I knew I hated lumps clear back in the old days when Mom had a bad Cream of Wheat day in the kitchen.
Those lumps were easy to do away with, ignore, dump down the heat vent, or roll in brown sugar when all else failed.
But, fast forward 50 years: the lump showing up in my Mammogram would only be dispensed with by serious surgery.
I had two choices: lumpectomy or mastectomy. Of course I chose the lumpectomy. After all it was just a tiny little 1 centimeter lump, the size an Advil. Wasn’t it? Why do something as radical as a mastectomy? But the good surgeon assured me that some women actually choose the mastectomy. They have their reasons (and they are good) and I had mine; and I was told repeatedly at the doctor’s office and at the Breast Cancer Support Group that each woman needs to make her own choice. And I did, and I’m grateful that today’s medical world gave me that choice.
Years ago a woman with breast cancer was at the mercy of doctors who didn’t care much about the woman’s emotional state. I read of one woman who awoke from what she expected to be a minor surgery to find both breasts removed and huge ugly scars lining her chest cavity. The doctor’s somewhat callous response: be happy to be alive.
She was, but at such a price.
Today is a happy day for me. I’m walking, working, a few bruises and stitches and some serious purple dye hither and thither. Ice is good; Peanut M&Ms are good; letting the husband and son cook and clean and put on my socks is good.
It’s times like these we rediscover that our friends care. Thanks for dinner and calls and prayers, my friends.
And the grandchildren…
My oldest granddaughter saw me at church a few weeks ago and blurted out, “Grandma, our Dad told us you have breast cancer.” Right there in front of any passersby. So be it. When something as life-changing as breast cancer happens it’s time to lose the inhibitions. It is what it is.
I’m grateful to be alive. I’m grateful for modern medicine, caring doctors, sterile operating fields, anesthesia (boy am I grateful), warm blankets, gift shops with bracelets and candy bars, waking up to a nurse asking me what level my pain is at. And to make her happy I said 2. But I don’t think I was at anything.
So the messy basement, overgrown lawn, derelict tomato plants and so much of life’s clutter take a back seat to just being here and moving around and eating peanut M&Ms.
And did I mention grandchildren?
When I got home another granddaughter gave me a home-made card. This is what it said:
“Grandma,
You’re my favorite grandma.
I hope your breast cancer goes away.”
Amen.