The C Word

I awoke this morning ticked off.  The grieving process takes on many different phases, as we all learned in Psych. 101, and today I'm mad. 

In the last few months, two long-time dear friends were diagnosed with Cancer.  What the hell?  The good news is that both of them caught it early and are taking steps to stomp on it with all the vengeance needed to do so, and both are remaining as positive as I could ever imagine.  Then I learned last week of another new friend who is way too young (over a decade younger than I) who was diagnosed with lymphoma. 

And I'm mad.

What I didn't tell too many people is that I recently had that scare.  My annual squishing the Friday before Christmas resulted in a same-day call, saying that the radiologist saw an "area of concern" and needed to see me back "as soon as possible" for more pictures.  We returned the day after Christmas and were told that if ultra-sound would be needed, Dave could be there since no radiation was involved.  So in I went and they took 5 more pictures of a very specific part of my left breast.  I was told to wait comfortably in the lounge and the lab assistant would meet me to either invite me to get dressed or to escort me to the ultra-sound room.  As promised, in she came, immediately followed by calling Dave's name.  My heart flew to my throat and I was certain I had just joined the Club. 

I saw on the screen the area of concern and it was huge.  Two big black dots touching to form a disfigured Figure 8.  Ugly.  The ultra-sound tech took what seemed to be dozens of images and said it looked to her to be merely a cyst, nothing to worry about, that the fact it was Black indicated water, not mass.  Tears of relief, followed by more fear when in a few minutes, the radiologist came in to take another dozen or so images, and it hurt so much that I was certain something was wrong. 

The good news is, they diagnosed it as a pair of cysts that they want to leave as a base for future images.

But I'm still mad.  For my young and vibrant friends who have to deal with the mental anguish of cancer treatment.  For their spouses and children who can't understand what they are dealing with.  For their parents who never expect their kids to go through that.  For their friends who wish, so much, they could be there to hold their hands and too, that they could understand, fully, to help.  I'm so helpless.  And mad.

Gonna do my best to have a stellar day.