The Turning Point

Back in February, I made my first trip to MD Anderson and met my new cancer prevention doctor, Dr. Powell Brown. He was a soft-spoken man with kind eyes, who seemingly had nothing else to do that day other than talk to me. He made me feel like I was his only patient, which immediately told me I was in good hands.

I told him my story and he listened intently, though he had already familiarized himself with my case via the files sent from KU Med. When it was his turn, he talked to me about my risks and suggested some further work with the high risk and genetics counselors. He asked me if I had considered surgical options, or if I was comfortable with frequent screenings at this point. I told him I was comfortable with the screenings. Of course, I had thought about the surgery on countless occasions, but I wasn’t ready to take that leap. After we said our goodbyes and agreed to meet again in six months, I went on to have my mammogram.

Two days later, the dreaded call came. There were some things in each breast they wanted to take closer look at. They were unidentified densities which would hopefully be seen better with some diagnostic mammography, blah blah, etc. etc.

This is the point where my head starts spinning and I can’t breathe for a moment, and I stutter through the rest of the phone call trying to make sure I write down the date correctly for my next appointment. I’ve been here before, I tell myself. I’m sure it’s nothing, I say over and over again. I took a moment to breathe before I called my husband. He said all the right things; all the things I was telling myself. He asked questions that I, of course, didn’t think to ask while I was on the phone with the people who could answer them. I hung up just in time to let out that big breath that all the tears were dammed behind, and cried. I always feel silly, because I act as though I’ve been given such terrible news when it wasn’t really bad news at all, just news that they needed more information.

A week later, I had lots of mammograms. To further evaluate, they did a sonogram, and decided to follow up in six months with an MRI. So, no answers, just the fact that these super great doctors who are way smarter than me are confident enough to wait six months, so I should be, too. On the way home from this appointment, I didn’t feel relief, I still felt suffocated. I just thought that we’ll do this again in six months, and then I will wait…again. And it just felt so heavy. I don’t know how to explain it other than that. It was just heavy – all over me. The fear, the exhaustion, the I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE.

At some point later on that day, Danny said something along the lines of, “Just get rid of them. This is too hard on you.” And I thought finally that might be the answer. When the doctor called me again, I said I thought I might be ready to discuss the surgical alternative.

Within days, I had an appointment with a breast oncology surgeon and a high risk/genetics counselor. It was during these appointments that I got the numbers. More than double high risk. 1 in 2 chance. 50%. Again I felt breathless, because I knew I was high risk, but it is much scarier in number form. It’s more concrete somehow. _It feels inescapable. _

When they asked me if I had any questions, I froze. Inside, I was screaming, “So I’m going to get cancer, right? Like, there’s a big chance I am doomed. Am I doomed? What does this mean?” I was thinking about my mom and it was seriously like a movie montage. I kept seeing her at various stages of being sick, and then I suddenly realized that they were all looking at me and waiting for me to speak. I also realized my eyes were all cloudy with tears, and I knew my face was all red and blotchy and so was my chest, because I’m that girl who goes all chameleon when she gets upset.

I managed to harness it all in, and proceeded to ask a few questions; one being, “So what is my risk after the surgery?” The surgeon told me there are no guarantees, but she can likely take my risk to 1 – 2%. (Wow.) I was instructed to think about it.

I then met with a plastic surgeon. He went over all the reconstruction options, which, in itself, is a whole other blog post. He also told me to think about it. It’s a big decision, they both said. Take some time.

I decided to go to the café and order a piece of chocolate cake and a mocha frappuccino. (I felt I earned it that afternoon.) As I walked through the halls, I looked at all of the people. It’s really an overwhelming place to be, MD Anderson, because everyone there either has cancer or knows someone with cancer. And the place is just so huge. It’s just so much cancer. I saw many women wearing scarves on their heads, as my mother did so many times during chemo. I saw women who had taken to leaving the scarves at home, which my mother also did at some point.

I held on to all my mastectomy and reconstruction literature, stepped onto the escalator, and on the way down, I decided I would have the surgery. I had to. Regardless of how hard it would be, regardless of how hard I might have to fight my insurance company, I would do it. It took me all of about thirty minutes to think about it.

Danny pulled up to the curb, waving. Addisen and Emery were also waving as I approached the van. When the door opened, Zack shouted, “Mama!” I knew then it was the right decision and there would be no turning back.

I would do it for me, but even more, I would do it for them.

Melanie Hale Chezem is a freelance writer and busy mom of three. She writes with brutal honesty and an open invitation to laugh with (or at) her on her blog, A Life Lived Well.