I plodded toward my car, lugging a heavy laptop, a lunch bag, the breast pump and a handbag, and looking like a pack mule on the verge of collapse. It was 7:58 a.m. on a Wednesday, and I felt sapped. Then again, no first-time mom who went to work after a 10-week maternity leave would be a poster child for vitality. As I reversed out of the garage, my phone buzzed.
“I’m calling from Dr. H’s office.”
My gut clenched, chest tightened and my mouth went dry. I knew a call from the doctor’s office at 8 a.m. did not bode well. In the same way people remembered where they were when the planes struck the Twin Towers on 9/11, every cancer patient remembers where they were when they first heard their diagnosis.
My symptoms had flummoxed the doctors. They suspected a brain tumor, but metastatic cancer was still a possibility. I became a regular patron of the diagnostic imaging center, each time checking off another procedure: X-ray, ultrasound, mammography, CT scan, bone scan. “Dodged a bullet,” I joked with myself when I saw “prostate screening” on the menu.
Three months in, the lab and imaging results were still inconclusive. I enlisted my physician cousin to help me navigate and interpret the daily dose of medical jargon that came my way. I guess it’s an occupational hazard for doctors — constantly fielding family medical questions. I emailed her my results and she dutifully consulted her colleagues and friends in hopes of decoding what was wrong with me.
