Dog Lived (and So Will I) (18 page)

But a group email doesn’t work for everyone.

On the night Chris was going to call his parents to let them know, his sister called him instead. Kati called to let him know that at that moment his parents were at the vet’s office with Chloe, their family dog—the one Seamus had romped and misbehaved with on Christmas Eve, the one that looked like my Tippy. Chloe was severely ill and needed to be put to sleep. When Chris told me, I cried for the first time since I’d found my lump.

Out of respect for Chloe and all she’d meant to the family, Chris held off a few days before telling his parents of my diagnosis.

With family and close friends informed, I turned my attention to work. I was still waiting for the MRI results, but even in the best of circumstances, it seemed I had several months of cancer treatments on the horizon. I worked later into the evenings to get ahead and to distract myself. On one of those evenings Chris called me at the office.

“I don’t want you to be surprised, so I’m calling to let you know ahead of time,” he said.

“I’ve been surprised a lot lately, so you’re kind of scaring me.”

“Sorry. Well, you might be scared. My mom is going to call you.”

Might be scared? In the four years Chris and I had been together, I had never had a phone conversation with anyone in his family, and I think we all liked it that way. Even though Chris had patched things up with his parents, I still felt their disapproval of me had only been ratcheted down to disappointment.

I got no further work done but rather sat at my desk running through scenarios. I decided the likely reason for the call was to implore me to break up with Chris. Why should a thirty-three-year-old young man have to go through something like breast cancer with his girlfriend? It wasn’t fair to him. And since I’d had that thought myself, I’d be hard-pressed to argue with her. The best I could come up with, sitting alone at my desk anxiously awaiting the call, was, “It’s up to Chris.” Pathetic.

The phone rang.

I let it ring a second time. I considered not answering.

I decided to be an adult. A frightened, vulnerable, defensive adult…but an adult.

Then I struggled with how to answer the phone. A simple “hello” when I answered my office phone would sound too casual and perhaps give away that Chris had called to warn me of her impending call. “Law office” sounded too formal. On the fourth ring, I answered with “Teresa Rhyne,” realizing just a tad too late how stupid that sounded, especially the way I’d phrased it as a question. Teresa Rhyne? Maybe? Don’t hurt me?

“Hi, Teresa, it’s Trudi.”

“Oh, um, hi.” Ah, yes, there’s the familiar conversational brilliance under pressure.

“I spoke with Chris, and I wanted to call to welcome you to the C Club.”

Welcome me? Well, maybe she thought I would die and that would solve her problem. “Um, thanks…I think.”

“No, it’s not anything anyone wants, I know that. But it is a club, and you don’t realize it until you go through it. I don’t know if Chris told you this, but I’m a breast cancer survivor myself. Sixteen years now. So I know you can do this. You’re strong; you’ll get through this.”

I’m strong? She thinks I’m strong? And she sounded genuinely concerned. Caring. I was able to do a little math, too. If she was a sixteen-year survivor, she was the same age when she got diagnosed that I was now. And she had three kids, the youngest of whom would have been eight years old at the time.

“Thank you. I think I will get through it. I don’t really have a choice.” Did I sound ungrateful? Remote?

“Chris will be strong for you, too. I told him he needs to go to every appointment with you. That’s what his dad did for me, and it makes all the difference.”

“Chris has been great. I’m very lucky there. He has gone to every appointment with me, and he’s kept me laughing.”

“Jim was the only husband in the chemo room most of the time. A lot of men can’t handle this; it’s shocking. But the Kern men can handle it. I told Chris he’d have his mama to answer to if he doesn’t support you.”

Wow. Had we progressed more than I’d given credit for? Maybe I’d been projecting my own fears a bit. “He’s really supportive. He’s even now set up a blog for me so I can update everyone without repeating myself all the time.”

“You’ll have to give me the address. I want to be updated. And the girls will want to follow, too, I’m sure. They’re worried about you, too.”

We talked for twenty minutes as both my surprise and skepticism decreased, when I finally realized cancer had given us the common ground to talk to each other as people, not obstacles. She told me about her surgery and chemotherapy and was careful to tell me how much better the treatment is now. She told me how important it was to her when she went through treatment that her illness not affect her children. She also offered to accompany me to chemotherapy. I assured her Chris would be going with me and, if necessary, my dad would as well.

