Breast Cancer Diary: Nothing stays as it was
July 10: "We have to clarify that"
When showering I discovered a hardening in the right breast. I waited. I know women in my family are prone to cysts. Then I went to my gynecologist. "You have cysts, we know that," she says on ultrasound, sending me to mammography.
The radiologist wants to make another ultrasound after mammography. I say: "That's what my doctor has already done." - "I'd rather watch myself again," she says. Is the fussy, I think and lie unwillingly on the couch. "You see," she says, "I do not like that, I do not like that, we have to clarify that."
July 12: At the "Stanze"
I have to go to a brand new clinic for "punching", so the brute term for the fact that small shreds are torn from the chest. Chaos in the registration. The computers are not running. Phones ring without anyone taking off. Two hours, which I distribute with a book. I'm not afraid, I'm rather displeased about the waiting.
The beautiful doctor wants to make ultrasound again. In 60 percent of the cases, she says, she already sees that punching is superfluous. Not with me. Peng, four times the cannula pops into the flesh, it does not hurt. I should get the result Monday. But here I am on a business trip. "Good," says the beautiful doctor, "then I'll call you tomorrow."
July 13: Cancer! Cancer? I???
Eighteen minutes past eleven, the phone buzzes, the voice says, "Ms. Sandberg?" I know it already. I hear, "It's cancer." I hold my breath, sitting in my work chair, the phone on my ear. Cancer! Cancer? I??? From the phone it says: "Hello, should I reserve you a bed? In our breast center you are in good hands." I have to think.
My gynecologist reports on the landline: "Do you want to come here so that we can discuss everything?" I want to sit here. She says, "If you do not want to go to the hospital right away, we'll start diagnostics from here." What kind of diagnostics? "We have to examine liver and bone, see if it has already scattered."
My friend Ilka calls if I have been given the all-clear. I scream, scream the first time, "I have cancer!" She yells back: "No, no, no!" Then: "Okay, I'll pick up your findings and fax them to Bodo." Oh yes, the little brother who disturbed us while playing games is now chief physician of a gynecological clinic. Ilka says, "Do not worry, you will not die." Strange, I do not think about dying. I'm thinking of pain, decay, loss. I think that my new love is over.
I am writing an e-mail to my friend: "Got cancer." We know each other for four months. He immediately calls out, "Do you want to see me?" He is there two hours later. I'm shaking, whining, raving. He whispers: "I love you too with a tit." We laugh like crazy. When brushing my teeth I see my upper body: The breasts are actually quite pretty.
July 14: "It is still small"
Bodo receives us. He is a real chief physician: stately, mottled gray, reassuring. Explains that tumor is not equal to tumor. Sometimes it makes sense to have chemotherapy before surgery, then the knot shrinks and the breast can be better preserved. My exact dates are not there yet.
In case it gets pretty bad, Bodo shows pictures of repaired breasts. No beauty parts as after cosmetic surgery, normal women's body. But Bodo also says: "It is still small and it is recognized early."
For the first time I hear something pleasing about my cancer. I say: "Yesterday we drank almost all the wine supplies, is that bad?" Bodo grins: "Nope, but think about it later, you need a good bottle of wine." We laugh in threes.
July 15: My beautiful life is over
When I am alone, unknown thoughts take me away. Suddenly, the connection between body and psyche is scary to me. What do I get the receipt for with my cancer? First, I dismiss the question: why me? Pointless. I do not want the cancer any other. I have him. It's mine. My body has produced him. Mysterious, inexplicable.
You have to accept it, says Bodo. Oh, those pleasing words. I need humility and feel my proud soul rearing. Misfortune moves before my life, as the moon obscures the sun during a solar eclipse. The self-evident fact of my existence is deadly. Illness and age staring at me, zoomed in very close. My beautiful life is over. Breast cancer is considered a chronic disease, it is never considered cured, this is in the brochure that Bodo has given me.
July 16: Great Gratitude
They examine the liver in the medical center where I was to mammography. I see the doctor who identified the knot, salute her: "Maybe you saved me." She looks irritated. So often no one will thank her for discovering cancer. Gratitude feels good. I'm thankful for what I had, what I am.
The radiologist examining my liver looks at the screen as she talks to me, "Have you been very angry a year and a half ago?" - "I was pretty sad then," I say. - "Look," she says, "and that must never happen to you again." How am I supposed to do that, I'll ask, as she already says, "The liver is fine." I wipe my stomach dry with paper towels. Great gratitude.
