Moments

As the big day nears, I have found there are a few moments that have stuck in my head, reflecting back on this journey.

The first is my bridal shower. This was a beautiful day - the day after Easter. I was by Lake Ontario at my aunt and uncle's house, and it was sunny, and the lake looked fantastic.

I was wearing a really fun dress with airplanes on it, and a new funky necklace my mom had just given me (a locket... I adore lockets), and bright yellow shoes. I had just gotten a call from the doctor saying that my MRI from earlier that morning had come back clear, but I had not yet gone to the doctor that ended up taking the biopsy that led to more cancer. So as far as I knew, I was still cancer-free. I was surrounded by people I love, who love me, and sunflowers, and my mom and my best friend and my aunt were all there, and people were giving me presents, and everyone was smiling and laughing. It was lovely. I wish it could be that day forever.

The next moment I think about was July 9, 2012, the day I had the mammogram that had calcifications that led to a biopsy. I had not yet had the biopsy - I scheduled it for my birthday, July 12, because my mom was coming in that morning, and I wanted her to be with me. The moment is sitting on Michael's porch, waiting for him to come home. I had told him to please hurry - I had something I had to talk to him about. When he did come home, he came up on the porch and sat next to me, took my hand, and looked concerned - he knew something was up, but had no idea what. That face is in my memory - so sweet, concerned, loving, supportive. Pure love. I told him what I had learned, and the next steps, likely finishing with something like, "It's probably nothing, but we have to be sure." (That did actually end up being nothing - it wasn't until an MRI found another area that they found the cancer.) Michael listened very calmly, and told me we would get through it, and that if worse came to worse, and I had to get a mastectomy, he would get a tattoo on the same breast, so he could be in solidarity with me. I laughed (though he did not - he was serious!) and said, "Oh, I'm not going to need a mastectomy. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

The last moment that has been in my head is Sept. 17, 1999, my last day of cancer treatments from Hodgkin's. My best friend Noelle brought flowers to school for me that day. I had them on my desk in 2nd period English, and my teacher interrupted himself and asked what they were for - a birthday? I said it was my last day of radiation treatments - after today, I was cancer free. He smiled. He went on talking, but then stopped, choked up. "Sorry, I'm a little choked up about Johanna," he said. Later that day, as I walked out of my last radiation treatment, I raised my hands above my head, triumphant! "Good job, body!" I said. "You did it!" As we drove away from the hospital, we stopped at a stoplight at an intersection, and who should be crossing the street but Dr. West, my medical oncologist, who had first introduced himself with a handshake as a "lumps and bumps doctor," back before I knew that the masses in my chest were cancer. I rolled down the window. "Dr. West!!" He came over to say hello. "Guess what? I just finished cancer treatments!" He smiled and said, "Well, congratulations!" and he shook my hand through the open window. That day was such joy. I have such some warm, wonderful feelings about that day.

And now I think about that day, and the 16 days before it during which I had radiation treatments, and I don't feel the same joy. Now that joy is tainted because those days caused what I am going through now, caused my breast tissue to rebel and turn into cancer.

I hate that. I loved that day. Cancer free. "I just finished cancer treatments," I had said. And now I am sitting here, all dolled up in my party dress for my Bye-bye Boobie party, giving my left breast a last hurrah before she is no more.

Famous last words, I guess.