Six Gorgeous Words

Eight lymph nodes, negative for carcinoma.

Six musical, magical words. Would you look at them? Aren’t they beautiful? I want to see them again.

Eight lymph nodes, negative for carcinoma.

Six beautiful words, delightful words, words that bring light and gaiety and renewed hope. A levity. A face full of grins, and eyes filled with tears.

Eight lymph nodes, negative for carcinoma. I wasn’t expecting to hear or see those words today. I went in to have the drain removed from my armpit and the port in my chest above my heart flushed. Frankly, I forgot we were waiting for results. I had been so physically uncomfortable for the past week, with this tube sticking out of my side and the acres of dressing over my incision that needed to be changed every morning and the spools of tape keeping it all in place, that I’d pushed aside why it was there in the first place. I just wanted it out of me.

After a nurse removed approximately five square miles of gauze and twelve kilometers of tape I lay down on the table. Dr. B. told me to inhale deeply, then exhale, then inhale again, and as I focused on my breath he ripped that drain right out of me. I barely felt it. And then, as he was checking the three-inch long incision next to the hole where the drain had been, he said: “So, I have some good news.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. We pulled out eight lymph nodes, and they’re all negative for carcinoma.”

What? What?! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t see Jim, I could only look at the ceiling and over at “The Boss,” as Dr. B. calls his nurse, and up at Dr. B. I cried, of course, because that’s what I do, but this time they were tears of such grand relief. Negative for carcinoma. No cancer.

NO CANCER.

He gave us a copy of the report. Under Final Diagnosis are those six gorgeous words. I don’t know if I’m technically cancer-free. I have an appointment with Dr. S. tomorrow and I’ll ask all the questions, but in my mind, what I heard, in my heart, I am cancer-free.

My understanding is that I will still have to undergo chemotherapy and radiation treatments, followed by five years of Tamoxifen. I’m young enough, and according to the oncotype assay, have enough risk of recurrence that these are necessary to keep the beast at bay. So, Dr. B. flushed the medi-port where the chemo will go. It’s under my skin and he’ll have to do it again in about a week and a half. Once the chemo starts, he won’t need to flush it any more. 

Before Dr. B. left he said he wished he could hug me. I wished he could, too. 

It’s hard to express the immense weight that’s been lifted. I told Jim it’s like we’re Han and Luke and Leia stuck in the garbage compactor and it’s crushing and crushing and crushing and then suddenly we’re free and we can breathe again. (He may decide to lose our Disney+ password. Also, I still can’t shower, and although I may not smell quite as bad as an unwashed Wookie, the garbage analogy works.) I know I have several months of difficult treatment that’s going to feel worse than the disease. Especially since I never felt this disease at all. 

Which is the weirdest part of this whole experience. Tonight I’m celebrating that something I couldn’t see and couldn’t feel is gone, but to get there I had to go through two uncomfortable surgeries and weeks of emotional trauma. It’s a trauma that will stick with me, to some extent, as I regularly get tested to make sure my silent disease doesn’t return. As I go through treatment that will make me feel nauseous and most likely lose my hair, it may feel like I’m doing it for no reason at all.

But I’ll do it. Because cancer is scary. It’s a killer. And it is NOT going to kill me. Not now. Hopefully not ever. And if it does ever get me, it definitely won’t be for a very, very, VERY long time.

Eight lymph nodes, negative for carcinoma.

YAY!!!!!!!