July 17: "Very pretty bones"
I was injected with radioactive material to make the bones visible. After two hours, I should come back to see through. That's how long I'm sitting with Tanja in front of a café in the almost cool sun. We drink latte macchiato. Tanja says, "You know what the cancer wants to tell you." Oh yes?
"Very pretty bones," says the young doctor on the screen. I am lying under a white apparatus that walks slowly over me, must not move me. "Do you mean me?" - "Yes, all right, nothing conspicuous. "Silent cheers.
July 18th: No balding
Bodo calls: The biopsy showed that chemotherapy before surgery is unnecessary. So no balding. I drive to Bodo's clinic at the southeastern end of the city. Gorgeous summer day. I got dressed very well.
Appointment with the surgeon who will operate on me at a certified breast center where Bodo sends breast cases. A young woman from a southern country, serious, almost dismissive. She gropes, asks what everyone asks: "Did you discover it yourself?" She says: "We will operate breast conserving." She makes a drawing as she is going to cut. A four centimeter cut. She looks at my new bra.
July 19: Deeply hurt because my body failed
Now I know what that means, what hurts for days: offense. I am deeply hurt because my body has failed. Because I do not work, because I experience the same shit as hundreds of thousands of others.
It is utterly illogical, but later a professional comforter of the Society for Biological Cancer Defense tells me over the phone: "Everyone experiences this when they get the diagnosis." From one moment to the next, they change camp, from the healthy to the sick but that health is relative. "
July 20: I want to leave. But where?
The preliminary investigations continue. I enter the medical industry. A 70s high-rise building, with a breast center on the ninth floor. The central office on the ground floor records my data, the printer spits out dozens of sticky notes: name, date of birth, health insurance. I hate it. Start, arrange, subordinate - my nightmares. "Go to room 110 ... wait ... release the upper body ..."
Basic depth loneliness. Dumb, impotent rage. I want to go. But where? I take the evil with me. So I drive to the ninth floor, in the third, a man in a wheelchair comes to. He complains about something: "Be glad that you are not a patient here." - "I am," I say. Flattered. Stupid vanity.
At the top I sit in an apricot-colored leather chair. Feel like a trip. Time stands still. Nobody to see. After an hour comes a sister. She shows me and a fellow patient the station. Rooms as in the middle class hotel. There are the coffee pots and the fridge there. I hiss: "What should I cool here?" Sister Karin: "Well, if you feel like sipping Prosecco."
We start off. Alright, sipping champagne on the Krebsstation! The examinations last the whole day. In between I stand in the wind on the roof garden. Down the glittering Spree. How I love Berlin!
July 22: We love each other. Unscuttered one last time
My friend brings me to the clinic. Sunday evening. Before we have the day together. We love each other. Unscuttered one last time. Then we drive. He says, "How often do you want visitors?" I say, "Never. Do not come." He embodies the world I'm just leaving. It has just thrown me out.
I have two new white nightgowns in my pocket. "For the hospital," I had told the saleswoman unnecessarily. - "I hope nothing bad," she had said politely and pulled my debit card. - "Cancer," I said. And listened to the un-word.
Sunday night in the hospital bed. Outside the glowing red sun, inside snow-white linen. The woman in the next bed will be released tomorrow. She says that you are severely damaged with breast cancer and get a passport. She is a nurse. Has a man in need of care, parents who need help, a hard job after a long period of unemployment. She does not have it easy. Because you can get sick. And what about me? What made me sick? I take a sleeping pill. Only gone.
23rdJuly: "Patient has many questions, is very excited"
Wake up. Do not want. Last time I was in hospital for having children, 27 years ago! I drive with the elevator together with a Mitpatientin in the cellar. Then we get radioactive syringes, which make the lymph nodes that are closest to the tumor visible. During the operation, they are examined. If they are cancer free, no further need. Less scarring, less pain, less danger. If only I could pray.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. Calming tablet intus. Thrombosis stockings, flowered angel shirt, disposable panty. In my file, which hangs at the foot, I read: "Patient has many questions, is very excited." So, there are some who are not excited. SMS from Tanja: "I think of you, good luck."
It starts. My bed rolls through corridors, just like in every doctor's movie. I use my ability to disappear. No thoughts, no fear. Swing doors open, too. Many people. The whole apparatus clatters and babbles. They hoist me with "one-two-three" on the operating table. Then the doctor looks through the fog-wreath: "Hello, can you understand me? The surgery went well, there are no lymph nodes involved, the breast is preserved."
