Mourning Living Losses

Deb: Peaks and valleys are the best way to describe what my family has been going through lately. We are at that stage of life’s path where we are faced with the fork in the road. There are no signs pointing the way, no Lonely Planet guide giving us tips. We are hunting and gathering information and hoping to God that the right decision is arrived at.

My Mom’s foot has steadily improved and she is ready to be discharged from the hospital to further recover. But recover where?

The month-long stay in the hospital—between the trauma, drugs and the prone position—has produced both a pressure ulcer (bed sore) and a total loss of strength. She is now what they call “a two person transfer”. She can no longer transfer herself from bed to chair or chair to toilet. So of course the inevitable phrase “nursing home” reared its head. A blow to all of us and the specter of it has caused sleepless nights, tears, and endless circles of discussion. Add to that the sickening exposés on nursing homes on the front pages every day. The timing could not be worse.

My particular pain, which has itself developed like an internal pressure ulcer, has been in the unwanted job of holding Mom and Dad’s future in my hands. Honestly, I can deal with anything, but the agony of knowing I might make the wrong choice has been more than I can bear. I have spent endless hours researching and talking to our stellar team of support at St. Mike’s hospital who are working tirelessly to make this transition an easy and correct one. St. Michael's hospital is called Toronto’s Urban Angel and I could not agree more.

A few days ago I took my Dad home after a hospital visit. We had a particularly frank and painful discussion in the car and when I left him he said with tears in his eyes, “Debra, we trust you implicitly.” Any daughter would love to hear that but, while I was struck by the sentiment, I could not help wanting to run from this responsibility of trust. I spent the night thinking about this and how it was overwhelming me, and suddenly it hit me. I do not have the responsibility. I have chosen wrongly to own the responsibility. The only responsibility I have is to share with my savvy, very with-it parents, every single thought, every single option, every single fear. They deserve nothing less.

I realized, somewhat stunned, that this was just occurring to me. The simple fact is, we are all in this together. I was trying to do what I always do, trying to “handle it all”. I was putting this on myself.

The good/bad news in this scenario is that Mom and Dad’s bodies have betrayed them. Their minds have not. They can take all my information and offer good solid opinions. My job is to gather, shape, and offer it up. They do tend towards not wanting to cause me grief and stress, so I must keep it on track or they would just take the path of least resistance. I had this honest talk with them and Mom said, “Whatever happens, Deb, it will be because it is the best for us. This is a decision we will make together and it is not solely on your shoulders.” And a team was born.

It is still painful as we try to jump hurdles and dodge medical bullets. But I no longer feel I am falling down the rabbit hole. This past Friday we turned a corner. As soon as I identified the source of the pain, I think we all gained strength from the knowledge. The fact is, knowledge is power crept up on me again for the fiftieth time, bringing with it peace and purpose. How could I have missed that the agony was coming from mourning? We are mourning. And we have done it many times before. So why doesn’t it present itself to me each time with, “Hi, it’s me again, mourning.” But, like Dorothy, I seem to just have to learn it for myself over and over.  We have mourned before. We mourned Mom’s loss of independence when she had the stroke and we rose above it, turning her lack of independence into freedom. We have mourned these last few years as Dad has lost his independence and we continue to work towards good healthy solutions. And I look at them as my Dad takes Mom’s hand in the hospital as they say goodbye for the night. They are going strong, forging ahead. This generation continues to astound me with their strength and fortitude.

I guess the bitterest pill for all of us to swallow, is that we hold the secret of who they were. The care team, despite their best care and attention, see two old people at the end of their lives. The other day as an O.T. was giving me the results of my Mom’s cognitive test, I started to ball like a baby. The O.T. said, “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want me to stop?” I said through sobs, “NO, I need this information! It’s just that, I wish you knew them, really knew who they were. You don’t and it’s breaking my heart.” My parents were the ones! They were the hosts, the entertainers! They were the centre of their circle. My Dad would cook like a pro and my Mom would dance the night away. They were the last to leave every single party! And it’s killing my soul that no one knows this. I wanted to scream, “Please, see this!” 

But I didn’t. It’s not their job. But I know it, and everyone who knows them knows it, and I guess that has to be enough.

