It’s Okay to Cry
Fear does not have to be rational and it wasn’t for me. A simple procedure was my undoing. For some reason most women think they should be quietly courageous. Why? I have no idea! Maybe it is part of the “superwoman” role. No matter how strong you think you are, there is something about breast cancer that will affect you like no other surgery.
Breast Cancer is frightening, and just the diagnosis broke me out in a cold sweat. At first I thought I was going to die. I started thinking about what I wanted to tell the kids before it was too late, but then survival mode kicked in. I wanted to cut out the cancer and get on with my life, but I didn’t cry.
Sometimes women, and of course men, attach nurturing, femininity, and even our sex appeal to the size and appearance of our breast. It doesn’t matter if it is right or wrong, because we don’t want to lose them. For some women the fear of disfigurement, radiation, chemotherapy, or the chance of recurring cancer, makes them cry. Those are all rational fears, but I didn’t cry.
Once the tests and procedures started, I felt like I was being carried away on a river current without control. Modesty became a thing of the past, and I started to feel like a disease instead of a woman. Everyone wanted me to strip to the waist so they could examine my breast. My husband and I even made jokes about it. I lost count of how many times I bared my breast to someone new, but it was over 20. Still, that isn’t what made me cry.
My surgeon gave me some hard choices to make that would affect my appearance and chance for survival. He offered plastic surgery to minimize the impact. I started to dream about small perky breasts. Although I am tall and on the thin side, I can barely squeeze into a 38 DDD. The thought of being able to go into a store, try on clothes, and actually have them fit was a dream I have had since I was thirteen.
After much thought, I prepared for cancer and reduction surgery which added, longer recovery, risks, scarring, and additional pain. Just before hospitalization, I changed my mind and didn’t do it. Why? I saw a picture of a woman my age with amazing breasts, but the rest of her body had definitely aged. I didn’t want to have breasts that wouldn’t fit the rest of me. I think I was looking for a benefit of having breast cancer. I realized there isn’t any, but I still didn’t cry.
A simple procedure of marking the cancer for surgery was my undoing. It isn’t extremely painful or complicated. Although they left a metal marker in my breast during the biopsy, the surgeon needed a way to locate it. A wire needed to be inserted in my breast. First they “freeze” the area with a normal needle filled with a local anesthetic. Sounds simple, right? Then a very large needle is inserted. The wire is pushed through the needle and is left in the breast for the surgeon. They say it is simple and relatively painless.
Well, for me it was anything but. The procedure terrified me. I’ve never had a problem with needles…until now. I had a breast cyst aspirated and a large core needle biopsy, so this wasn’t the first time I dealt with needles in my breast. During the other procedures, the (male) physician told me it would sting like a bee. Right! The cancer was deep inside my large breasts, so the needle with the anesthetic went through a lot of sensitive tissue. Believe me. It did not sting like a bee.
Anyway, how can a male doctor know how it feels to have a needle inserted in my breast? Instead of telling me how it feels, he should say it’s going to hurt for a few moments and leave it at that. I can deal with pain. Just don’t tell me it’s going to sting like a bee.
My surgeon told me the cancer and metal chip would be located with ultrasound. I was nervous about the wire placement, but when the radiologist changed the procedure, I panicked. He wanted to put me in a mammogram machine to find the clip and insert the wire. It wasn’t what I expected, so I hadn’t mentally prepared myself. Most women wouldn’t have flinched. I panicked.
I started to cry. The tears silently leaked out of my eyes, and my teeth chattered. It only took a minute for the shakes to set in. There was a huge lump in my throat and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was having a full blown anxiety attack.
The thought of my breast squashed between two metal plates while a huge needle was inserted, pushed me over the edge. The doctor in radiology told me the process was virtually painless. So I asked him if he thought it would hurt if I put his left testicle into a vise, tightened it until he thought it would explode, shot it with a needle the size of a cannon, and then left a wire as big as a skewer. He got the picture. They used the ultrasound. It was time consuming for him, but it made a world of difference to me.
Questioning a doctor or a change of procedure is hard for me. I was taught to be a lady. Don’t complain and never cause a problem. My mother used to say, “Just do what you are told.” She believed the authority of a doctor should never be questioned.
I am not sure why that particular procedure pushed my panic button. I’ve had two children without anesthetic and four major surgeries without an anxiety attack. Maybe it was the fear of breast cancer climaxing in one procedure, but it taught me something valuable. I learned that I could ask questions and inquire about alternative medical procedures. The cancer invaded my body, but I could still be in control.
Most people working with cancer patients are kind and caring. If I asked, they would hold my hand, give me a hug, or just wait a few seconds while I took a deep breath.
Every step of the way to recovery, I met women sitting around in hospital gowns waiting for chemotherapy or radiation. Some were bald and others were losing their hair. A few women were silent, but most welcomed conversation and even laughed. If I needed a hug, all I had to do was ask. Soon I was the one offering sympathy and support.
Yes, I laughed before, during, and after treatment for breast cancer, but there were times that I cried, and that was okay. Women are strong, but sometimes we need to let our feelings show. My husband was supportive and wonderful, but he couldn’t understand what I was going through. Women understand women.
This is my first year of survival and I feel great. I know I may die of the disease, but I’m not going down without a fight. I can laugh…and cry. It’s okay. I am entitled, because I am a breast cancer survivor.
