The first doctor gave me a clean bill of health. The second doctor ran a couple of tests and never bothered to call me with the results. When pressed, however, his nurse told me that my symptoms were typical and that we must accept our aging bodies.
My mother had uterine cancer in the 1970s. After a hysterectomy and radiation treatments, the doctor called her cured. She died less than two years later from cancer that had spread to her kidneys and liver.
I wasn't going to let that happen to me. My body kept telling me that something was wrong " discomfort, fatigue and a vague sense of unease. Then came the light bleeding. It wasn't until I went to the third doctor and explained my 56-year-old body was acting out of character that a medical professional listened to me.
While the doctor poked and prodded, swabbed for the third Pap in 12 months, and performed another ultrasound, I bit my nails down to the quick. A biopsy came back negative. All good news, but I continued to listen to my body. The next step was a D and C, a surgical procedure to clean out my uterus. I was at work when I got the verdict. I had cancer.
I wish that I could tell you that I took the news gently. I didn't. The most feared word in medicine was now my reality. I hid in an empty office, cried, and then put my head between my knees to fight the light-headed nausea. Then came the hyperventilating and tightness in my chest " followed by the many, many cleansing breaths that were the only remedy for the fear that threatened to become permanently lodged in my body and mind.
How to tell my family? I have always been the strong parent, the one whom my five boys and my soon-to-be ex-husband could lean on when they needed support. Now I needed to lean on them. Could I really relinquish the role of matriarch for the role of patient? Would the boys step up with the help that I needed?
I wanted to tell them gently, but how do you tell your children that you have cancer? That is all they are going to hear. They are not going to hear what type of cancer it is or the possible survivor rate. All they are going to hear is the "C" word. And that was the reality. I gave them all of the explanations, the reassurances that I knew they needed, I addressed their confusion, their fear and denial. What I didn't want to explain were the ways that this disease was going to affect us a multitude of times. Because I just didn't know. For once, I didn't have answers, and that scared my children and me more than anything else.
That was when I learned my first lesson with cancer; there are no certainties.
Within days I had an appointment with a gynecological oncologist in Reno. My best friend, Gail, went with me. She asked the questions that I forgot to ask, took notes, held my hand.
That is the second lesson I learned about cancer; don't go it alone. Lean on family or friends or if you have to, a nurse in the doctor's office. You may be listening to what the doctor has to say, but believe me, not all of it is registering.
Surgery followed quickly on the heels of the doctor's appointment. My sister flew in from California to stay with me. Friends and coworkers coordinated meals. My boys were scared, but they tried to be strong for me. The first night in the hospital I cried myself to sleep.
I soon went home to heal from the surgery. Slowly my body began to resemble its old self on the outside, although the loss of the female reproductive system and 66 lymph nodes does frightening things to a body cavity. Every twinge, every deviation from normal raised the fear " Did they miss some of the cancer? Am I feeling it spreading? Do I tell my doctor about this? Which doctor? I have four.
Lesson number three with cancer. Always tell your doctor. Tell all of them, any of them, but always at least one of them. Not only does it inform the docs, it makes you feel better to share those fears.
Then came the radiation. It didn't really strike me as threatening until I was confronted by the list of possible side effects, the specialized procedures that I would have to follow, the CAT scans to ensure proper placement of the device that would release the radiation, and finally, meeting the nuclear physicist who calculated the amount of time I would be exposed to the radiation.
I invited my friends to celebrate the last of the radiation treatments with me. They assembled at the radiation center in Reno and waited for me to finish the treatment. The CAT scan technician brought the pinata and hung it from an IV pole. Becky brought "glow sticks" in the form of necklaces, earrings, bracelets and swords to poke fun at the radiation, and Linda, Jocelyn and Gail brought food. The doc and all of the nurses joined in, and I even coerced a couple of patients to join us. At first shy, the other cancer patients were the first to wear the "glow sticks" and later thanked us for bringing zaniness into their worlds.
That's when I learned the fourth lesson of cancer. You can't let it defeat you. We celebrated the end of an ordeal and the start to my cancer-free life. Next week I have an appointment for my six-month checkup. In my heart I know that all will be well. In my head I know that, too.
I am sure that cancer is going to teach me many more lessons. The one that popped up just this week is compassion. My niece and her three children walked with a team in a Relay for Life event in her southern California community. She sent me a picture of one of the team's banners - honoring me. I cried. But this time I cried because of all of the people who are fighting this insidious disease.
And that is my fifth lesson with cancer " We must never lose faith that we will find a cure.
Carson Valley writer Nancy Hamlett was diagnosed with endometrial cancer on Sept. 6, 2007. She underwent surgery to remove the cancer on Oct. 1, 2007, followed by four weeks of radiation treatment in Reno. Her cancer is in remission.