The other day as we sat in Mom’s hospital room, my Mom said, “Jimmy, did you ever think we would end up this way”? To which Dad said, “No I didn’t, Anne”. I said, “Would you prefer the alternative? You have lost all your friends and you are still here.” As sobering as that comment was to digest, they sat for a moment and then smiled, knowing that despite all they are facing, they are happy as hell to be here. My parents love life in a way I wish every human creature did. They deeply mourn their lost family and friends but are in no hurry to join them, even at almost 85 years of age.

One of the Care Team experts, in an effort to assess how well I was doing as caregiver, asked me three questions. She said:

1. Are you feeling any resentment around taking all this on?

2. Are you feeling guilty?

3. Are you stressed?

And I answered.

1. I am not feeling resentment. I am so grateful that I have Mom and Dad and it is my great honour to care for them and about them.

2. I do not have any guilt. I have no reason for guilt and it is a waste of my time.

3. Hell, yeah, I’m stressed!

This week I would answer, “Hell, yeah, I’m stressed, but one tiny epiphany is melting it away, one crisis at a time.”

We will move forward together to make the rest of their life a party. Because as fate would have it, they are still the last to leave.

Barbara: Deb, I just want to thank you so much and from the bottom of my heart. I can’t tell you how, on the one hand, it’s hard to see you go through this and, of course, even harder to see your parents go through it, but on the other hand, your experience has also taught me an incredibly important thing or two.

My parents are all—knock on wood—healthy right now. But I know that can change in a flash. I find it interesting and important to remember that people—even those in medical crisis—are often capable of making, or being part of making, those critical decisions that will affect them the most. Of course, I also get that a lot of people can't––or won't––make good or useful decisions for themselves. But let's assume this is a case by case. If at all possible, they should not be outside that discussion. And we can't take on all the guilt and pressure that comes from making these hard choices. How brave and forthright of your mom to say it in so many words, that she takes responsibility for choosing whatever fork in the road you all travel down. And how lucky your parents are to have such a loving, faith-full Dorothy to hold their hands along the way.

Stepping Up

Deb: There are times in your life when you need people. You may hate that you need them, but the current and present fact of your life is that you do. I am not an easy ask. I think I have mentioned that before. I decreed years ago that I would be always the bestower and never the bestowed. Asking for help is something I struggle with. But that rug has been pulled from under me of late. As it turns out, you don’t have to ask for help when the help arrives before you can muster the courage to ask.

When my Mom had her emergency almost a month ago now, I was a big pond away. My two “stepupsisters”, Cheryl and Mary, were all ready on it. In fact they discovered the severity of Mom’s condition and stepping up got the ball rolling and was ultimately responsible for saving my Mom’s leg. They moved swiftly with no questions asked. They just did what had to be done, pushing their own lives of laundry into literal and figurative baskets. They put the proverbial band-aid on the gunshot wound until the doctors could assess and scramble to help her.  And stood by her so she would be daughtered until I could get home.

Knowing they were stopping their own clocks to step up, I thought I better get the extended family involved simply to be there for my Mom and Dad in the form of visits or phone calls. So I called my cousin Scott. He and I grew up more like siblings than cousins. His Mom was my Mom’s only sister in a family of six kids and they were extremely close. We lived down the street from one another, shared the same schools, holidays and events. Scott is three weeks older than me and his twin boys are a month older than the boy. Our boys are close as well, to our everlasting joy.

Again, I was not looking forward to asking and again, I did not have to. Before I could finish the sentence regards Mom’s precarious circumstance, his plan was launched. He called key family members, got to the hospital, liaised with the doctors and nurses, picked up and delivered my Dad, cared for my Mom, made her laugh when she was scared and kept me informed every single step of the way until seconds before my plane took off from Heathrow.

