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I am driving in heavy traffic to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. It takes all my concentration to navigate the 405. This freeway is always clogged with crazy L.A. drivers. A lot of them think their destination is more important than anyone else’s. Talk about entitlement in action!
My appointment is at 9:45 a.m., and it’s already 9:10 a.m. I feel like I’m in a capsule, creeping along a slow-moving conveyer belt. My mouth is so dry, I have to gulp down some water. I re-grip the steering wheel and notice that my palms are damp. My palms are never sweaty! I order myself to take a deep breath. RELAX, I say inside my head. BREATHE.
I know it’s not just the traffic that’s making me so anxious. I’ve been nervous for two days but in an under-the-radar sort of way. My normal bonhomie deserted me — I was edgy and impatient, even if I didn’t show it to our grandkids, who were visiting from Chicago. This personality transplant is nothing new. Well, not for five years anyway. It happens every time I have to go to Cedars. I try to keep the pleasant facade in place, but to those who know me well, the cracks are apparent.
I’ve tried to “get over it” — even went to a therapist to talk about it. It’s been five years since I was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Logically, I know I’m fine. I was lucky to have caught it early. Lucky to have a daughter I could confide my symptoms to — lucky that she listened and insisted I see a doctor. Lucky I had a friend who insisted the same.
“You know, it’s crazy, but here I am past menopause, and it’s like I’m having a period,” I told my friend, laughing.
She gave me a serious look. “It’s not a joke. My mother had those symptoms, and she had uterine cancer.”
I remember thinking my friend was overreacting, but I made an appointment with my gynecologist. She did a biopsy that day. The results showed early-stage cancer. I share this with you in case you have the same symptoms. I consider myself intelligent and savvy, but I didn’t have the knowledge that this “period” was no laughing matter.
“You have no idea how many women come to me too late,” my oncologist told me. “They’re too busy, or they think maybe they’re really not done with menopause or that the bleeding will stop.”
She shook her head. “With you, surgery will get the job done. You won’t even need chemo. It could be this way with everyone if they just came in before the cancer spread.”
She seemed so sad. I remember that clearly, even though I was still shell-shocked by my own diagnosis. And I mean shell-shocked. I moved through my days like the walking wounded. Feeling betrayed by the body I thought I knew so well, I felt disconnected from my surroundings.
I got through that time and through the hysterectomy, which was a complete success. I stayed only one night in the hospital. I was determined not to let the cancer slow me down. We even went to St. Petersburg three weeks after the surgery. I had become obsessed with going on this trip. Yes, I’d wanted to see the transformed Leningrad, but it was more than that. I was NOT going to let the cancer defeat me, dammit! Besides, they’d told me I was cured, so full speed ahead.
Then I came back for the six-week checkup, and they explained that there is no 100% certainty you are cured and will continue to be cancer-free. It ain’t over till it’s over is more the case. “While I feel certain we got all the cancer, that is not proof. So we’ll want to see you every two to three months for the first two years,” the oncologist explained. I liked the way she looked me in the eye. “Then every four months.”
Five years later, I have graduated to every six months. That is a good thing. Now I only have to put myself through this torture twice a year. I leave my house, a functioning person concerned about the economy and the coming elections, and I evolve into the woman who is afraid to trust her own body. A woman who had cancer.
Today, the bumper-to-bumper traffic ratchets up my anxiety, so I get off the freeway at Sunset Boulevard. It’s a pretty street, and I can relax for a moment as I wend my way towardBeverly Hills. Somehow, even though I have been driving this route for five years, I overshoot the cancer center once again. Now I am lost and have to figure out how to get back toBeverly Boulevard. By the time I get to the parking lot, I have five minutes to check in for my appointment. I know I’ll have a long wait, but still, I want to be on time.
I go into the lobby and get in the elevator, my mood descending with it. It’s as if a time machine hurtles me back the five years. The fear and disbelief I felt back then reappear like spectral holographs, hemming me in. I start repeating the mantra my cousin told me, “Cancer is a word, not a sentence,” but then I think, what does she know? She’s never had it.
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About Cyndy Muscatel
