The biopsy reveals invasive lobular cancer. Still, the surgeon explains, he will need to remove the tumor to determine the exact size, margin and spread of the cancer. At the time of his telephone call, if he said more, I did not hear him.
Time has stopped. The road has ended. Standing on the stage of my life, I hear the final curtain call with one word: cancer. The surgical report comes without further doubt or last minute reprieve. I have invasive cancer. All hope is dashed my brush with mortality is a near miss and not the full-on collision with the idea of death. The sound of silence between the words the surgeon has spoken is louder than any scream my vocal cords have the capacity to bring forth. I listen for my own breathing because I wonder if I am breathing. The awareness of breath is all the height of attention I can render to this moment in time, and the width of vision I can realistically allow myself.
Where do I go from here? Will there be any here to wherever? What is my next step? Does it matter what I do?
Yes, it matters. I matter. My life matters. I am still breathing and I am still very much alive now. I have survived my first minute after the last minute of the life that ended so abruptly with one word: cancer. I am, in this first next minute, and the next minute after that, and the next minute after that, surviving cancer. I am a cancer survivor. I will need to remember, remind myself, from minute to minute in the minutes of days to come. I am and will be a survivor.
Next: Cancer survivors: cancer statistics are for statisticians