That night he and his stepupsister wife Lorette were at the hospital. My Dad had already gone home when Scott and Mom were informed that they still might have to amputate.  Mom was clearly upset but resigned to doing what needed to be done to prevent the further spread of the gangrene. Scott texted me and I phoned my Dad from London to tell him, and he was devastated. I turned to Colin and I said, “It kills me that he is sitting along at home trying to come to terms with this information.” Just as the last words were out of my mouth, my text chime rang in with Scott’s words, “Hey, Lorette was just thinking that it is so awful that your Dad is sitting there alone with this news and wants to go over, make him tea and sit with him for a while. I’ll stay with your Mom. Is that okay?” Colin and I were sitting in the theatre when I got this text and I burst into grateful tears. Spent the whole first act trying to stifle my crying and part of the second act sleeping it off on Colin’s shoulder. It was awful when I realized I would have to wait a day to get out of London, but wonderful knowing I was being more than represented.

The next day when I landed in Toronto, I arrived to copious texts from Scott reporting important details, including the fact that they had done an angioplasty which might just save her leg. His diligence breathed hope into my panic for that trip from the airport to the hospital. A trip I did not have to take alone thanks to the third stepupsister, Barb, who was there as my shoulder and my chauffeur. Arriving in her hospital room was like showing up to a party. Cheryl had just gone home to tuck her daughter in, Mary was there, my brother Craig and his wife Jacquie, and Scott had just left knowing I was on my way.

In the days to come I would marvel at friends and parents of friends and cousins and uncles and aunts who more than stepped up with phone calls and visits and flowers, balloons and candy. Erica, the gal who cleans our homes, has been twice, our friend and dog walker Claude has been three times. All I have heard this last month is, “What can I do for you?”, “What do you need”, “What does your Mom need?”, “What does your Dad need?”  Also there have been the silent steps of people who just show up and visit or phone or bake or send cards, treats and balloons.

I can’t say that this really showed me who my friends are. I already knew them well in friend and family form. They are the people who step up. Now it’s my turn to step up with thanks. Rather than say, “They will never know what this has meant to my family,” ... I’ll make sure they do.

Barbara: Okay, out and out bawling now reading this. The step-ups are a remarkable bunch, aren’t they? I’ve known your cousin Scott from your get-togethers over the years, Deb, but my appreciation and admiration for him just skyrocketed.

And I will also say that Deb’s gratitude has absolutely spilled over in this time of need. I can’t tell you how often she has marvelled at the support you’ve extended her here on the blog, at the many hours her friends and extended family have spent visiting her Mom at the hospital, at the kindnesses bestowed all around.

You know what else impresses me—and this from visits to both your mom’s hospital and Nana’s—the step-ups in the medical system. We hear so much complaining abut indifferent or remiss healthcare (a situation I don’t doubt), that it’s worth a shout-out to those tireless men and women who bring their best selves to their job at the sickbeds. We notice you too. Your good humour, your patience, your respectful care. We bow to you. We thank you!


PS In honour of today's Remembrance Day––talk about stepping up––a sweet and beautiful video. Here's the explanation that goes with it:
A lone young Belgian boy is waiting to salute the Canadian troops passing by who had been attending a memorial service. Such class from our Canadian troops - watch what they do for this little boy. The "Eyes Right" command is the biggest compliment troops on parade can pay and is reserved for dignitaries in reviewing stands. Every now and then something just makes you smile!!!

The Happy Accident

Barbara: Okay, the title is a bit of a writer’s conceit—it wasn’t a “happy” accident per se, but it did remind me of some our favourite Middle Ages-ian themes, the ones which bring us around to, yes, savouring happiness despite our foibles. Foibles like how we hate HATE to feel helpless, and how we sometimes need to be reminded that accepting help can be a great gift we give unto others.

So my dad is a hale and hearty guy, the kind whose actions and energy defy his age. Then late last week, he breaks his foot. It was, in his words, a stupid accident. He was mowing the lawn down an uneven slope and his foot twisted into a cranny. He was in pain, but mostly he just knew. After “rice”-ing (rest, ice, compress, and elevate), he knew an emergency room visit was in order. When the doctor told him he had suffered a hairline fracture, he wasn’t surprised. Pissed, frustrated, disappointed, yes. Shocked, no. But here’s the extra rub: his lovely wife, my step-mother, was in a remote far-away village on a holiday with her daughter. My dad was alone, far from his three daughters, with no immediate source of help. As luck would have it, two of his daughters (myself included) were already scheduled to arrive at his place a mere two days later. But two days later … a timeline that couldn’t be shifted. And Dad would be alone.

