A LITTLE BUMP

I am really late to my kids' swim meet. It is late July, and these are the semifinals, called Southern Division in our area. The place is packed and loud and chaotic, with swimmers hustling to the blocks and parents shouting from the sidelines. I find my friends on the metal stands the pool has brought in for the event and slip in next to my friend Ashley, who has graciously saved me a seat in prime viewing real estate. She is one of the few people with whom I've shared what has been going on. Another friend turns and asks why I'm so late. "I had a doctor's appointment," I reply. She asks jokingly, "What, are you sick?" smiling, knowing this is highly unlikely. I'm the healthiest person she knows — a health coach, in great shape, and drinking my green smoothies every day. I say, "I might be, but I don't want to talk about it," tears welling in my eyes. I look away and try to distract myself with the meet. She texts me "I'm sorry" from two seats away. I am sorry too. The whole thing is so totally, completely unbelievable.

That day I had just come from the ear, nose and throat doctor. He had said that the little bump on the side of my neck was probably lymphoma. The whole drive to the meet, I had been busy convincing myself that he didn't know what he was talking about. That was impossible. I was a health coach! I had just had a checkup and had perfect cholesterol numbers and everything! Little did I know that not only was he right that it was lymphoma but I would find out a year later that I also had breast cancer at the same time. Yes, two separate and distinct cancers, and both aggressive, rare, and hard to treat, at the same time.

It all started in June of 2013. I was having lunch with girlfriends when I noticed a little bump on the side of my neck. It was my friend Jana's birthday, and four of us were at a local bar/restaurant celebrating. As the lunch was winding down, and Ashley had run off back to work, I just happened to put my hand right on the little pebble-sized bump on the side of my neck while I was talking. It was like my body was telling me, "Hey, check this out. Something's not right here." I said to my friends Jana and Paula, who were sitting across the table, "This is weird. I have a bump on my neck." A few days later, I showed it to my chiropractor, and he said it was a swollen lymph node and suggested massaging it to clear whatever it was trying to detox. I did that for a week, but nothing changed. When I got two more bumps after a bit-too-boozy Fourth of July, I called my naturopathic doctor. When I confessed that my Google search of "lump on neck" came up with lymphoma, she said she was sure it was easily explained, a viral or fungal infection perhaps. "But maybe we should get a biopsy to rule out the worst scenario just so you can stop worrying about it. I'll consult with an oncologist colleague." Next thing I knew, my life was upside down.

Two words you never want to hear from any doctor: "biopsy" and "oncologist." I tried so hard not to be scared. But this was very, very scary. The larger of the two that had popped up after the Fourth of July was chosen for the biopsy. This was my first-ever surgery and first-ever general anesthesia. I was so scared I cried at the hospital. Is there anything not scary about anesthesia? Your life is completely in someone else's hands (the '70s movie Coma had made a big impression on me). My surgeon and anesthesiologist thankfully did a beautiful job and the surgeon even managed to put the incision in one of the already existing lines in my neck. At the follow-up appointment for the surgery, I asked him how noticeable the scar would be. He said, "That's the least of your concerns." As it turns out, for a roughly three-inch scar, it's not nearly as noticeable as it could have been, and my vanity thanks him for that.

Off the biopsy went to the lab, and let me tell you, the two days it takes to get the results back are the longest two days of your life. The pathology came back, and the lymphoma was confirmed. Turns out that worst-case scenario that my naturopath had been reassuring me wasn't it, really was it. Only later I would find out it was worse than the worst-case scenario. The results from the lymph node in my neck showed B-cell non-Hodgkins lymphoma. My oncologist at first told me this "wasn't doom and gloom." It was easily treatable, and if you were going to get cancer, this was a good one to get. Even though I couldn't believe he would say such a thing, I was actually encouraged by this, while I let the shock sink in. He also said they would next need to do a bone marrow biopsy to see how pervasive the cancer was. Lymphoma is a blood disease, and blood is created in the bone marrow. This was not another surgery; it was a rather simple procedure they did right in one of the doctor's offices.

So an appointment for a bone marrow biopsy was made for the next day. All of these appointments happened within days of that day at the swim meet when I was barely keeping it together emotionally.

It was a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, which in a way helped distract me from the fear. There were places to go and people to see. However, the urgency with which they treated the situation was also scary. To me, their availability communicated a seriousness without actually using words. My case was clearly a priority. I mean, when do you ever hear from a doctor that they can get you later that same day?

The bone marrow biopsy needed no anesthesia, thankfully, just numbing at the site, and was performed in one of the oncologist's rooms with just him and one nurse. I was all numbed up, and all was going well until the doctor started turning the screw-like needle into my lower back at the hip bone to get a sample of the marrow. He had to push hard, and it felt kind of like (only opposite to) having a tooth pulled. It was at this crucial moment that my husband, who had been holding my hand for moral support and facing the doctor on the other side of the table, actually passed out in the middle of the procedure. "Man down!" the doctor shouts. (Seriously! I am not making this up.) "Get some nurses in here!" All attention turned to Ted, my husband. Even the doctor was telling them how to position him flat on the floor, not upright. I'm thinking, Uh, could we...