TOUGH TIDDIES: BREAST CANCER PART I

By Marissa Collins

Everyone’s cancer journey is different because every cancer, treatment, body, and circumstance is different. Up until now, I have avoided writing my story because I do not want anyone to think that my experience is everyone’s experience.

I have verbally shared my story with a lot of people, with the intent to open dialogue that pulls back the curtain and perhaps demystifies cancer. But I recognize my privileges and do not have the audacity to assume they are anyone else’s.

If you or someone you love is going through cancer, please do not take this as a roadmap to the cancer journey. If you have questions, talk to a doctor before taking medical advice from anyone on social media, a blog, or writing an article for a newspaper.

This is my story and mine alone.

HOW DID I FIND IT?

People often ask me how I found it. I wasn’t sick, I felt healthier than ever. I wasn’t expecting it, I had no genetic predisposition. My doctor didn’t even flag it at my annual exam, just a few months prior.

I know why they ask. If a healthy 31-year-old woman without any family history can get breast cancer, anyone canand that is terrifying.

I remember it clearly. I was reading a book in bed thinking, “I haven’t done a self-breast exam in a while.” How long had it been?

Apparently long enough to grow a 2 cm mass in my right breast.

Reasonable information would tell you a healthy 31-year-old woman is likely to have a cyst in her breast, and all you have to do is wait for it to just go away after a menstrual cycle or two. So, I waited. I was getting married and probably had a cyst, and that was that.

However, my wedding and my menstrual cycles came and went (not at the same time) without any changes, so I scheduled an appointment with my doctor who scheduled an appointment for imaging who scheduled an appointment for a biopsy, and I began to wonder… what kind of cyst is this? Because, the thing is, they don’t really tell you what’s going on.

The Biopsy

I was probably at the height of my denial during the “ultrasound-guided biopsy.”

It was my lunch break, one week into a new job.

I stepped into a room of the spa-like breast imaging center, took off my top, and laid on my side on an exam table with my arm over my head. The doctor and nurse came in, parked the super fun biopsy tools in front of my face, numbed me up, and proceeded to take a chunk of my breast tissue and put a little microchip in its place. The chip is intended to locate the biopsied mass in the future. How many people had to misplace their cancer-denying cysts to enforce this procedure? I really hate needles, so I closed my eyes as I bled all over myself.

Then they go to that lymph node in my armpit. Not that I know what that is or why.

The first biopsy was not painful, so I was full of blind optimism at this point. Unfortunately, [they tell me] it’s a small and deep lymph node. So, they struggle. I cannot describe the pain. I held my breath as they dug the ultrasound imager and needle into my armpit in frustration and worry that they may not get their biopsy before the numbing agent wears off. But I’m fairly certain it already has, when - in a fraction of a second - I feel the biopsy needle tear out something so deep inside my armpit that I could not help but whimper in pain. Pain that was only prolonged after the fact, by the pressure they had to put on my armpit to stop the bleeding.

Every second that passed by was one closer to being done with the nightmare, and that’s all I could focus on.

Do you know how hard it is to make small talk through that kind of situation?

When I think it’s all over, I’m sent back to the mammogram imaging machine for another scan (to confirm the microchip placement).

It took every muscle in my body to move into the positions they needed for scans, but I was in so much pain by this point, the woman giving the scan shared no empathy, and I suddenly felt so alone. Unable to hold it in any longer, I cry all over myself. I hate crying in front of people.

At this point, I am in so much pain that I cannot even put my shirt on without crying in agony. The nurse tells me to take Tylenol and the pain will subside quickly. But she cannot give me any. In a hospital. It took everything I had left in me to get my shit together, walk through a large waiting room and parking lot, drive myself home, find a Tylenol, and tell my boss my lunch break is running a little late.

As I sat in my living room in silence, tears streaming down my face, armpit throbbing, thinking about what just happened and what was likely to come, I texted my husband - the only person with whom I would be honest about the pain. You see, he offered to come to this appointment with me, and I was too stoic and independent to think I needed help. He would have had to wait in the waiting room the whole time anyway. Yet, at the end of that appointment, I would have given anything to see him in that waiting room and wrap myself in his arms that afternoon.

That’s the moment I realized I couldn’t do this alone. I didn’t have to. And then the Tylenol kicked in.

They Will Call With Bad News

For three days I worked as though nothing had happened with only a darkly bruised armpit hidden under my blouse to give me away.

I was at work and headed into a meeting when I got the call. They wouldn’t call with bad news! So, I answered.

[Let’s take a second to review the title here…]

It is cancer, the doctor tells me.