So my dad convinces the doctor to postpone putting the cast on until we arrive so he can take care of his urgent needs with some independence, like driving home and WATERING THE PLANTS (caps are meant to indicate daughterly sarcasm). It took at least 6 separate phone conversations to finally convince him that he could NOT drive the one hour each way to pick up my sister and her kids from the train station. It took another several convos to convince him that his very dear friend would go out of his way to do the pick-up. Not only did my father want to carry on as if nothing had happened (let me remind you that if a fracture in the foot doesn’t heal properly, then he might have issues the rest of his life), the very thought of imposing on others was anathema. But even he saw the logic of accepting the helping hands being offered all around him.

On Monday, we made sure he was properly casted up and off his foot and forbidden from any but the most mundane SEATED tasks. He was forced to allow his daughters, son-in-law, and grandchildren to wait on him hand and foot (ar, ar). And he was witness to everyone’s absolute joy in being able to pay back this most generous but independent of people.

The unhappy side of the story? Okay, he can’t walk on his foot for 6 weeks at least, is being delivered a new highly-anticipated car tomorrow and can’t drive at all, has a household that requires much care-taking, and was looking forward to frolicking in the pool with his grandkids (we did make sure his cast was water-proof, but it might be a sinking stone, right?). And thank GOD my step-mom was away—she is an unbelievably competent maven and would have been all over taking care of Dad to perfection, but certainly at the risk of her own health. Imagine this tiny 5’4” woman trying to push and pull my not-so-tiny 6’2” father on his wheelchair while casts dried and crutches were on order.

But it has been a watershed moment for my father: he learned the hard way that he is not immune to bodily malfunctions (to quote him, that he “is not a god after all” ;) ), he learned that sometimes taking is also giving, and he learned to sit back and accept heartfelt service. Frankly, it was a watershed moment for all of us. Nothing like watching your, yes, god-like father come down to earth for a brief sojourn to be reminded of these important life lessons.

As I said, a happy accident.

Deb: Just Beautiful, Barb; this moved me so much. I know all too well what it’s like to see your parents struggle with their independence. I am so glad that this was simply an accident and not an immobility life sentence. It kills me every day to watch Dad struggle more and more to be in charge of his life and to get out and live life. I watched Mum struggle for years after her stroke with it and then watched her slowly make her peace. Your Dad fought for his independence and that is fantastic.  And it seems your Dad is enjoying his stroll among the mortals. This moment will stay with him as he ages, in a very good way I think. 

The Helping Hands List

Barbara: On Deb’s Monday blog-post—her heartbreakingly beautiful tribute to a marriage through “worse”—Katie May gratefully acknowledged Sheila’s efforts and the example she was setting for her daughters, but also noted that: “One might think that her behaviour was ‘just natural,’ but believe me, it is not as common as one might assume.” It got me to thinking that sometimes we know what to do when our loved ones are going through tough times and sometimes we don’t.

So let’s powwow for a bit about what we think are the best ways—from a friendship point of view––to help each other when things are bad. (Yeah, I think it’s a rule that spouses and children do whatever they can for their ill loved ones, especially those on deathbeds. Doesn’t matter how hard it is. These are our peeps, our tribe. ‘Nuff said.}

So this is just a little suggested “bro/bra code”. Most of us aren’t called upon to help out our friends––to really be there––more than a few times a year. If times are really bad, maybe a month. And when you think of it that way, well then it’s just a handful of generosity within a whole world of it. We have it to give and it is the simplest thing, even if—for reasons I viscerally recognize but don't fully understand—we often think it is more than we can “handle”.

So while these might be painfully obvious to some, let’s offer some guidance to those for whom this is unfamiliar territory (for any reason from inexperience to self-consciousness). Some of the ways we can help each other get through the worst:

1)      *  When someone we know is struggling with a particularly hard slog, we can call and check in regularly.

