The Bump

Finally, just as I was forgetting, on March 27, I got the call. My phone rang and it was my primary care doctor. I was standing at the playground afterschool with two friends and their kids. The kids were playing with sticks. We kept reminding them not to hit each other with them. I stepped away to answer the phone and the familiar sound of my doctor’s voice filled my right ear. She said, “Hey. I wanted to call you before anyone else did. I’ve been watching my computer for the email and your test results came back. I wanted to call you so that you could cry and scream and then have time to breathe. They came back positive. You have DCIS. Good news is that you are going to be OK. Bad news is that the next couple of months are going to absolutely suck. But I wanted you to hear it from me because I care about you and I need you to know that you are going to be OK. And to remind you that even though you may not be seeing me, I will be watching all that goes on, and I am here. So they are going to call you in a couple of hours and they are going to give you a lot of information. Write it down. Then think about questions and call them back. And don’t forget to breathe.”

“Thank you for calling me yourself. I really appreciate it. I will be ok. I will be ok.” Then I hung up. I remember giving my friends a thumbs down, so that they knew it was the phone call I (we all) was waiting for. I wasn’t crying. It was fine. At least I had an answer.

I took four steps back toward the playground. Then I collapsed. I have never been so aware of my breathe and the sounds around me. Then I felt three sets of hands on my back. And I felt tears roll down my face. And I heard the soothing noises of what would become my village. My sisterhood. The school’s office secretary was the first to embrace me, followed by my two friends from the playground. They offered to take my kids so I could go home and process. I thanked them but said I was OK. It was true. In fact, it was the most OK I had been since the biopsy. I had an answer. Not a great one, but an answer. It was like I was able to breathe again.

And just like my doctor said, I needed to keep breathing before the pathologist called with the next steps.

And I had to move forward. My daughter had to get home to do homework before piano lessons. Life doesn’t stop. Not for this. I would be OK.

The next day, the principal at my daughter’s school saw me and handed me a bracelet. It was a simple bracelet with various strings of pink. She said now I was the member of a club of strong women. It was a wonderful gesture and tugged greatly at my heartstrings. It was a club no one wanted to join. But looking around me, realizing all the stories of women who were in my life daily, who have beaten cancer of various forms, it was a club where I would be welcomed and respected and understood.

I am a member of an exclusive club.