I state with confidence that I did not go into shock upon receiving the diagnosis. I base this on my understanding that “shock” would mean a loss or numbing of consciousness resulting from the lovely anti-adrenalin goo that washes over the brain like warm syrup on hot waffles. I have heard other people speak of their experiences with the initial concussion of such a devastating blow, and how it is immediately followed by a thick fog that blurs the mind and protects it from reliving the pain as a terminal loop in their memory bank. They say things like “I heard the word cancer and everything was a blur after that.” So how pissed was I to discover at that precise moment that my body does not produce anti-adrenalin goo. A warning would have been nice.
Therefore, I remember in sharp, high-resolution detail every second, moment and hour that followed.
It started as an annual cholesterol check, followed by an immediate CAT Scan for no reason other than elevated liver enzymes, resulting in an office visit THE NEXT DAY for a diagnosis that should have been buffered by shock. Here’s a clue…if your doctor calls YOU to make an appointment for the NEXT DAY… call everyone in your immediate family to find out what your genetic pre-disposition is for producing anti-adrenalin hormones.
Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer
Four words that created a single sphere that ricocheted in my cranium like a ping pong ball of perpetual motion. As the voice in my head is screaming “I don’t know what that means!!” At the same time I continued to hear and register everything the doctor was saying (because I partitioned part of my brain’s hard drive for that sole purpose and later wrote it all down, and I don’t think one can accomplish that if one is in shock).
At last I am truly grateful to be a Gemini. While the Ping Pong Ball is slicing through unknown quantities of grey matter like a light saber, there are still enough synapses firing to process what I’m hearing….”we can tell it originated in the pancreas”… it’s incredibly warm in here, but I’m still breathing so that’s good….”and there are two tumors in the liver, one about 6 cm and the other 8 cm”…I look at my husband who is staring wide-eyed and innocently at the words forming on the doctor’s mouth….”and four of the larger lymph nodes are involved”… I am aware of tears beginning to flow down my cheek—more than is appropriate for a wedding, less than a river overflowing it’s banks—and I see that my husband’s eyes are dry so I assume he’s in shock and I wonder what that feels like (or doesn’t feel like?)…. “and at this stage it’s inoperable, but you’ll still need to see a surgeon because insurance requires a surgical consult prior to further coverage”… I marvel at how solid my voice sounds when I assure the doctor that I have a surgeon, and I am overcome with gratitude when he holds the box of tissues out to me as if I can take as many as I want….”I don’t like to put a time limit on this, there’s no way of knowing”… my husband is pressing the issue because he processes Time differently than I do, and I have to remind myself that he has that right….”you’ll definitely want to arrange for your comfort” …wow, that sounds so much better than ‘put your affairs in order’!…but my very German husband requires more precision in order to process so as he pushes for precision timing, I remind myself that he has that right…”maybe September”…. It is March 10th, so six months, or two trimesters, or 180 days give or take. Two seconds after the word September I am trying to calculate hours and minutes but the doctor is asking if we have any questions, and I am impressed with myself for not asking if he’s fucking kidding me. I cut him slack because he didn’t rush this encounter for his own escape and I can sense that this was hard for him too, and as I watch him in profile speaking to my husband who is in profile, I am reminded of how much I hate flourescent lighting, and thank god I’ve never been claustrophobic because I’m thinking this would be a claustrophobic moment if I were so inclined, and I focus on the box of tissues on the counter and I think about how much I want to take that box home with me. I’ll need them for the ride home. Would it be rude to take the whole box?, because it looks like a new box except that it was already opened like they knew I was born without anti-adrenalin capabilities. I’ve already taken four tissues from the box, and I’m fairly certain it was the first four of the box so I would like to maintain some continuity here…. and I see before me a huge consumption of tissues like a Cristo exhibit on the Pacific coast, (though I personally prefer cotton handkerchiefs) beginning with the four in my hand so I need the box they came from and every box to follow….
Lest you think that at this point I went into shock, I assure you that I was still aware of every word spoken; it was just so much niceties and assurances—noise signifying nothing. My focus remains on the box of tissues. If it were almost empty I’d have no qualms confiscating the remainder, but it’s too new and full. Part of me comprehends that the barometer of days to come may be Tissues. I hear them making their good-bye sounds and I realize the window of tissue opportunities is closing. The decision is made. My hands clench the four tissues in my hand as I reach for my husband and turn to the door. It is not MY pancreatic cancer, so it’s not MY box of tissues.