2)        *  We can make a dinner. Or bring the baked goods. If we’re very well-organized or part of a bigger circle of friends, we can even time our dinners so they don’t all come on the same night (or we should make sure there’s room in the freezer if that’s where they will go). Our friend may not like our offering, they may not even get around to eating it, but even so, food is a balm and a comfort, and if it is eaten, it’s one less chore. (I once brought a few dinners to a neighbour whose mom had just died only to taste one of my usually reliable curry dishes AFTER THE FACT and realize it was actually kind of icky. Sigh. Although the pie––baked by my younger from scratch––was heavenly.)

3)      *   If we bring flowers, we could already vase and water them. When you’re exhausted, the last thing you want to do is unbundle and snip and search for stemware and … well, you get it… 


       *   We can ask our friend if there’s anything about their situation that confuses them. And if there is, we can make a few preliminary enquiries for them, or we can be there with them when some diagnosis is made or some directions are given so there are two sets of ears. 

5)       *   If news needs to be spread, be a list-maker of the need-to-knows. This is a relatively simple task but it’s often overlooked. Just like that good friend who somehow didn’t find out that your mom was in the hospital. Overlooking people makes the person who already feels bad feel even worse. Even if no one in this world would blame them.

6)      *   We shouldn’t forget that pain is incredibly cathartic—we will find ourselves laughing hysterically as often as we’re sobbing uncontrollably. Both are okay.

7)       *   If we really don’t know what to do for our friend, tell them and offer to do “whatever”. It usually depends on the friend. Some people have issues around accepting help (formerly guilty-as-charged, have since kicked that issue to the curb). We want to urge our friend to yield. Because it will be better for everyone (the giver and the givee).

8)        *  We shouldn’t be heroes. It’s not our time to shine. Fade into the background and be unobtrusive, gentle, kind.           

Add your own ideas to the list. Spread the word. We only have each other for better and for worse and no gesture will go unappreciated (even if the curry is icky). ( … I don’t think…)

Deb: Barb, what a great idea this is. I have lived and learned through too many crises to count, the things that work for the people who are suffering and the things that don’t. And given that I am doing just this right now for my dear friend, here are some dos and don’ts (in my humble opinion) for this.

* When taking food, spring for some tin foil containers or plastic containers that you don’t want back. There is nothing worse after receiving gifts of food than having to clean and figure out who brought what dish ... and RETURN IT to them!

* When visiting the home of a friend who is going through a crisis, look around. Do the dishes that need doing, check if a meal needs heating and serving. Can you clip a dead flower of a floral gift or water the fresh flowers? I always just do these things without asking because often the person will decline if asked but secretly hopes someone will do it!

* Listen.

*  Try to resist comparing crisis stories unless you think what you have to add will be helpful.

*  Human touch is welcome––hugs are worth millions.

* I am not a cook. I have one dish I make and cookies, so with my wonderful and talented friends who do cook, I do the pick-up and delivery.

*  If you have a gift to offer, it’s great to think outside the box.

* Do a phone chain or an email chain. Sometimes with older people who need to know what is happening, we forget they are not on email.

* Don’t forget that laughter is the best medicine!

* If your crisis involves a funeral or travel in anyway, offer to pick up people who may need a ride.

That’s all I can think of right now. I am sure you guys out there have a million others? 

I Never Get Sick!!

Deb: How often over the years have I heard someone exclaim, “I NEVER GET SICK”? It is

always in response to my saying, “I haven’t been feeling too well”, or “I just got over the flu, cold, leprosy” or some similar claim.

The response “I never get sick” always amazes me for several reasons. First of all, it is clearly their way of saying to you, "I am superior to you. Your inability to fight common bugs makes you my human inferior." It is such an obvious status game and it really gets my goat.

This Christmas I declined to hug an old friend at a party because I was just coming out of a flu and didn’t want her to be exposed to any residual germs. She exclaimed loudly to the general crowd around us that she NEVER GETS SICK! I said, “Wow, I guess that makes me a big fat loser.” She looked as though I had struck her, but she had done this same damn thing to me for years. She never sees how rude and elitist that comment is, not to mention condescending.  But there you have it. She doesn’t see her rudeness and never will.  I was the rude one in her eyes.  But I don’t care. I have had it with this game. I have listened to this for years without saying a word.

