On January 9, Dr. Lee Char called. I was on a Zoom call when I saw the number on my cell phone. Excusing myself, I took Dr. Lee Char's call.
“I’m sorry. It’s malignant.”
Me
“So we do the surgery tomorrow and then what?”
Dr. Lee Char
“No, I’m sorry, we cannot do the surgery tomorrow. The standard of care is called neo-adjuvant chemotherapy done before surgery.”
Me
“Why?”
Dr. Lee Char
“It shows better outcomes in scientific studies.”
Me
“Wow. That sucks. Can you refer me to an oncologist?”
CURVEBALL PITCHED - STRIKE ONE
My family and I were thrown the first curveball with the diagnosis and we girded ourselves for the disabling experience of chemotherapy. My memories of chemotherapy were all bad, with the understanding that the torture was necessary to save my life as it saved my sister and mother. But months of torture from chemo were what I was trying to avoid with the prophylactic surgery. Too late.
We hung up the phone, and I returned to the Zoom to let people know I needed to drop. I sat at my desk, looking around my home office, trying to process the seismic shift that had just happened in my life. I needed to tell someone. I didn't want to tell my husband on the phone. I needed Jessica to cancel the party, but that meant telling many people what was happening before I knew what I wanted to say or had the outline of a plan. I dreaded telling my parents. I felt terrible that my children were about to experience the same thing that so dramatically shaped my life. My head was spinning - and I didn't have an oncologist. Simply trying to slow my mind down enough to put the various thoughts into a priority order was nearly impossible.
My kids were in the house - two were temporarily home from college. I did NOT want to tell them until I had told their father, AND I was emotionally in a place where I could face their emotions and support them. Ridiculous, right? I just got told that I have a life-threatening disease of unknown size for which I don't have a doctor, and I'm worried about the emotional response of my kids. You never stop being a mom, even if you have cancer.
My sister-in-law was in the house to help me and Neal through the surgery. I texted her, asking her to come upstairs. She's a physician, works in oncology pharmaceutical safety, and is a cancer survivor, so I don't think I needed to speak for her to know what I had just heard from the doctor. But I needed to say it out loud. I needed to make it real. I needed to express that I was still here and could handle this. So I told Heather. Heather started taking notes - writing down all the things I rattled off that needed to happen. Looking at them on paper helped. I knew the top priorities were telling Neal, finding the best oncologist possible, and calling off the party.
Heather offered to help tell people - and we both felt that she should text Jessica, and I would prioritize telling Neal in person. Then, I'd call my sister to ask for her help finding the oncologist. Tracey has a community of highly connected, influential individuals who care deeply about her and her family - people who helped when my mother had Stage 3 bladder cancer in 2014 -. I hoped they would help me, too. I also needed Tracey's counsel about how and when to tell our parents. First, I needed to tell Neal, my husband. But I needed that party canceled without drama or explanations.
Jessica and Heather engaged over text, Day 0 in the batter box facing a cancer curveball.
Heather:
Hi Jess, it’s Heather - Neal’s sister/Joelle’s sister-in-law. Please call me (not Joelle) - we need to cancel the gathering tonight. I can update you. Thanks.
Jessica:
Oy. (Jessica knew about the scans and biopsy)
I’m at an appointment. I can call around 1pm.
Then Jessica sent a note to women who HAD been planning on celebrating that night.)
Jessica:
Tracey texted me. I can postpone response or…LMK what Joelle wants
Heather:
Just wait - we will tell her. Thanks for checking.
Jessica:
Thought so
Pls LMK when Tracey has been told.
Heather:
Will do
We are at Neal’s office - she is telling him now
She will call Tracey after
Jessica:
Ugh. That’s gonna suck.
I figured. I’m clear on her boundaries and “order of operations.”
This just sucks. I’m so glad ur here!
Heather:
It is awful. Initial reaction seems OK but we’ll see how things play out over time. I imagine they will want to tell the kids tonight too so they have as much time to process it before the boys leave. I am so glad I am here too.
I think she will call Tracey when we get home - I will let you know.
Heather and I had decided it would be best for Neal and me if she and I walked to his office and told him in person. Heather could answer questions with authority that I could not. As I prepared to walk over to Neal's office, Heather and I left the house quickly as I didn't want to face my college sons. Unquestionably, they'd know something was wrong, and I wouldn't lie to them. Better to leave without that risk. I don't remember the five-block walk from home to my husband's office. His company was based in Ohio, so he didn't have any colleagues I had to greet as I climbed the stairs to his office.
Heather asked if I wanted her in the room. I didn't think that would be good for Neal or me - we needed to face this initial pitch alone. I knocked and entered. Neal looked at me, and his eyes welled with tears. A friend of ours, Dana, had died six months earlier of cancer after a long, brave fight. She left behind a devastated husband and three sons. She was exactly my age. Neal's father had died from complications following a bone marrow transplant from cancer. His aunt and his uncle as well. In fact, I think the only people he knew who survived cancer were my sister, mother, and a couple of our business school section mates.
Neal said - positive? And I said yes. He was sitting in his office chair, and I stood before him. He wrapped his arms around me, and we cried a little.
Then I asked Heather to join us, and Neal asked us questions. I didn't know much except that I wasn't having surgery the next day, and I would be having chemotherapy at some point. My mental image of chemotherapy was pretty miserable based on my sister's and mother's experiences. Neal was completely behind me and prepared to do whatever I needed to smash this curveball and the ones we likely would see until this experience was completed. It was vital to him to attend the initial appointment with the oncologist - who we hadn't yet discovered.
Jessica and I have been friends since we were 6 months pregnant with our now 22-year-old firstborn children. She's my chosen second sister, and there's nothing in the last 22 years that we haven't shared with each other and relied upon each other. I seem to remember receiving a text after Heather told her that simply said…fuck. And then, she handled communication canceling/postponing the party that didn't force me to reveal the diagnosis before I was ready. In particular, I certainly didn't want anyone else to know before I told my kids.
Jessica (still to Heather):
Ariel has therapy already scheduled for 6pm today. The therapist is fantastic. Also, my son and Taylor remain very close; my son is in town until late tomorrow morning. Once Joelle decides when she will tell her kids, she can tell me when to inform mine so they can be supportive.
Heather:
I will definitely tell her that
Jessica:
Did they stage it? Is it contained?
Heather:
It’s in 1 lymph node so stage 2
A few minutes after I spoke to Neal, I called my sister. Tracey knew about the prior week's scans and biopsy. She was sad but not shocked. We're never shocked when it's breast cancer in my family.
Heather:
Tracey is aware
Jessica:
I know. She texted me. Thank you.
That’s when I started texting with Jessica in addition to Tracey.
Joelle:
well my day (and next 6 months) just went pot to shit
Jessica:
Ugh. I’m so sorry…will get tonight canceled.
I’m sitting around near the High School and am free until 2:45pm. Assuming my coming over would only complicate things, but if it would help you in any way, I can be there in 2 min.
Love you and will help you through this!!!
I was not going to approach these curveball pitches alone like my parents had felt 40+ years prior - my "at bat" was going to have a lot of people in the dugout and cheering from the sidelines. Because of the now-canceled surgery, many people were about to be in the grandstand for my treatment, and I was going to need to be clear about what I did and did not want - before I fully knew. That's part of being in the batter's box.
Continue the story…
