Even among all of the distractions (a kid sick on her first day of school, team pictures which is always a chaotic couple of hours, work, a hair appointment, and hearing about my other kid’s first day of school) the anniversary of my mammogram/ultrasound appointment was close by.
I remember knowing when I left. Not for sure but I knew. And my radiologist did, too. And the ultrasound tech. And maybe even the scheduler that scheduled me for my biopsy 6 days later. I could see it in their eyes. I could hear it in their breathing. I could sense it in how long I was there.
“I know you shouldn’t tell me and I know even more that I shouldn’t ask, but I’d like to know the truth of what you see.”
“I hope I’m wrong. But I’m very concerned.”
This Day in 2018:
It’s Okay Not to Know
Sometimes it’s okay not to know what to say…
A contrast of two experiences:
Both people acquaintances. Both people meaning well. Both people at a loss of what to say that will help.
I’ve struggled throughout cancer knowing how to describe the feelings I experience when someone I know says something, meaning well, of course, but it ends up stinging quite a bit. I’ve struggled with how to let people know what is difficult to hear without making them feel hurt or like they have to walk on eggshells around me because I’m judging everything they say… It’s an interesting place to sit while in my own crisis – wishing I was bold enough to say something in the moment, too tired to figure out how to communicate that well, looking for the sweet message in a friend’s response no matter the sting.
As I described to an individual all of where I’ve been and all of where I’m headed, their response to me was to tell me that they had several friends who have walked where I’ve walked. They have battled my battle. One of them died. Another battled twice. And another had a miraculous turn-around and is now alive when she should have been dead. And then this person, after I agreed with how devastating this road is, looked at me and said, ‘at least you’re alive.’
I know they meant well. They meant to encourage me that I’m not alone. They meant to acknowledge that I am indeed alive. And these things are true.
They also made the conversation about themselves. They put cancer on a spectrum of good, bad, worst. They made my story feel small. They spoke of cancer as if they know cancer. They assumed that my walk was the same as their friends…and my battle their battle. They removed the uniqueness of this treachery not realizing that every story is vastly different. And then they threw in the “at least…”
In contrast, while talking with a different person and after a very similar description of where I’ve been and what I have ahead, their response was, “I don’t really know what to say, but wow. How hard this all sounds…”
They, too, meant well. But they truly didn’t know what to say. They didn’t try and find fancy words. They didn’t try to come up with ‘the right thing to say’ or remind me of the silver lining. They didn’t try to know the inside of the word cancer like I do.
It’s okay not to know what to say. It’s even okay to say that out loud.
Brene Brown has an amazing take on empathy. It kind of speaks to what I’m talking about. And it certainly provides a great perspective on how to walk with people in their hard. https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&so;…
This Day in 2019:
8.18. I Remember
I remember checking in. Uncertain. Scared. They were kind. They gave me instructions on where to go and what to do. I was to put my things in a locker, put on a gown and wait in a little waiting area that was blocked off from the main waiting room. I was sitting in there with two other women as we waited for our names to be called. I was next and they took me into an exam room and gave instructions on how to do the mammogram. I remember thinking it wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting. And then more waiting until the ultrasound tech was ready. My name was called again. I was somber and preoccupied. Wondering if they were going to confirm what I already knew but couldn’t imagine being right about. I remember thinking that having an ultrasound on my breast was so weird…I see ultrasounds of pregnant bellies all of the time at work, but a breast? Huh. Strange. I remember my ultrasound tech not saying much. I watched her face and saw the confirmation I needed…her face told me without her words needing to. Or maybe that’s just what my filter was because I really knew what was happening… Then more waiting and that is when I really knew something was up because it wasn’t a, “we’ll be in touch with the results after the radiologist takes a look”…instead it was a, “please wait here, I’m going to have the radiologist come in and introduce himself to you.” That waiting felt like a year. But it was only 5 minutes. The doctor came in and I remember his words, “I’m very concerned. We need to schedule a biopsy of the mass as soon as we can.” I asked him directly, “Be straight with me, and I know you can’t officially diagnose anything, but what do you think it is.” “I’m afraid it’s cancer. I hope I’m wrong, and I really don’t want to speak too soon, but we need to see you again. And please don’t come alone.” Then they took me to a little white room with a chair and a computer and a CT machine. A woman came in, she was quiet and somber, her compassionate words, “Let’s get you scheduled for that biopsy. I’m so sorry, I know this is so hard.”
I left there with a biopsy scheduled for 6 days later. And my fears closer to becoming my reality.
And more waiting.
No post for 8/18/20