Marilyn M. Buda
Dr. Chandler
English 5017, Section 01
October 11, 2010
Some Bad News and Some More Bad News?
You would think finding out that you have breast cancer is probably one of the worst things you could hear, whether you are a woman or a man. Yes, men get it too. And then you find out there are other thorns attached, that can cut you to the quick and hurt you further yet. But you continue to not be able to hear the parts you can’t deal with. I should really stop whining about this because I survived, and got my life and health back....just not the life I thought I was going to have.
“It’s not so bad, it’s early and we can get it.” – okay, age thirty-six, still single. There was no family history. The only “indicating factor” was that I had not had a child yet. If you make it five years, you’re cured - Great! Four years and nine months later, it’s back, but not in the same location, in the opposite pole, so you can’t really call it a recurrence. The five year thing turned out to be a farce, anyway. I can still deal, though, age thirty-nine, married now. Ten months later, now we can call it a recurrence; it’s here again at the original site. This time chances are slim that it has not spread. I never fall into the slim chance category, except when it is the margin of error of what could be a worse situation. Then I’m all there, but amazingly not this time! Just a little radiation, and maybe some chemo and you’ll be good as new. Okay, age forty, still married.
When I was five, I loved playing with my dolls. I loved being around babies and children, and everyone said I was really a good care taker with them. After I started menstruating at age twelve, I thought I knew all the wonderful feelings I was going to experience as I became a woman, dreamed about it constantly. When no one was home, I would occasionally stuff a folded bed pillow under my shirt to make believe I was pregnant, because to me that symbolized the true and only way you were a real woman, and WHEN that happened to me, not if, well that was the only real thing I wanted out of life. When I cramped up once a month, I imagined that’s what labor would be like, but a little more extreme, like on a television show.
If I didn’t get married, I would get assistance from a sperm donation facility, no problem. I could do this on my own! My parents brought me up to be very independent. Except, the doctor walks in and tells me now how “lucky” I am. Oh, and by the way, you really shouldn’t get pregnant. We advise against it strongly, particularly with your type of cancer. I felt the blood drain down to my feet. Running through my mind are the words, “there is no way you can be saying this to me”, and “you don’t understand, I’m supposed to have four kids – two boys and two girls!” Being my forceful, cup-half-full, optimistic self, I persisted. “What if I do, what can happen?!? If the cancer were to return while you are pregnant, we would not be able to treat you, and while you would probably survive to give birth, you most likely would not see the baby’s first birthday. I didn’t care what they all said. I was going to do it anyway, I had to.
We are at a restaurant in the old neighborhood, and my mom points out my old doctor at the next table. Maybe I should go speak to him. She doesn’t know what I have recently found out about my condition of infertility because it is too painful to bare, let alone tell anyone, especially her, as she knows my heart is totally broken. He was my doctor when I wasn’t listening to the surgeons and oncologists about their advice on pregnancy. I went to him and told him that I was trying and there must be something wrong because I can’t get pregnant, aged forty. He tells me to get a puppy, but I persist, and he finally agrees to set up some testing. The results show no mechanical reason for my failure to conceive. A few years later, signs of cancer show up in the lower part of my body, so I go to another type of recommended oncologist, a colleague of my breast cancer doctor in Manhattan Manhattan
The really bad news was that when they shot my reproductive mechanics up on a monitor, he showed me that my cervix had been closed over by scar tissue that had developed as a result of a procedure that had been done by my old doctor, years ago. Did he intentionally not tell me?!? Something was definitely mechanically wrong with me inside! Did he realize it was a result of something he had done, and just couldn’t be bothered, or was he afraid of being sued for malpractice? I went to him since I was eighteen, for over twenty years, and he chose not to help me? I’ll never know, though, because I couldn’t stop shaking when I saw him that night, let alone risk a scene by approaching him to speak with him about it. This is all much too difficult, and it is easier to tell myself that things happen for a reason.
There is no miracle happy ending here. My severe state of depression lasted the better part of five years. Towards the end of that time, I made some major changes in my life to help myself along. I finally pursued a career in teaching, which I had always dreamed about, but had forfeited, to spend over twenty years in the corporate grind to become more financially successful, also a myth. As a child, I had never been allowed to have a pet because we lived in a small apartment; now, we had a home and I was able to experience the love of animals as added family members, as well as visitors to our rural backyard. I was only too grateful not to have become the weird, scary cat lady on the block.
Someone once told me that timing is everything. Isn’t that the truth? In the early 1990’s, researchers didn’t have enough cases of breast cancer survivors moving on to have children, because most women that got breast cancer were beyond child-bearing age, so they preferred to err on the side of caution. At least today, they are fortunate enough to have more history and experience. Maybe my experience helped with that, and that is the role I was meant to play in my long and sad saga. Every year during Breast Cancer Awareness month, you hear the incessant messages about the death rates of stricken women, but it’s the stories on the peripheral that you don’t always hear about, which are even more striking. The women that can’t look in the mirror, the men who learn to dislike themselves when they can’t deal, the marriages that break up, and the children that cannot be born are the real side stories attached to the diagnosis of a cancer, which, thank God, has become more of a chronic condition in our day. Don’t know how to end this because there is no end to the pain it has caused me, just an easing of it.
I will ache from this always, and continue to act like it’s no big deal, and be happy for my friends as they had their children and have their grandchildren today. Again, a side story comes to pass as we look at friendship. When you are devastated by infertility, some strange things happen to people you thought you have known all your life. True, they think they know how you feel and they want to help, but suddenly, an unspoken rule takes control because people with children only socialize with other people with children. Sometimes, they try to help you by keeping others’ good news from you, which just makes it hurt even more. Fortunately for me, my best friend of forever, did not share my desire and maternal instincts. She chose not to be a parent which was a difficult, but honest decision and what made her happy. Then I have new friends with genuine empathy who tell me I’m not too old to become a “mom” now, even at my age. They are sweet and caring. Finally, as my friends get older, the ones who understood, continue to ask the question, “Why was it you didn’t have children?” Sometimes I just want to cry and hit them, but I make myself numb and try to laugh it off.
I have this sore that will most likely never heal, and I will eternally ask questions that probably cannot be answered. Maybe I would have been a bad parent. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to handle both a child and a career. I guess it wasn’t meant to be, but for what cause? I now believe there are many other women out there like me, and possibly a lot of people would call me selfish and an ingrate. My situation did not make me a statistic, but it did kill a part of my spirit. As I age, and find some peace in the blessings I do have, I will continue to ask myself if this was a punishment of some kind, an act of fate, or a life-saving choice made by a higher power.
No comments:
Post a Comment