I wanted to write this because I never want to forget how I feel about what’s going on in my life.
In February 2020, I initiated a tickle war that I inevitably lost. I was grabbed by the arm, and it hurt like it had never hurt before. I winced and pulled away, and upon closer examination I found a small bump. It seemed like maybe a cyst, or maybe some uneven texture from my tattoo that had gotten out of hand somehow. I booked a doctor’s appointment to get it checked out.
A few weeks later, I showed up to the doctor’s office, but I showed up on the wrong morning. Seeing as though it was a 7:30am appointment, I went ahead and canceled it and figured that I’d get around to scheduling it again.
Then, COVID hit. I got sick with what I suspected was COVID. I had pneumonia, and it was exacerbated by things like getting out of bed. Literally getting out of bed to go to the bathroom was a cardio workout. It felt like I ran a marathon (all 26.2 miles) in that small amount of time and distance. After a few tests, I turned up negative for COVID, so our best guess was that it was the flu. I haven’t had the flu in awhile, but I don’t remember it that way, but I digress…
In the past few months, so much has changed. Half of my team at work left. All of the races on my calendar had been postponed or canceled. My mother had a medical emergency. My father in law also had a medical emergency. My students were displaced for a month or more. We all scrambled to finish out the spring semester, and honestly it felt like a crash landing. The summer gave us a bit of respite, but the fall will soon bring its own unique set of challenges. All the while, I felt like I wanted to do something different. I toyed with the idea of going back to school for nursing (again, for the umpteenth time). To do so, I had to take a few classes, so I decided to take the plunge. The worst case scenario would be that I now have a few more classes under my belt, and that I could better empathize with my students.
One of my classes is an A&P class (anatomy and physiology). This class is a little different than my previous A&P classes, because they use pathological themes as an anchor study point to illustrate the “what” and “how.” In the first module, we covered cancer, which I always thought was interesting. I wanted to learn more about why it was so bad, and why there hasn’t been a universal cure for it. Through my reading and research (in actual academic databases…not weird “science” websites online) I uncovered quite a bit of information. I read about the lumps and bumps and what causes them, what they are made of, and so forth. As I kept reading, I started thinking about the lump in my arm. Time is of the essence, and I had lost a few months to COVID already. I called up my doctor’s office while working on (what is now ironically) a paper on cancer research.
After a physical examination, she sent me out for an ultrasound. I don’t think I ever cried driving myself to a medical appointment before. The ultrasound went smoothly, and I got to see the little lump that was squishing around inside of me. On one of the scans, I saw a few blue and red specks and asked about them. The technician said that it showed blood flow. That gave me some pause.
After the ultrasound, my doctor said that it was too difficult to discern between a lipoma or liposarcoma, so she sent me out for an MRI. There was a week in between both of those appointments, so I had a lot of time to ruminate and research. I had never had to think too much about survival rates, metastasis, or surgery before all of this. It all felt so foreign. As someone who just tries to live their best life, I never think about how our days are numbered. We say we know that, but I don’t think we really grasp what that means until a timer countdown has been set. This certainly felt like one of those moments.
I drove myself to my MRI. I cried the entire way there, and gave myself a few moments to calm down before heading in. I changed into a scrub top, and the radiology tech prepped an IV for the contrast dye. His timing was perfect with all of the injections. “You’re going to taste something metallic” immediately preceded the moment that I indeed tasted something metallic. He helped lay me down on the MRI machine. It sounded like a noisy child’s garage band, with a bunch of random noises. He said that he could play some music for me while I was in the machine, so that the loud noises wouldn’t startle me as much. I asked for the Beatles.
As soon as the machine started buzzing and hissing, “Yesterday…all my troubles seem so far away…now it looks as though they’re here to stay” was the first thing that came out of those headphones. I kept thinking to myself that healthy people don’t require MRIs, that this must’ve meant that something had gone so very wrong inside of my body. The Beatles reminded me of the show I took my parents to after my mom’s latest health scare. It reminded me of my wedding weekend. It reminded me of my trip to Liverpool. I couldn’t help but cry inside the MRI machine. I had to stay still. I am pretty skilled at that, so I kept crying.
That afternoon after the MRI, I was asked to come to the doctor’s office to discuss the results. I knew that it would be a difficult conversation. A few friends tried to give me hope. When I did finally make it to her office, she gave me a paper that said “probable liposarcoma.” And then she gave me another paper that said “possible liposarcoma.” For some reason, the math on that is completely different for me. Probable means >50%, but possible is <= 50%. So, it seems as though we are already at odds. She said that surgery was the next step, and gave me the phone number of a surgical center and an oncology center. She looked really crestfallen to tell me the news, but I understand why she would feel that way. I didn’t really have any questions, since I had just finished my paper on cancer the week prior. I went outside to my car, looked at the paper again, and made a series of calls and sent some text messages. And I began to cry. I messaged some people at work to let them know. I was mostly just as a loss for what to do. I ordered pad thai for lunch/dinner and cracked open my emergency can of matcha boba for what I deemed a morale emergency.
The days after got a bit easier. I cycle through denial, anger, despair, numbness. I booked an appointment with my psychiatrist and she gave me some anti-anxiety medication. It helps put me to sleep, so I guess that’s a way to get past the anxiety. It is not so helpful if I need it during the day though.
Erik flew back for my meeting with the surgeon. I had hoped that it would clear up some questions I had, but it was perhaps 10 minutes long. He seemed skeptical that it was liposarcoma and said that he thought it was a lipoma. He offered general anesthesia or local anesthesia. I wanted general but didn’t really have anyone who could drive me back from the hospital, so I opted for local. The appointment was set, and that was that.
In the days after, I had really wished I opted for general anesthesia. Because the alternative would mean that someone would be snipping and cutting at my arm while I was awake. I couldn’t feel pain but I could still feel everything else. It honestly sounds like a waking nightmare. At the last minute, a friend had talked me into going to a more established place instead of a “chop shop” outpatient surgery center. After all, this was my arm and I needed it for work. If it was something serious, then we’d want to make sure it was removed correctly, with clear margins and all.
I happen to live right by a very large regional medical center (UC Health Anschutz Medical Center) and set up an appointment with their cancer center. All of this was mostly a blur. They requested my medical records. They brought me in for a quick examination and consult with a surgeon who specialized in limb saving surgeries. Something I never thought I would need. He was a very kind person and booked my surgery right away, since this was getting in the way of me starting IVF. I was booked for the UC Health Broomfield location. Erik had to go back and forth a bit due to a family emergency in Seattle, which was both very saddening and unfortunate.
This was my first major surgery, and I was surprised at how serious everything was. I had double IVs, one in each hand. They marked up my arm to ensure they were working on the correct one. The tumor was underneath my star tattoo on my right forearm, and the doctor said he’d do his best to keep it intact. I reassured him that I did not care and that he should do what he needed to do to get it out of me. The day and afternoon at the hospital was really a blur, but a few days later before the July 4th holiday he called me with good news. It was totally benign. I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I suddenly did not need to worry about dying. I could move on with my life. A bullet dodged. Decades added back on to my life. A huge control+Z on my mortality spiral. At my exit consult, my surgeon was very happy about the results and also let me know that doctors who interpret ultrasounds and MRIs will usually opt for the worst possible imaging interpretation, mostly because they don’t want to get sued for false negatives. The logic is that a false positive is better, because then the patient can have a medically necessary surgery and then final pathology will be determined. I honestly don’t know any other way this could’ve played out, but nonetheless I am happy that I am cancer-free and can move on with my life!
Amara in Training 