Do they think I get sick on purpose, like this is something I can actually prevent? I take vitamins and wash my hands and take precautions, but sometimes a bug gets me. So piss off, you “never get sicks”! You do TOO GET SICK! You’re just too egotistical to admit it. If my only claim to fame was “I never get sick”, it would be a sad boast for a sorry life.

My name is Deb, I am human, and I do get sick! If you are some evolved form of humanoid then keep it to yourself or donate your body to science.

Barbara: Well, I never get sick. Because clearly I am a highly evolved humanoid. With super-

hero powers to fight infection and disease. I strut through city streets and verdant glen oblivious to germs and illness.

Did you not know this about me, Deb? Have I not impressed you with my (albeit humbly silent) immunity??? Have you not wondered at my strength, my fortitude, my … what’s the word … perfection???

Sheesh. Well, okay then. You read it here, so let that be the end of it between us. I await (with reinstated humble silence) the imminent arrival of marveling scientists from around the world.

In the meantime, could you please pass the Kleenex?

Taking My Lumps

Barbara: Deb, I have a confession to make: I have recently been through a medical experience, but I haven’t shared it with you. You were dealing with Frisker’s health and untimely death and I just couldn’t add more weight to your load. Dear readers, I have a confession for you too: I could’ve told Deb any time in the more recent past, but have pulled a kind of blogger’s conceit by waiting for this post to reveal my experience both to her and you. Call me manipulative. Hey, it’s storytelling at its most devious. I’m not proud.

First, I have to set this story up by telling you all that Deb and I have a kind of health dichotomy: if my health-care professional (doctor, naturopath, esthetician, whoever) tells me one thing, hers will tell her the complete and utter OPPOSITE. And vice versa. Never fails. It’s become a running joke between us. It’s gotten so bad that we can’t even get through the “But my doctor said…” without bursting into a fit of giggles.

Second, a proviso: I am not nor do I claim to be any kind of health professional. My wish is to share an experience, my assumption is that you will all do what’s best for you, and my hope is to open the floor to discussion.

Earlier this year, Deb and I were talking mammograms—I told her that I hadn’t had one yet. She balked—her doctors and everyone she knew recommended having regular mammograms when they turned 40 (I was 46 at the time). I said that neither of my two doctors had mentioned me needing one yet and that all the literature that I’d read (or skimmed, in truth) had always said mammograms for women without breast cancer histories should start after 50. Deb didn’t say much more about it that night—she seemed to accept my take on it. But the next day, I received a heartfelt and beautiful email plea from her. Would I please reconsider my stance? She knew so many friends whose breast lumps were discovered in their 40s. Cancer concerns were rampant. She supported any decision I made, of course, but please, oh please, would I think it over again.

Well, I did think it over. Have you ever noticed how when you have a weighty conundrum the universe suddenly inundates you with relevant information? If you haven’t noticed, start paying attention—I swear it’s a real phenomenon. After I got Deb’s email and while I was pondering her powerful words, not one but THREE articles came into my world (by way of my national paper and two respected magazines––here and here) and all of them weighed in on the side of starting mammograms after 50. The crux (bear with me here) is that the medical community is finding there are so many false positives on breast lumps and that, with the attendant procedures, more harm is being done than good. The problem with this logic is that there are also cases where early mammograms find lumps in women in their 40s that could have resulted in death had they not been found earlier.

So the dilemma was still: was I that more common woman who might have lumps that come and go and are of no medical concern but if found would begin a flurry of unnecessary medical activity, or was I that one in a million woman who might have a malignant tumour that needs to be found pronto?

I had my annual physical and discussed it with my doctor. With my family history, she still advised after 50. As usual, she also felt around for lumps and was satisfied with my general good health.

Flash forward three months. My affectionate husband stops in mid-nuzzle and says, “There’s a lump in your breast.” And then the world stopped.

What?! Yes, I could feel it. About the size of a nut. Mobile. Soft. We reassured ourselves that it was most certainly nothing. But, of course, the doctor appointments began. And, of course, the debate about the mammogram was officially over. A mammogram, by the way if you haven’t had one, isn’t really that bad. Firm, emphatic pressure, that’s about it.

And while I waited for results, the nut-sized lump got bigger. And bigger. Before I knew it, it was the size of a plum.

