller; it’s just the same.  But it felt similar to the nodule I had before my reconstructive surgery that turned out to be cancer, so I thought I should get it checked out. 

My surgeon did a wide excisional biopsy (she took so much skin, she had to close the wound with 7 stitches!), and I should get the results back today or Monday.  I was scared for a while, but what’s the point of being scared?  I’ve had so many ‘cancer scares’ in the past year, and I know there must be more to come.  So, in the boxing analogy, I just have to take the punches as they come and learn how to roll with them.  I can’t think of any other productive or logical response.

Here’s hoping for a negative biopsy and some good news for once…