Making Room for the Villain
The radiologist pointed, “Right there, see the dark spot? I don’t like what I’m seeing.” There it was, right of center on the screen, nestled in bright white digital breast tissue on the screen. The spot was dark and sinister, like a burn hole on a white couch. Its’ edges blurred into the surrounding tissue, core as dark as a well shaft.
I was transfixed by the sight of it. It seemed embodied, almost taunting. Observing it felt like watching a movie in which the villain creeps up on the unsuspecting victim. As much as you want to pretend otherwise, you have seen it now. Room must be made for it in the story.
Still transfixed, my head cocked just a bit, my radiologist’s words nudged my attention. “…it looks fairly contained, but we can’t be sure what we’re looking at until we see the actual cells. I’d like to schedule a biopsy.” I forced my eyes away to face him full.
“Do you think it is something I need to worry about?”
“I can’t be sure until we see the cells, yet I want to be up front with you. My best guess is yes, it’s cancer.”
He squeezed my shoulder and asked the nurse to schedule the biopsy. After he left the room, I looked down at the offending part. I touched the surface above where the villain loitered deep. Against the chest wall, so far back that three breast exams hadn’t discerned it. In a strange way, I felt attached to it, possessive even, the threat of its removal heckling my anxiety. The biopsy was scheduled for the next morning.
In the coming days, I would lose my attachment to this sinister stranger. Breast cancer is a dubious villain. Void of pain or discomfort, it numbs the reality of its presence under layers of tissue, muscle, and denial.
Making Room for Truth
In the days following the biopsy, I hugged my Florida-bound daughter good-bye as she loaded her U-Haul, assuring her that all was fine. I congratulated my former husband on his upcoming marriage, assuring him I would be fine. I kissed my sweet, cancer-ridden Mom, fibbing that I was fine.
The space between potential and certain diagnosis was filled with the farcical word, “fine.”
Two days later the phone rang. White letters spelled “Breast Center” across the black screen of my iPhone. I took a deep breath, fixed my eyes on the yellow flowers blooming outside the panes of my office window and swept my finger to the right, accepting my fate.
An upbeat, efficient voice responded, “Hello, this is the Breast Center. I just received the results of your biopsy. The tumor is malignant.” She paused briefly, acknowledging the moment. “This is a lot to take in, would you like to come to the office?”
Matching her chipper tone, I responded. “Of course! I can be there in 35 minutes.”
Malignant. It’s an ugly diagnosis with an ugly name. I thought the silly things one does when words cannot be absorbed. Things like, “What if the yellow day lilies were named, ‘malignant.’ Would the word sound as dreadful?”
I packed my briefcase and left the building without a word.
During the 35-minute drive to the Breast Center, I acknowledged how much there was yet to learn about how to go through significant moments alone. “Do I ask someone to go with me? Do I want anyone with me? What happens when the person with whom you committed to go through such things is marrying another?”
“Damn it,” I thought for the umpteenth time in a year, “there should be instructions for moments like these.” Such moments are important – life or death multiply from them.
Arriving alone at the Breast Center, I hesitated. Then, bidding my hoard of courage, I willed my sandal-clad summer feet out of the car toward the revolving entrance door. I was sure I appeared stoic and resolved. Inside, my calm was caving.
One hour and a hundred questions later, I drove my Jeep to the grocery store, a pink tote overflowing with pink brochures on the passenger seat. The time had come to call someone. I parked, turned off the engine, and pressed “Favorites” on my phone.
“Hi Mom, what’s up?”
“Remember that silly biopsy? I know I said it was nothing, but apparently, it’s something. I have breast cancer.”
“Shit,” my daughter’s quiet voice quivered. “Are you ok? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m at the grocery store, doing what every responsible woman does when facing a crisis. I’m filling a grocery cart with food.”
“Ha. Do you want me to skip class and come home?”
“No honey, go to class. I won’t know more until I meet with the surgeon on Thursday. Do you want to come? I’d like you to be my person in this, if you’re willing.”
“I’m always your person, mom. I’ll call you when I get home tonight.”
There. I had said it aloud and I had chosen a person. I got out of my Jeep, entered the normative world of grocery aisles and told myself I was fine.
Jill English is an avid encourager of humans and lover of words. She is most at home out-of-doors, and in particular, while walking any beach. Her most magical moments involve being Grammy to two remarkable grandchildren, and Mom to their lucky parents. As a discerner of call in higher theological education, her favorite conversations involve connecting the sacred dots of every-day life and faith. Jill lives in Grand Rapids, MI with two small, elderly pups.
Thanks for your candid honest essay. Praying that things go well for you. I enjoy your writing, please know you have an army of readers and people out here thinking of you and praying for you.😊
Thank you, Betsy. Things are going well. I am 4 years post-surgery and so far so good! I am grateful for the prayers and thoughts of anyone who remembers me and all those going through uncertain tests and diagnoses. Thank you!
I work at Gilda’s Club Metro Detroit which exists “so no one faces cancer alone.” There is a Gilda’s Club in Grand Rapids, too, where you will find others on a similar journey.
Thank you for sharing this info with Ms. English. I hope she is able to utilize the resource.
Thank you, Madeline. I love the work of Gilda’s Club!
Abundant prayers for a deeper kind of fine, that you will get to as you face this with your daughter-person at your side. All blessings, and with gratitude to you for bringing us along through story on this journey that so many women have to take.
Thank you, Claudia. I am grateful for your prayers and the abundance of grace and care that has been extended on this journey over the past four years.
Jill, This was so beautifully written. I felt like I was on a roller coaster ride as I read it. She’ll be fine. No, she won’t be fine. She’s strong. Where are her people?! I felt sad for the diagnosis, mad at the person who should have been there in sickness and in health, and glad that you reached out and chose a person and she responded well. The line that struck me most was, “there should be instructions for moments like these.” You are navigating uncharted waters and your ship is still afloat. I say kudos to you! So thankful you are healthy again and so thankful you are sharing your stories with us! Your readers are blessed by them. I hope you are feeling blessed by telling them.
Thank you, Barbara. Your encouragement means a ton! Grateful for your faithful and grace-filled feedback. I do feel blessed to share my story!
I wish every post was printed out in the email like this one. I am away from my desktop for 2 months and on my old iPad I cannot access the link when it has to be finished on line, so I miss most of the posts these days and for some am truly disappointed. Thanks. Linda
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Thank you for your post. God used it to remind me he will walk beside me in handling what I fear I don’t know how to handle.
Oh, thank you for letting me know, Lisa. God has never abandoned me to my fear and for that I am so very grateful. It is my prayer that you will find that encouragement as well. Peace to you!
Your graphic descriptions are excellent – like a burn hole on a white couch; where the villain loitered deep; filled with the farcical word, “fine”; there should be instructions for moments like these; doing what every responsible woman does; entered the normative world;, and others – keeping your reader engaged in your story. You are right. We should not have to do this and many other things alone; we didn’t sign up for this. I am so proud and thankful for your bravery; you are raising the bar for us all. Keep writing; we want to continue with you in your story. Prayers will be lifted for you.
Thank you, Bess. Most of the time it just feels like putting one foot in front of the other and I’m grateful to be reminded that this is what bravery looks like. I have had so many examples of brave in the women I know – it’s their story too, isn’t it. Thank you for your kind words!!