Turns out, this is where the invincibility ends.
“We need to do a biopsy,”the radiologist tells me, once her probe is returned to its cart and I’m left wiping the lube from my armpit.
Biopsies are bad. Biopsies create stone walls between one moment and the next. Biopsies create endings. Receiving the result of my first biopsy, almost two years ago now, was the worst day of my life. I sink into the memory like quicksand.
“Are you sitting down?” the nurse asked when she called with my biopsy result. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and I had just shut my laptop and changed into gym shoes for a run.
My legs went numb at the question. Good news doesn’t require sitting.
“Mhmm.” I sank onto my couch.
“It’s an invasive ductal carcinoma.”
The words were jarring.Carcinomadidn’t belong in a sentence anywhere near me. The sun was shining even though it was January, like the Universe just wanted to spite me.
The rest of the conversation blurred into an unintelligible stream of what could have been gibberish.Grade 3floated somewhere, as didappointment on Monday.
Words were written on the back of a takeout menu.Carcinoma. Surgical Oncologist. Tamoxifen.
The entire world went dark. Everywhere I turned were cliff edges. “You’ll get through this,” Grant said when he got to my apartment, then found me sitting in the same spot two hours later. But his eyes belied his uncertainty. “We will get you through this,” he insisted.I couldn’t nod. I knew, in the deep center of my being, that part of me had just died. Whatever remained of me on the other side of this wouldn’t be the person who had answered that phone call.
I claw my way back to the present.I am healthy, I tell myself.There is no cancer in my body.
“Are you sure?” I ask, clutching the edges of my gown with sweating palms. “You said it was only a little swollen.”
The radiologist sighs. “That can be a sign that there’s cancer in the lymph node. There’s increased vascularity around the node too. These are all signs that make me suspicious.”
“It’s probably nothing, though, right?” I press.
The radiologist puts a hand on my shoulder. “We can never be too careful.” She begins walking out of the room, discarding her gloves by the door. “Carrie, the charge nurse, will get your biopsy scheduled on your way out.”
Carrie is leaning out of her office by the time I have my shirt back on and leave the imaging room. “Let’s get you scheduled,” she says, tapping the doorframe.
I stand in her office doorway, not able to step fully inside.
She opens her computer, choosing not to comment on my refusal to sit. “I’ve got tomorrow at 8 a.m. available.”
Tomorrow. In less than twenty-four hours, a hollow needle could extract a core of my lymph node and decide the next seven months of my life. Could be the rest of my life, if something bigger is afoot somewhere else in my body.
Outside the window of Carrie’s office, the sun shines on a perfect autumn day. The Universe is taunting me again. It’s no coincidence this is happening just as I’m close to crossing off theonly three things I asked for, to get back the life I lost to cancer the first time.
It’s more than the Dark Place that’s threatening to consume me. The world itself is slipping into darkness, threatening to yank me back to the treatment chair, beneath the knife, seared by ionizing radiation. Back to a wasteland surrounded by cliffs.
My bones know I won’t survive going through what I went through again. If the cancer is back, what guarantees do I have? Set myself on fire again, for the hope that we stop it in its tracks. What if we can’t?
“I—can’t—” I stutter.
Carrie stands, sensing my flight instinct. “We don’t have to do it tomorrow, we can do it early next week.”
Next week.Next week.The wedding is next weekend. Everything I’ve been working for. Everything I’ve gained. Eitan, my writing career, my friends. It wouldn’t even matter. Nothing would matter.
I’d lose everything. Again.
“I’ll, um—” I back away. “I’ll call. I need to check my—schedule.”
“It would be best for us to schedule it now?—”
“I have to go.” I turn abruptly and run to the exit.
