I never really thought I would be diagnosed with breast cancer, but I swore to myself that if I was, I would get the best treatment. I would go for second and third opinions. I would seek out experts and research facilities and I would make the most informed decision possible.
That is far easier thought than accomplished.
It also speaks to my judgment on how my mom handled her care, whether or not I meant to make that judgment. I spent my entire adult life with my mother's cancer. I was 21 when she was diagnosed and 38 when she died. I knew nothing else. I saw her cancer up close. I was let into some, but not all, of her decision making processes. But I didn't understand it. How can you truly, in the parent-child dynamic. I was angry about this for so long. It wasn't until I was 38 and my mom was dying and I was starting graduate school that I actually understood why my mother and father had kept me out of some of those decisions, and carefully let me into others.
They were being good parents. There was a line there - I was the child, still, and they were the parents. They were protecting me. They were allowing me to live my own life, unencumbered by responsibilities that were not mine. And, eventually, once I learned about family dynamics and structural theory, I got it. The pieces fell into place, and I was grateful. Too late to thank my mom for it, but not too late to understand.
Still, I wish I had asked her all those questions about why they made this choice or that choice in her cancer care. One of the things I understood immediately was that this is seriously overwhelming. Like, for reals. That nice scheduler at the breast center set me up with appointments on the very day I got my diagnosis. I didn't know what I was saying yes or no to. I just said "okay" a lot and wrote down a bunch of dates. That was Tuesday.
By Friday I started to think for myself.
I had a number of recommendations from friends on breast surgeons. (Turns out, my friends had friends who had breast surgeons). I had three major cancer centers I wanted to check out. I started to make plans. I spent one entire day making phone calls and setting up visits and taking copious notes on everything everyone said to me. Being a recent student came in handy. I'm good at writing things down.
Cancer centers, it turns out, are kind of like college visits. On the phone, they want all sorts of qualifying information from you - test results (scores), dates (grades), pathology slides (extracurricular activities). Once you get there, however, they start to woo you with their surgeons (professors), facilities (dorms, dining halls), and research studies (small class size). Sometimes you even get freebies, like coffee, tea, and breakfast snacks. You find yourself saying things like Well, the bathrooms were really nice, and they have Starbucks on site.
Once I realized that I could apply the fairly extensive college search I carried out 23 years ago to this experience, I felt a whole lot better. I am good at this. I like those qualifiers, criteria, statistics. I enjoy evaluating the hard facts and the soft feelings. When a doctor mentioned a study, I went and looked it up and read it for myself. (Thank you, MU, for not terminating my academic credentials quite yet.)
But it's not for everyone. It's a lot of work, at a time when you are lost, confused, scared, and panicked. It isn't easy. And once your decision is made, you are going to hear a whole host of opinions from people on where you should have gone - even if they don't say it aloud, they think it so hard you can hear them.
That's okay, though. It is scary, and love and concern look different from everyone. I feel confident that I am getting the best medical care and have made the best decisions. No doubts in my mind. And in the end, that's what really matters the most, isn't it?
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