Too tired to howl or laugh. Nausea, thirst. I have to call, I have to share my luck. Can not. Must puke. The nurse is there holding the bowl. Lucky gratitude. Sleep. Ilka on the bed, beautiful in red, with sunflowers. Sleep. Pain. The night nurse wants to see the surgical wound, I moan, want to ward off her. "What, that bad?" She runs, she talks on the phone. A clot presumably, the sister hangs me on a pain drip, but does not help a bit.
July 24th: It has to be operated again
Very early in the treatment room. The doctor wears the white coat over her sweater and trousers, I lie in front of her in the wrinkled surgical shirt, she praises my bravery. I feel small, degraded. It has to be operated again, the clot is removed. The seams hurt, my head is roaring. The hand with the permanent cannula presses, the back hurts from the straight. But otherwise everything is fine, finally it's uphill.
July 25th: FEAR!
I'm waiting for someone to pull the Braunule out of my hand so I can wash myself. Then I want to get dressed and have breakfast. This is only possible if someone helps me to attach the bottles of wound fluid to my clothes. How uncool, how unexceptional sickness is.
The armpit hurts, writing severe, headache, constipation. And FEAR! Healthy tissue was removed around the node like a safety strip, which is now being studied in pathology. Find even a single sick cell: post-op. And then maybe: chest off. The result should be there in a week.
July 26: A very nice, strange feeling
Katrin and Helga were there. Sonja has come. And Ilka. And Tanya. Many flowers on the table. A colleague from Hamburg called, found exactly the right words, the love. My friend on the phone: "Do you have anything? Should I come?"
Alone in the room in the evening, a very nice, strange feeling: Security? Be caught? Appreciated, loved? I click the iPod on my new batiste nightie, listen to Stones, R.E.M., Annett Louisan. Read my big book, love-kitsch, distant worlds. I do not feel like Prosecco, I'll give it to my sisters. They are really great.
July 27: Is that really my life?
Showered the first time. Right clothes. My children are coming. We're going down, sitting on the banks of the Spree. I take pictures with my mobile phone. They take pictures of me. A few acrobats are doing gymnastics and juggling in the meadow. A man pushes a bike with three parrots on the handlebars over. Where am I? Is that really my life? It feels so good!
July 28: Hold on to the moment
Dismissal! My friend gets out of the elevator. I am blown, make-up. He beams: "Hey, were you at a wellness farm?" We are driving home. He cooks my favorite meal, potato soup. Then nap, we love each other. Very carefully. A recall action to life. I wear a sports bra, I should not take off the next few days, I do not want to, just do not touch it.
In the evening we sit by the fire on the terrace. A bottle of wine on the table. "Bodo!" I say. Must giggle. "On you!" He says. Hold on to the moment. My gnawed, my unique life.
July 29: Now I know what I have to change
I get flowers and packages with books, films, cosmetics. "We think about you very much", says a card. And: "Pamper yourself." Of course, I think about my self-healing powers. I will continue to eat healthily. Will continue to do sports.
I have always paid attention to myself. But I'm scared. Again and again I am angry and sad. Does that perhaps feed the disease? I call Eva, a particularly clever and dear Hamburg psychologist. She says, "Then be angry, then this is your way to handle it, your life has collapsed, now you have to see what's good."
Thanks, Eva! Now I know what I have to change: NOTHING. I stand to myself. And that's pretty radical.
July 30: Irradiation must be
We rest, my friend got the flu, it was all too much for him. The phone rings. Bodo's wife, Antje, is her turn, she's a breast cancer specialist. My heart makes a jump. The verdict from the pathology: "It is the best news I can bring you, the knot is completely out, it was smaller than expected, it was less aggressive, it does not need chemo Irradiation must be, which increases the security that there is no relapse."
I would have to dance, hop, cheer, but I'm still. What was that? Once hell and back? No, not really back.
Diagnosis cancer: information and addresses
Cancer Information Service www.krebsinformation.de, Infophone 0800/420 30 40, daily 8 am to 8 pm, calls from the German fixed network free of charge; Inquiries by e-mail to krebsinformationsdienst@dkfz.de or via the contact form on the website. Information about all types of cancer, medical advice, contact to self-help groups.
German Cancer Society www.krebsgesellschaft.de, Tel. 036 43/86 42 15, Mo.-Fr. 8-18 o'clock; Information especially about breast and colon cancer, but also about all other types of cancer, addresses of advice centers near the home and certified centers.
Society for Biological Cancer Defense www.biokrebs-heidelberg.de, Infotelefon 062 21/13 80 20, Mon., Tue., Thu. 9-16, Wed. 9-19 o'clock, Fri. 9-15 o'clock; Information about accompanying naturopathic therapies for cancer, medical advice.
