Surgery has gone well. I had a mastectomy and  I’m home from the hospital. On  Saturday, my surgeon calls to tell me the margins are clean and the one lymph node that was removed shows no cancer cells. The news is great.  As the surgeon and I hang up, he reminds me I need to call and make an appointment with the oncologist he’s referred me to.  I’m doing my little happy dance when I call the oncology office on Monday so I’m surprised when they can see me on Friday.

I arrive at the oncology office and I’m in an exam room waiting to meet Dr. O. She enters and warmly greets me, reviewing my history of cancer from mammogram, to biopsy, to mastectomy, to now. Then she begins reviewing my course of treatment. “Treatment? What treatment? No one’s mentioned anything about treatment. I thought I’m just here for a wellness exam.”  Her face darkens a little and she clears her throat. “Your surgeon should have told you that you need to have a treatment plan. I’m sorry that I have to be the one to tell you.”

“When they removed the cancer, some random cells may have broken loose. It’s like a dandelion gone to seed. When the wind blows, some seeds are dispersed and planted in the ground to bloom next season. That’s what the random cancer cells are like.” I sit and numbly listen to her prescribed course of treatment; twelve consecutive weeks of chemo with another drug, Herceptin.  Before leaving I schedule an appointment with an oncology P.A. who will answer my questions and take me on a tour of the facility. I thought I was all better, no need for any further treatments. I’m in shock. I’m looking at three months of consecutive chemo with Herceptin and then Herceptin every three weeks for a year. The oncology office also calls my surgeon to have him surgically insert a port-a-cath; less stress on my already poor veins when the chemo is infused. I’m all better. Yeah, right. But God keeps whispering in my ear–Trust me and “lean upon me, not your own understanding.”

My port-a-cath has been implanted and I’m at the oncologist’s office for my “tour.”  The tour takes about two hours and questions are answered as we walk through the various areas. We go back to the office of the P.A. and she gives me a binder, booklets and then has me sign numerous forms.  As we leave, I schedule my first appointment: 12/31/2014.  We walk to the car and once inside, I sob uncontrollably. My husband holds me assuring me everything’s going to be okay.  “That’s not why I’m crying. All the patients look so thin, so worn out, so sickly. I don’t want to look like that!”  He holds me close and looks me in the eye: “You’re a strong woman and you’ll never look like that. You’re going to beat this illness!”