Practicing Medicine

8:23 p.m. was a moment frozen in time yet etched into the fabric of my memory with stark clarity. It was an ordinary Monday evening, and the weight of the world seemed to converge upon me as I sat on the floor of my bedroom, reviewing the pathology report that arrived electronically via MyChart. The first two biopsies of my right breast were negative for cancer, while the first biopsy of the left breast resulted in being cancerous. Per the pathology report, it was invasive ductal carcinoma. With each passing moment, the gravity of the situation intensified, casting a shadow over the room that felt palpable. How crazy was it that this life changing information was delivered to me while I was at home, without expert explanation, assurance, nor a plan. My mind raced a thousand miles per minute thinking that the results could be inaccurate. Did they send this information to me in error? I inspected the pathology report again to see if the name and date of birth were correct. It was accurate. I was the correct recipient. I continued to sit on the floor in silence to gather my thoughts, unable to articulate the storm of emotions churning inside me.

It took a few minutes to try to process the information, but it still was not resonating fully. In a haze of disbelief and numbness, I summoned the courage to share the news with my husband. I began to speak, but my words could not cross the threshold of my mouth. It’s like I instantly became mute. My speech is usually filled with a wide vocabulary of words, but somehow became unable to speak. I arose from the floor and walked over to the chair that my husband was occupying. With each step, I could feel my heart beating at my feet and my stomach churning relentlessly. I then showed him the results of the pathology report which held the life altering diagnosis. As he read the report, the silence in the room became deafening. In that profound moment, the weight of our new reality hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the once-familiar normalcy of our lives.

My husband started inquiring about my emotional state. I told him I couldn’t place anything into words at that moment but would share once I processed this news. As he stared at me awaiting some sort of dramatic reaction, I lowered my eyes to escape his glare and walked to the ensuite bathroom, closing the double doors behind me. I stood at the vanity and removed my clothing. I looked in the mirror and just stared at the vessels that caused my life story to be rewritten. I stood there, nude, looking at my breasts with complete disappointment. How could this part of my body that has brought sensual pleasure, nutrition for my babies and defined me as a woman also turn my world upside down.

As the reality of my diagnosis sank in, I found myself grappling with a profound sense of disbelief and detachment. The world around me blurred into insignificance as I retreated into the sanctuary of my thoughts. With each passing second, the ticking of the clock echoed the relentless march of time, a constant reminder of the irrevocable change that had occurred. However, amidst the initial shock and disbelief, I made a conscious decision to pivot away from assuming a passive “victim role.” Instead, I propelled myself forward, embracing a mindset rooted in proactivity and determination. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, I shifted gears and focused my energy on practical tasks and concrete actions.

This propelled me down the path of being task-driven, where each step forward was a deliberate choice to navigate through the stormy waters of uncertainty. With each task completed, no matter how small, I reclaimed a semblance of control over my circumstances, refusing to be defined by the diagnosis or succumb to its weight. I sent a message to my gynecologist informing him that I read the pathology report and would like a referral to follow-up with an Oncologist and surgeon. I wanted to get the ball rolling with whatever the next step entailed. It was after regular office hours, so I wouldn’t hear anything until the next day when they returned. So, I sought refuge in following the familiarity of my usual evening routine.

I mechanically went through the motions of my daily evening life. Hoping to ease my anxiety, I hopped in the shower. The warmth of the water offered a fleeting respite from the suffocating weight of reality by washing away the physical remnants of the evidence that connected me with my diagnosis. I exited the steamy shower, brushed my teeth, dressed in my favorite pajamas and retreated to the bed to rest. As I lay in bed, sleep remained elusive, my mind remained consumed by the whirlwind of unanswered questions and uncertainties.