Remember that winter storm back in January? My family was still getting settled into our new home in Central Gardens. We were excited to receive some unexpected snow days off, which allowed us additional time to unpack, plan, and begin decorating our new digs. The kids were sledding all over the neighborhood and we were living on a steady diet of hot cocoa and soup. It was one of those moments where everything felt so right, but knowing it wouldn’t last.
Then the phone rang.
It was the doctor of my wife, Annie, sharing a breast cancer diagnosis with her. Yep, at age 45. And after pushing for an MRI, due to dense breast tissue, her mammogram lit up like a Christmas tree. She had been taking hormones because of perimenopause — and was feeling pretty good — but now we wonder if this led to her new diagnosis.
Breathe.
Thankfully, we are generally positive people, so after a few meltdowns, we accepted this new normal and waited to consult with her surgical oncologist. The snow and ice changed our appointment several times, adding to our already growing anxiety, but when we finally got in to see the doctor, we were met with such grace, compassion, and kindness. Not to mention, great news and a favorable prognosis. I remember it being a Tuesday, and we hadn’t told the kids yet. But we knew that having Annie’s lumpectomy scheduled, it was time to bring them into the fold.
How do you tell your kids their mom has cancer?
After school, we sat them down and laid it out for them. Ella, our 14-year-old, immediately started crying. She’s a total empath, so this was not surprising. Beatrice, however, is 11 years old, and somewhat carefree and silly like her old man. In the end, both girls were very concerned and asked a bunch of great questions. When’s surgery? How long will it take for you to recover? Can we tell our friends?
I put on a brave face, but deep down, I was scared. I’ve lost quite a few friends and family to cancer and never in a million years thought it would hit so close to home. Annie even asked me several times how I was doing and why I didn’t seem more concerned. In the end, I was trying to put on a good face for my girls.
As the surgery got closer, I really started feeling nervous and scared. What if this? What if that? The what-if game has no winners, and the fear was creeping in like a dense fog after a long rain.
Annie’s surgery was March 9. And boy, did I learn a lot. First, we had to drive to one medical facility for her to have a metal wire procedure installed for surgeons to identify where to make proper incisions. Annie was injected with a blue dye to pinpoint the exact positioning of the lump for removal. This blue dye was injected into her breast to stain lymphatic channels and nodes for visual identification, and to aid surgeons in checking for cancer spread.
Then, at Regional One, Annie was super nervous and scared, so I put on that brave face (once again) and did my best to keep her calm before being put under. She was given a sedative that worked immediately. I kissed her, and returned to the waiting room for 97 minutes. The same length as a rom-com or double album. Or a drive from Memphis to Jackson, or Oxford. It sucked.
The what-ifs began calling (yet again) during this lengthy interval.
Then the phone rang.
Annie was out of surgery, and everything went as planned. This was music to my ears, as I was overcome by relief. Upon reflection, the whole experience reminded me of the day(s) my girls were born. I just wanted everyone to be okay — healthy, happy, and just okay.
The road is long with radiation and additional medication on deck, but we are all okay and extremely grateful. We’ve learned that a cancer diagnosis automatically inducts you into a new club. While there’s no membership dues or requirements, you are wrapped in love and support. Pretty cool, if you ask me.
Then the phone rang.
We were told another dear friend has breast cancer.
If you take anything from this testimony, PLEASE get your mammogram, and push for those extra tests like an MRI as well. Oh, and it’s okay to be scared and vulnerable.
Jeff Hulett is a freelance writer, musician, and PR consultant in Memphis. He lives in the Central Gardens neighborhood with his wife Annie, two girls Ella and Beatrice, and two dogs Chalupa and Delilah.