I go numb. I don’t want to hear the rest. I want to drive home, curl in a ball, and cry. Then I think about the next few steps ahead of me. The calls I must make. The lives I’m about to alter. The questions I’m going to have to answer. The answers I still don’t have. I have to be strong.

“Invasive ductile carcinoma” she calls it. People will be asking me questions, and I’ll be expected to have answers. If I don’t remember, I will look incompetent. So, I make sure she repeats: “invasive ductile carcinoma” so I will remember.

Her voice indicates it’s a good response. She gently explains what it means: carcinoma being cancer, located in the breast ducts.

She doesn’t really have any answers, and

I don’t know what questions to ask, but I’m told I will be getting a call to set up a series of appointments with a team that can tell me more.

When my voice starts to waiver, I can tell the doctor is uncomfortable and I’ve already taken up more time than I should have, so I feel bad and let her go.

I sat in the entryway to my office building in disbelief. Alone. That is until one of my coworkers passes by and asks if I’m okay. She is the first to learn about my diagnosis and comfort me.

That moment gives me the courage to call my husband (of 2 months now), my mother, my father, and my brother to tell them that I have breast cancer.

I wouldn’t call with bad news, but I’m not strong enough to see the look on their faces right now.

Ducky

At work, I like to keep my private life private. I was less than 2 weeks into a new job, and most of the 10 women I worked with were practically strangers to me. No one knew I had even been going to doctor appointments when I walked into my office and told my boss and coworkers my diagnosis.

Honestly, I felt like I was letting them down by getting sick.

However, what proceeded was anything but a guilt trip. In fact, I hope anyone who gets bad news like this could experience the genuine embrace that I experienced from the coworkers I now consider my dear friends.

The word “cancer” felt bitter on my tongue, and it must have shown because Kate suggests: “would it help if we gave it another name? Like… rubber ducky!” Everyone laughs. It feels so good to remember I can laugh.

So, it sticks. And the rubber ducky doesn’t look so scary.

The Duck Hunters

The weeks that proceeded are a blur of appointments, blood draws, scans, and more appointments.

Learning from my biopsy, I brought my husband (and often times my mother) to almost all my appointments. First, I met with my entire care team - a series of doctors, nurses, and various advocates that asked me a lot of questions, told me about all my resources, looked at and felt up my boobs a lot, and continuously told me how young I was. If cancer was my rubber ducky, these were my duck hunters.

My oncologist was young and new to town. He was straightforward but his youth made it less intimidating. I liked him.

My radiation oncologist reminded me of my brother. He was quietly smart and a patient teacher. He explained the bigger picture, the process of diagnosis, and treatments. His computer was not working that day, so he drew it all, and I would think of those drawings every time I explained that cancer was like a dandelion: surgery removes the plant and billions of cancer cells; radiation deadens any leftover roots systems and thousands of cancer cells; the chemo destroys any little seeds that might have flown away and their hundreds of cancer cells.

The first surgeon I was paired with was also young, but he appeared timid and eager to recommend me to another surgeon that could do a more advanced lumpectomy surgery if I was interested. I am eternally grateful to this man.

Keep in mind - ever since I found out that my cyst was actually an active serial killer trying to murder me from the inside, the only women looking at and feeling up my boob were the nurses that were required to oversee the process because all my doctors were men. While I would highly recommend them to anyone, I also didn’t realize how badly I needed a female doctor - until I met my surgeon.

It was just a consult, but as I walked down the hallway, I realized this would be different.

The walls leading to the exam room were covered in large portraits of older, white male men - but their faces were covered in cutouts of female faces. Her assistant was a former classmate of mine, and I was surprised to take comfort in it. The clicking of her heels coming down the hallway was reminiscent of my own walking down that same hallway. She was young, wicked smart, and made clear boundaries: she wanted to joke with me but would be serious when necessary. This was my surgeon.

I often tell people that the best thing a patient can have in their cancer journey is a credible care team that they can trust. With their life.

It’s kind of like standing naked in front of a group of care providers with a rubber ducky on your head. These providers are all 50 feet away from you with their weapons of choice, and you have to trust that they can aim, shoot, and destroy that ducky. You’re not going to walk away unscathed. Some people don’t even survive. And you don’t have any control over this terrorist on your head. But you can choose to have duck hunters that you trust, and that makes it a helluva lot easier to feel seen, heard, and understood in some of the most painful and vulnerable moments.

Read Part II in November’s Comet

Marissa Collins is a Wenatchee native and WSU alumni that currently works as the Development Director at the Numerica Performing Arts Center. She is also a native to the arts, growing up as the daughter of a high school art teacher, graduate of the graphic design program at WVC, and adult performer in productions including Follies, Hot August Nights, and most recently the Apple Blossom Musical: The Wizard of Oz.