Cancer Confessions

I am a cancerphobe. I'm not sure if that's the official clinical term for someone with an intense but rather irrational fear of cancer. But it's the label that I've chosen for myself, for now. I can pinpoint the exact beginning of my cancerphobia. January 5, 2004. 7:35 PM. My mother had drawn her final breath a few moments before, and the hospital personnel declared her deceased. In hospital lingo, "Time of death: 19:35."

This happened less than three weeks after Mom's initial diagnosis of colon cancer, which was followed less than 24 hours later by surgery that revealed armies of cancer cells attacking nearly every organ in her midsection. Stage 4 cancer. Just about as bad as it gets, I suppose. After all, what stage tends to follow Stage 4? Stage D: D as in Death. Mom's surgeon was as kind as he could have been, under the circumstances, but he offered no hope for recovery, aside from a miracle. Sure, they would try chemotherapy, but that was likely to merely extend her life a bit, not save it.

Mom didn't talk much about her fears of the cancer treatments or the likelihood of her death. Ever the pragmatist, she prepared for the chemo by having her stylist cut her hair from a bob into a shorter style, apparently with the goal of making the expected hair loss less traumatic. But Mom's body was weakened by the surgery, and she never even made it to her first scheduled outpatient appointment with the oncologist. In the end, Mom left this world with her hair closely cropped, but still intact. Perhaps that was a blessing. At least her suffering--physical AND emotional--was brief.

My suffering, on the other hand, seems to keep gaining steam. In some ways, it feels as if it has just begun. When she was alive, my relationship with my mother always seemed complicated. More often than not, there was anger, resentment, disappointment, and confusion simmering beneath the surface of my love for Mom. In the months since her death, though, my feelings about her have been streamlined, stripped down to what seems most important and necessary at this point. I no longer have much use for that old bitterness. Instead, I am left with profound sadness and regret. Sometimes, I am able to summon memories of the many good times with my mother, and those give me reason enough to trade some of my tears for smiles. But mostly, I find myself missing Mom and wishing we had been given more time together. Especially, I wish she could be around to share the lives of my two sons. I do believe that her spirit is never far away, but sometimes that feels like a very inadequate consolation prize.

Mom's gone, and I've suffered my deepest emotional wound yet. And cancer is the reason. Now, I realize that cancer isn't always deadly. In fact, I know numerous people who have survived cancer. But my mother didn't, and I know the primary reason she didn't: by the time the cancer was discovered, it was so widespread that there wasn't much that could be done to get rid of it. And therein lies the source of my cancerphobia. Because of my mother's death, I worry more about developing cancer (and not being diagnosed until it's too late) than I worry about any other possible reason why I might die at a young age.

My cancerphobia reached a sort of fever pitch last week, when I had to have my very first mammogram. I'm "only" thirty-seven, so when I went for a regular checkup on May 4, my physician didn't automatically order me to get a routine screening mammogram; those are recommended for women who are 40 and older. No, this mammogram was scheduled for a more ominous purpose: diagnosis. You see, my doc found some "fibrocystic changes" when he was performing my exam.

For those six days between my doctor visit and my Very First Mammogram Ever, I was freaked out. I tried not to be freaked out. I kept telling myself all sorts of logical reasons why I shouldn't freak out. But still, I couldn't quite squelch my nagging anxiety. At times my vivid imagination is a curse; this was one of those times. The "worst case scenario" kept running through my mind: Cancer in both breasts, metastasized throughout my body, death within months...my kids would be left motherless, my husband widowed. I kept visualizing myself having to say goodbye to my husband and our sons. I made silent plans to film myself with our camcorder so that the boys would have video footage of their Mommy, in lieu of a live, flesh-and-blood mother to guide them to adulthood. It seemed as if my second-worst fear was about to be realized: the fear of dying while my sons are still children (my #1 worst fear is losing either or both of my sons).

Last Tuesday, the day of my Very First Mammogram Ever finally arrived. It turned out to be a more time-consuming experience than I had envisioned. Unlike some women, I didn't find the breast-smashing procedures too uncomfortable; it was the waiting that was painful. Just when I'd think I was finished, the radiologist would request more views, and the mammography tech would come fetch me for more shots, from different angles. I think she took a total of about 16 pictures. I became so nervous that I was sure I was going to vomit at any moment. The process seemed to drag on for hours, but it couldn't have lasted more than forty-five minutes or so. Ultimately, the tech delivered me the best possible announcement: "The doctor says everything looks fine; you do have some fibrocystic areas, but those are nothing to worry about. You can get dressed and go home now!"

I've had a great week since then. It sounds corny, but I literally feel as if I have been given a new chance at life. I've celebrated by savoring my time with my husband, sons, and friends. In yesterday's mail, I received the official report from the mammography lab: No cancer. No cancer! I feel as if I've dodged a bullet (though the reality is, the cancer gun probably was never even aimed at me in the first place). Of course, I'm still awaiting the results from the Pap smear my physician took during my May 4 appointment. But somehow, my cancerphobia seems to be taking a vacation for now.

I don't expect my fear of cancer to stay away forever, though. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. I think I can use my cancerphobia for good, not evil. I'm going to be vigilant about getting regular checkups, and when my first "routine" mammogram comes due in 2007, you can bet I'll schedule that appointment before my 40th birthday cake leftovers get stale. I'll never again let more than a year lapse between Pap smears. I'm also determined to do everything in my power to avoid falling victim to colorectal cancer, the disease that stole my mother from us. Life truly IS beautiful, and I intend to make mine last as long as possible.