While I couldn’t quite yet conceive of she and I doing something as personal—as intimate—as going together to my chemotherapy treatment, I was grateful for the call. I felt a shift in our relationship in just those twenty minutes. No, not a shift. That’s not quite right. Before this we had no relationship. And now we did. I was no longer the person who might be ruining her son’s life, and she was no longer the person who might be trying to ruin mine. We were women who both had breast cancer and both loved Chris. This was solid, common ground. This was enough to build on.

Chris was as surprised as I was. I imagine his parents were equally surprised. And relieved.

• • •

I started writing more and more on my blog:

• • •

I had full confidence in Dr. Karam. But that is not to say I went without my panic moments before the surgery. And each time I panicked, he responded with equal parts humor, information, and tranquility. Although he asked me to call him by his first name, Amer, I began to call him Dr. Good Karma instead.

When I heard from a former secretary at my old law firm about a painful blue dye shot into the nipple for purposes of finding the sentinel lymph node pre-surgery, I emailed Dr. Karam as near tears as I had been yet in the process (save for the loss of Chloe, the cockapoo). The shot had been described to me as an eleven on a pain scale of one to ten, and I needed assurance (I needed denial!) from Dr. Karam. I sent the email just before I left my office at about seven in the evening. I should have just stayed put and waited for his response. I would have saved myself the agony of my overactive imagination for my entire fifteen-minute commute. Instead, although he’d responded almost immediately, I didn’t get his email until I was home, pouring the whole story out to Chris and elevating the pain level to something like 426 on a scale of 1 to 10.

Dr. Karam’s response to me from his Blackberry was this:

“The blue dye is the one I use in the operating rm when u r asleep so u won’t feel it plus my skilled hands will keep any pain away ;-). u may get some staining of the breast that is temporary and ure urine turns blue and green for a day (the college kids I teach always get a kick out of that). The shot u get in the morning is for that tiny bit of radioactive material that also goes to the sentinel lymph node and that is not painful. I use both techniques so I can make sure to find the sentinel node.”

I was amused by the shorthand texting language. It looked not unlike what my niece posted on Facebook or in her rare text messages to me, only slightly easier to decipher. I knew what he was saying: Anesthesia is my friend. As is Dr. Good Karma. For life.

Other pieces of advice, mostly unsolicited, came my way as well. Sometimes I ignored it, and sometimes I emailed Amer with questions. He always answered quickly and thoroughly.

My assistant Michelle was pregnant with her first child during this time. We compared stories of inappropriate comments from well-meaning (we hoped) people and both wondered why anyone felt that their own gruesome stories, be they of childbirth or chemotherapy, were going to be helpful. Michelle also let me know when one of my clients called inquiring after my health because she had overheard two men talking about my cancer diagnosis in a local restaurant one evening.

Although I had set up a public blog, I hadn’t yet determined how I wanted to handle my diagnosis and treatment where my clients were concerned. Since I practice in estate planning, I am frequently discussing illnesses and death with my clients, but it didn’t seem right to bring my own illness or mortality into the conversation. And, from a practical standpoint, it wouldn’t do to have people thinking I was too sick to handle any clients or, worse, dying. Knowing that my right breast had become casual dinner talk made me realize I’d have to handle this head-on. I decided I’d be open and forthright about my cancer and the treatment—and I’d emphasize that I was still carrying on in my practice. I’d be that thing that I’d resisted for so long—perky and upbeat. Well, maybe just upbeat.

• • •

• • •

I received a call about my stellar performance when getting my MRI. Or, at least, that’s how I liked to think about it. UCLA called to ask if I was willing to participate in a research study being conducted by more of those genius twelve-year-old scientists who seem to congregate on the UCLA Medical Center campus. Research was being conducted to find a way to diagnose breast cancer through a magnetic resonance spectropscopy rather than the more invasive biopsy. They needed volunteers who’d been diagnosed with breast cancer and were willing to have this additional procedure done before surgery. They were having a hard time recruiting volunteers.