Words – Sculpting the Narrative

Since the lucky date of 7/11 I have been learning the power of words in shaping the narrative – my narrative, as it turns out.

Two weeks later, my two granddaughters stood by me in the posh hotel room’s sink area, heads craned up in my direction, the serious seven-year-old saying “Are you going to have surgery, Nana?” The four-year-old stood nearby looking up at me. The question was shocking in its directness, its laser precision. How had they known? Had they overheard their parent’s in conversation during the long drive from home to Huntington Beach? They stepped out of their wet bathing suits, the little one asking for help before climbing into the shower. Their bodies are browned from the sun,

“Maybe,” I said cautiously. “I will find out more tomorrow.”

Two weeks before, the doctor had called me at 5:30 in the afternoon, on a Monday, when momentous things don’t happen and the information had slipped out of her mouth into my ear canal with insidious impact. I’d had a CT scan the previous Thursday, and aside from the technician’s casual comment about my left kidney not processing the contrast like the right side, nothing had prepared me for the doctor’s words on that Monday.

“5 cm likely cancerous mass” and “sending the report to a gynocologist and gynocological surgeon to get you seen as soon as possible.” The words that formed lamely from my gel point pen in the telephone log book described the size as 3/4 the size of my fist. Were those my words? Or hers? Hers, I think, because I returned to that description, knowing that my fist was probably larger than hers, and I could hear her turn to someone and consult, then came back and said, “Two inches, roughly.”

Her voice was kind, but the news was shocking. It always is, in spite of my previously hearty claims that “we will all get cancer at some point or other in our life.” I sort of didn’t believe that, just like I believed that we’d all get COVID-19 and here after three years, I still hadn’t had it. Words have a certain profundity when they are about you, versus about someone else. How narcissistic we actually are when reality presents itself.

The story has changed with each step. The MRI the surgeon ordered gave additional clarity and then my care was passed on to a surgical team at my university. The idea of surgery, which I’d been telling my nearest and dearest frittered away when the new surgeon said, “no, radiation and a low dose of chemo,” “curative,” “Fifteen minutes a day for five to six weeks.”

At each phase of new information the words of the narrative changed, and with it, their impact. I had to remember who had which version of the saga, and I’ve taken to keeping a journal with a daily state of mind check-in. The first nights were dark nights of the soul, but as the days have continued, and more information became available, it has become easier for me to share with people. Inevitably, the C word has the chilling effect of causing the recipient to blanch, and tilt their head to the side, care and concern clouding their face.

One looks for the quickest least impactful way to drop the cancer stink bomb into what is a quotidian conversation with friends of co-workers, but regardless, news like this inevitably illicits an intake of breath, and then you can see all the questions forming like Schroeder’s dust storm above the receiver’s head.

There are so many questions, all of which I’m recording in my little composition notebook and I began dragging my loving and willing sister-in-law to my medical appointments to listen and record the information in the book while I’m in the stirrups. For all the questions I have, my loved ones have three to every one of mine. Each answer unlocks a different path like the complicated SOPs my Associate Production Manager has come up which detail the many hiring processes we are responsible for.

How do people tolerate the radiation? Do they drive themselves to the appointments? Will I be able to continue with my work? Can I schedule them at 8:30 in the morning so I can still get my morning walk in? Can I do one day at a different time around my teaching schedule? Should I plan to have someone standing by to pick up part of the work by which week of the treatment? Of course, if we start radiation by 8/14, six weeks drops us into October, the busiest month of the semester.

I dropped this draft over the ensuing weeks, as the narrative changed again and again. Biopsy revealed no cancer. Jubilation in my life pod. Conversation with surgeon – yes, that’s true, but not enough tissue was taken. We will know all by the surgery. Even the surgery dates were shuffled on Thursday morning – to two weeks later then back to this past Monday 8/28.

Recently, I had a friend over for lunch, I made a savory Dutch Baby for us to eat, from one of the Saturday New York Times recipes for the coming week. Somehow, I’d begun to think about the unidentified growth as “my dutch baby.” When the original surgery date was shared of 8/31, I thought it was particularly apt that the dutch baby was coming out over Labor Day Weekend.

The surgical team was ready and did a superlative job using the robot to remove and dissect in my abdomen for the job at hand. My friends and family (both work and natal) stand by for the news. I have such wise friends. As much as we can try to prepare the person who will sit in our chair while we’re gone, there is no way to prepare for how others will deal with your absence. The process is not made in your image but in the image of those whose job it is to carry on the work. I have let go of the work and am embracing taking care of my health. I’ve removed my work email from my phone.

In my composition book, I’ve continued to address my state of mind at each turn. Reading over this again, I am reminded of how quickly our mental transitions can take place, as new information renders the previous narrative defunct. We are the managers of that emotional and intellectual information. I feel good and ready and prepared. I trust my surgical team and I’m ready for whatever happens. After all, we’ve already survived the cancer news. Do not live in a world of F.E.A.R. (Future Events Aren’t Real) because very often they aren’t.

What this event has shown me is how fortunate I am to have such supportive colleagues, family and friends.