Just a Touch of Cancer

These last few weeks of holding on
The days are dull, the nights are long
Guess it's better to say
Goodbye to you
Goodbye to you
Goodbye to you
Goodbye to you
Goodbye baby
So long darling
Goodbye to you

Goodbye To You--written by Smith, Zachary Holt

I am about to say a tearful farewell to my uterus. There's no graceful way to ease into this, so I might as well jump right in. I have a touch of cancer. Just a touch. Not much. Let’s call it cancer lite. It’s called Endometrial AdenoCarcinoma Grade I. (The capitalization is mine—out of respect for the sheer terror the words arouse.)

Let me warn you now: if you are squeamish about lady parts, their related discharges, fluids and generally messy information, then stop reading here. I’ll get back to you.

This latest rich life experience started in early March when I found some light bloody staining in my panties. Who ever liked finding a bloody stain in her panties? Aside from ending the monthly PMS (the bloating, the wide and wild mood swings and the raging temper) it used to mean the onset of cramps and bleeding. Real bleeding. You know, the gushing, clotty kind of bleeding. Ah, that wonderful phenomenon—the monthly signal that you aren’t pregnant. Remember how relieved we used to be to find that we weren’t pregnant? Remember lengthy discussions about boyfriends and birth control? Over time, those early topics gave way to discussions of birth control and husbands, and even later to fibroids and menopause. But those days are gone. So this latest appearance of an old friend could not be a good thing. The staining lasted for about 6 hours ending as suddenly as it had begun. I thought about it for a few hours more and decided to take the grown-up course of consulting a gynecologist.

We were in Florida when this happened. But my medical plan is based in Maine, with a tenuous trellis of network connections across the US and an annual deductible and maximum out-of-pocket that would trouble Sheldon Adelson. I found a participating gyno in Port St Lucie who had gone to medical school at Emery. (I was having no truck with doctors whose degrees came from Alabama State or medical schools located on islands better known as vacation destinations than centers of medical research.)

Friday, March 13

The gyno, Dr. Robert Paré, was easy to talk to and willing to answer questions—no matter how repetitive or stupid. I like that in a doctor. He did an initial pelvic examination and found nothing exciting. (Lying there with my feet in the stirrups, I prompted the doctor with a little

uterine humor, “Let me know if you come across Jimmy Hoffa.” He’s not from New Jersey and didn’t get the reference, much less the joke.) I’d had a pap smear in summer 2014, with no remarkable results, so he suggested a biopsy of the uncharted land beyond the cervical trap door. Never having borne children, I still have the cervix of a child. The doctor thought a femoral block might make the insertion of a pipette bearable—or not. I might end up clinging to the ceiling by my fingernails… He suggested we start with a trans-vaginal sonogram to see if we could find Waldo.

Monday, March 23

The trans-vaginal sonogram revealed nothing very exciting either. The ovaries appeared normal but there was some ‘congestion’ in the uterus. The doctor recommended a D&C—that ever-ready solution to any uncertainty about your uterus. If in doubt, scrape it out.

Thursday, April 16

So I found myself in a surgi-center on Route I in Port St Lucie, Florida. This was hardly the epicenter of medical excellence on the East Coast, but it would do nicely for a mundane procedure. I underwent the usual surgical prep with an inadequate surgical gown, rubber soled socks, a little paper shower cap to cover my hair and an IV line insertion. These preparations were accompanied by repeated questions such as, “What are you having done today?” and my personal favorite, “Do you have any loose or rotting teeth that might fall out?” WTF is that about?, I wondered.

I answered civilly the first two or three times. By the fourth inquiry into the state of my teeth, I assured them that none of my teeth were rotten, none were removable, and none were likely to fall out of my mouth any time soon. So let’s give it a rest already. The staff smiled politely and dropped the subject.

The D&C went smoothly. I sailed through it, thrilled by the prospect of the best kind of nap to follow the procedure: drugged sleep. Better living through chemistry is my motto. The doctor promised lab results within 4-5 days. He told Peter everything looked fine. He’d removed one benign polyp and had found nothing else, so the pathology test should be nothing more than a formality. But as we all know, Should be and are can be two entirely different things.

Tuesday, April 21

The doctor called to tell me that—to his own amazement—the pathologist found some squamous cells in the D&C tissue sample. Just a few. There’s no mass, there’s no tumor. This is in the very early stages and very slow growing. This is the best kind of cancer to have. (Now that’s a fascinating statement, if ever there was one.) “You’ll have a complete hysterectomy, and you’ll be fine.” 

At least I think that’s what he said, but it’s hard to know for sure with that tornado siren wailing in my head. My first response was, “The ovaries too? I am inordinately attached to my ovaries. Do they really have to go?” 

I am always astonished at the absolute ease with which male gynecologists are willing to jettison women’s ovaries. If we were discussing doing away with their testicles, there would be the equivalent of Supreme Court arguments mounted to debate the ethical and medical pro’s and con’s. 

But ovaries? Those are expendable. The doctor was cheerfully assertive, “Oh, yes, of course. Everything goes.” I muttered something to the effect that we would be talking further about that particular point, and suddenly realized that I was utterly breathless—as if I had been running a race. I finally gathered my wits sufficiently to ask what I needed to do next, and he told me that his office would contact me to set up an appointment.

Well, I knew I wasn’t about to have anything more done in Florida. If I really had cancer I was heading to either New York’s Sloan Kettering Hospital or to Boston’s Dana Farber Cancer Institute. All those years of corporate discipline and logical thinking may have paid off. I evaluated who among my friends and loved ones would have a clear head and useful information regarding a choice of doctors. A good and sensible friend, Dr. Susan Black, came to mind. (More about Susan in another blog, I promise.) Susan named Dr. Michael Muto at Dana Farber. I checked my medical plan, found him to be a participating physician, and kicked the machine into gear to make an appointment with him.

My first appointment with Dr, Muto is scheduled for Tuesday, May 19.

Am I freaked out? Yes and no. If I sound nonchalant about the coming storm, it's because I'm in a golden barge floating serenely down my very favorite river--denial. As long as I can go to the gym and run my flabby little ass off, what could possibly be wrong? But reality will set in on Tuesday. Stay tuned for more. After all, if it’s not one thing, it's another.