Just a little biopsy...

It is funny how hazy my memory is around the ten days after Melanie was told she needed a lymph node biopsy. Of course, we all wanted it done quickly, Melanie most of all. After all, the back hall was jammed with her stuff, her job was expecting her in days, and she did not want to disappoint her new employers.  Her plan was to celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday on Saturday, April 24, and be on the road first thing Monday morning, but the doctor could not fit her in until Tuesday. Melanie cleared the delay with her new employers, confident that once this annoyance was out of the way, she would be on her way by the end of the week.

Even though I tried to hold a spark of hope that Melanie was right, the "node thing" would be managed easily, foreboding weighed me down. My imagination ran wild, mostly focusing the worst things I knew about lymph nodes-- lymphoma, Hodgkin’s, leukemia. After a few terrifying forays dipping into the maze of medical websites, I stopped. Her symptoms just didn’t quite fit, I was overwhelmed, and mostly I was afraid Melanie would catch me.

On the 24^th we celebrated Melanie’s birthday with her close friends, Sus and Doug. Melanie now tells me we went out to dinner, but the only thing I remember is Doug presenting Melanie with a dense, rich chocolate cake using no cream since she has milk allergies. It was a labor of love and friendship—a friendship that never wavered over the coming months and years. (In fact, Sus will be standing by Melanie when she gets married this spring.)

Chris and I told only a few friends and family what was going on—there would be a biopsy requiring general anesthesia; we would let them know the results. At night, in our room in the dark, Chris and I slept fitfully, and surprisingly for us, we talked little, keeping a quiet vigil—touching each other for comfort but silent.

On Tuesday, April 27 the three of us arrived at the hospital whose surgical floors are underground. Navigating the windowless florescent basement of endless twists and turns creeping deeper into an endless tunnel we might never find our way out of.  Directed from waiting rooms to progressively smaller waiting areas, Melanie moved--parents in tow.  Steered into a changing room, she and I giggled about the attractive gowns and socks as Chris waited outside.

An hour or so after arriving, she was taken to the pre-op area and met by surgical nurses, an anesthesiologist, and eventually, her doctor.  Over and over she answered the same questions, “Name?” “Date of Birth?” “Doctor?” Each time smiling her Melanie smile. It was not an act, that is just who she is. It was the same smile she had when undergoing hernia surgery at age three. And like then, I managed my “this is all so normal” face--until she was wheeled away when I could no longer hold back the tears”.

Told to go to the surgery waiting room, Chris and I navigated our way down hallways only to be met with another dim, windowless, crowded room. My heart sank at the thought of spending time there. Most people read or slept. Virtually no one talked. Tattered “National Geographic’s”, “Car and Driver” magazines, and old newspapers littered tabletops. Chris read his book as I paged unseeing through magazines. Sporadically, a doctor would appear to give a family encouraging news. “Everything went fine, you can see him in bit” or else take them into a side room for further conversation. As one hour dragged into the next, I realized I wanted to be the one they walked talked to without entering that room. That was not to be.

When Melanie’s doctor walked in after a longer than expected time, he immediately directed us to the side room—another windowless cell. He told us surgery went fine but he had bad news. Melanie had papillary thyroid carcinoma, admitting even he was shocked by the findings since there was no visible tumor on her thyroid. Although the doctor acknowledged that no cancer diagnosis was “good” he did say that if you had to have cancer this one had an excellent prognosis. When the thyroid and all the effected lymph nodes, are removed the cancer does not return.

In tears, with hands shaking I was glad that Chris could ask questions. Melanie had cancer; that was all I could take in. Saying we could see her in a bit, the doctor left us to absorb the news, but I needed to get outside.  I wanted to call Justin in CA. It would not be an easy conversation to have with a big brother who under normal circumstances worried enough for the whole family put together. In typical Justin fashion, by the time I talked to him again an hour later he had researched papillary thyroid cancer and had decided that the odds were all in her favor. A ninety five percent cure rate sounded good to him. His emphatic words were that his sister was going to be fine. (Little did I know that his wife was picking up pieces in California.)? 

With little time to think or process the news, Chris and I deferred to the doctor's expertise in telling Melanie. We had always tried so hard to protect our kids from hurt or pain, but now what? We had to tell our daughter she had cancer. There was no way to protect her from that. 

P.S.Melanie said...

Mom, thanks for writing this. One clarification:

I was smiling in the pre-op room because the anesthesiologist had an incredibly thick Eastern European accent, and I had NO idea what he was saying :)

love you

Mels

(Next --How not to tell your daughter she has cancer. Written by a pro.)