Exploring Womanhood is very pleased to bring you a very special journal . . . Three months after the birth of her daughter, Susan Lloyd felt a lump in her breast. She was weaning Abbie and thought it might be a clogged milk duct. However, when the lump didn't go away, she went to the doctor. Unfortunately, at age 29, with a 3-year old son and a 4-month old daughter, Susan was diagnosed with breast cancer. This is her story of staring down this monster called breast cancer.
Introduction
~ Meet Susan!
My second child, Abigail, was born July 12, 2000. I knew from the beginning that I would nurse her. I had nursed my first child, Mason, for three months. I was anxious to make it a little longer with Abbie. Things went really smoothly at first, but then I started to have problems nursing, primarily on my left breast. We stuck it out for almost three months, but then I decided to wean her. I did so very slowly.
It was about the second week of this gradual weaning when I first felt the lump in my left breast. As I type this, I can actually feel the same chill run down my spine that ran down it that first time I felt the lump. I honestly didn't think much of it; it had to be related to my weaning Abbie such as a clogged milk duct or something. My husband immediately told me to get it checked out. I told him I would watch it for a few days and see what happened. About a week later, it was still there.
I reluctantly called my obstetrician's office for an appointment. When I went in to see her, she was off delivering a baby. Her nurse referred me next door to a surgeon to get an ultrasound. I saw the surgeon the next day. He ultrasounded the lump, which was located about two inches under my collarbone right where the fleshy part of your breast begins. He said it was cystic in nature and nothing to worry about. He gave me the option of just having it drained, right then and there. What a relief! He drained it, and as he did, a funny look overcame his face. I asked him what was wrong. He said, "Oh nothing. I have just never seen bloody fluid come from a cyst like that." I asked if we should send the fluid off to be tested, and he said no, and casually threw the syringe away. Oh well . . . that was that. It was all over. The cyst was gone. Or so I thought.
About a week later, it appeared to be returning. I called the surgeon again, and his nurse was quick to explain that it was just scar tissue from where the cyst was drained. Again, I thought, "thank goodness" and went on with life! A week later when the lump was back to its original size, I knew I had to call back. I went in for another ultrasound. This time, the surgeon said we would just remove it surgically. I remember asking him if this was something I needed to worry about. He just shook his head no and left the room. I believed him, I guess because he said what I wanted to hear. On November 14, 2000 I went in for simple outpatient surgery to remove a benign cyst. The surgery lasted less than a hour, and I left thinking this ordeal was over. Little did I know that it was just beginning.
November 16, 2000 began like so many days before it. It was a Thursday. I was home enjoying what was to be my next to the last day of maternity leave. What a wonderful maternity leave it had been! Abigail was now just over four months old, and I was about to return to work. She was peacefully resting that morning. My husband, James, was working from home that day. Mason, my three year old, was at preschool for the morning. I decided to take a morning nap as well. I had just had outpatient surgery two days before and needed a little extra rest. I had just drifted off to sleep when the telephone rang. I heard my husband answer the phone and say ,"oh no" and "we weren't expecting that" and lastly, "we need to come in and talk to you today." I knew right then what was happening. My heart sank to depths it has never been to before. I sat up on the edge of the bed feeling like I was going to vomit. I walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway, just as James was walking the other way towards me. His face was void of any emotion or color. I was already crying, and the only words I could manage to say were "what did he say?!". I said that once more before I got an answer. "He said it's
cancer." I turned and ran back to the bed, burying my face in the pillow as I screamed. I cried and cried like I never have before. I can't even think of the words to type the emotions I felt, even though I relive them each time I think about it. Imagine you have just been told you have cancer . . . all I thought of was death. I have a three year old and a four month old that I love with all my heart, and I am going to die. They won't have a mother. I won't see them go to school. I won't see them graduate. I won't see them marry. Dead. Gone. Funeral. Those are the words that went through my head.
I spent the next hour or so just crying. I cried and I screamed about how unfair it was. Why would God to this to me? Why? How long did I have? Then, I just went numb. I went through the motions of getting myself back together. I got Abbie up from her nap. I packed her things up, looking oh so carefully at each item of clothing as I put it on her. I was keenly aware of her smell, her look, her smile . . . as if I was drinking it in for the last time. We all got in the car and went to my mom's house. I had to tell her the news. I was going to tell her while James picked Mason up from school and took him to feed the ducks at a nearby lake. As I walked into the kitchen, I was thinking, "How do you tell your mother you are dying?". I don't remember the words I said. I just remember telling her the cyst had been cancerous. And I remember crying. She cried too, but instantly and repeatedly kept telling me that God would not let anything happen to me. I called my dad at work to tell him my news. I called both of my sisters to tell them. All of a sudden, I felt like I had to tell everyone. I didn't want anyone to hear through the grapevine. Looking back, I don't know how I did that. I could barely speak the words.
We went that day to meet with the surgeon again. He was nice, but obviously shocked by the news. He said he asked the pathologist several times if he was sure. "She is only 29!" he told the pathologist. But he said there was no mistake. I remember wanting to scream at him . . . YOU TOLD ME THIS WAS NOTHING! YOU TOLD ME NOT TO WORRY ABOUT IT! But that would do no good now. Just wasted energy. He told me I would need chemotherapy, followed by radiation. He told me I would lose my hair. He told me it would be very hard. I asked him if I was going to die. He said, "I don't think so." I DON"T THINK SO??? That was not good enough for me. I had no trust in this man. I had to find another surgeon.
I spent that Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in a real depression. I cried all weekend. Family and close friends came by to see me. I loved them for coming, but I hated to see them. I knew this is what it would be like when I was gone . . . people dropping in to see James and the children. My home felt like a funeral parlor to me. I couldn't leave the house as I was too upset. I couldn't be at home because it was a reminder of all that I was going to leave behind. I simply couldn't function.
Finally, by the following Tuesday, something snapped. I couldn't live what days I had left like this. I had to get focused if I was going to be making decisions that could affect whether I lived or died. I had to work through all the emotions I was having, and channel them into something more positive. I had to research. I had to get the details of my diagnosis. I sprung into action, having to force myself the entire way. Every time I started to cry, I thought about Mason and Abbie. They HAD to be my motivation. I had plans to make, doctors to see, prayers to say. With that attitude, I finally began to stare this monster down.
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Copyright © 2001 Susan Lloyd. All rights reserved.