Then the dreaded phone call from the doctor’s office: the mammogram wasn’t conclusive; I would need a breast ultrasound. Okay, in all my personal drama herein, I never thought to ask anyone why breast ultrasounds don’t trump the mammogram. In an ultrasound, there is absolutely no discomfort; it was the second procedure in my case, so presumably it gives a better scan of the breast; and there’s no friggin’ megawattage of radiation! Any answers out there???

Anyway, I waited, waited, waited for the results of the ultrasound, all the while fingering this swelling, confusing, foreign ball inside my body. And, again, get the dreaded phone call that I need to talk to the doctor. This time she tells me the results show that the lump is not a cyst like we’d assumed, but a “benign-looking tumour”. I confess, I burst into tears. Didn’t hear (or care about, for that matter) the “benign-looking” part. All I heard was TUMOUR. Tumour, tumour, tumour. The kind of lump that needs to be surgically removed. The kind of lump that, in my world, has “malignant” written all over it.

For two weeks, while we waited for the appointment with the surgeon, my husband and I tried to be brave and optimistic. For me, this was very very hard. Deb’s beloved dog was dying and my mom was heading to Paris for two weeks. I decided to spare them the worry until I knew more. I had my husband, my sisters, and Charlotte to lean on. It was a quiet time of nervous introspection.

Then the date came for my husband and I to meet the surgeon. I was immediately reassured by his calm, sweet, and informed presence. It would be okay. Then he very carefully outlined all the next steps and possible outcomes, so that we would be prepared for every eventuality. “If we have to remove the lump and the area around it, there would be a significant change to the shape of your breast because they’re relatively small. Then we biopsy again and go from there,” he said. He told me to lay down on the examining table so he could extract some tissue from the lump. The room fell away. That was it––I was going to die.

As I fought to remember to breathe, the kind doctor inserted a needle—which I didn’t feel at all––into the lump. A thin film of sweat enveloped my body. I guess I was watching his face intently because I noticed him give the smallest possible doctorly reaction. “Well, that’s good,” he said. What was good? How could anything be good right now? Doctors don’t biopsy by sight, do they?

“This changes everything,” he said as he held up the needle. It wasn’t the hard tissue of a tumour, but the (sweetest, most wonderful) fluid of a cyst. And just like that the lump—and my stress and worries—was gone.

Mammogram or no? If I’d had one 3 months earlier, we would all have known that there was nothing in my breast at that time––and we would’ve been able to reassure ourselves that no tumour grows that fast. It would have been obvious that my lump was only a cyst. That said, I know my breasts, my husband knows my breasts, my doctor palpated my breasts, and all of us knew there was nothing there 3 months earlier. Same logic. The time while I waited for the results and debated the language (while relatively short) was horribly stressful. Enough to trigger one lump or two (I believe in stress triggering disease in our bodies). Could there have been a better way?

I will say this: I believe in positivity, of being proactive about your health, of learning as much as you can about your personal situation. I also believe that most of us get to sideswipe real health issues (90% of all breast lumps are benign tumours or cysts) while many of us, sadly, do not. So, is the biggest lump of all that our health is just one big crap-shoot?

Deb: First of all, to add to the dramatic tension, I only just found out about this when Barb sent me the blog-post this afternoon. True to her kind nature, she did not want me to deal with this as we were in the middle of our dog Frisker’s illness, which as you know, eventually killed him. I wish I had known so that I could have supported her in this tough time, but I totally understand why she did not tell me. I have read this post three times. Twice to grasp the reality that she was talking about herself and once more to come up with some sort of response.

Barb and I just had a very long chat on the phone about our different views on tests and mammograms and we both came out of it, I think, thinking that there are so many variables and so much conflicting information out there. There is good solid information and many of it contradicts the other side. To Barb’s point, is our health just a crap shoot? Maybe. I often think of people like Linda McCartney who did everything she could and lived so well and pesticide-free and yet still she died young. But all I know is, I am still reeling from this new information about my dear dear friend. So my response is this: thank you, dear God, for my darling Barb and this wonderful outcome. May it be the same for thousands of other women no matter how they find out.