A Truth-Teller

After He Said Cancer | A Memoir

Self-care had gone by the wayside during the worst of it. Brushing teeth and hair took hours to accomplish after awakening at 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning. I didn’t want to wake up so early, but I couldn’t control it. And so, I would lie on my side, staring into the empty void.

Sometimes the void was black, and I just stared at the nothingness of it. Time would pass and the inertia grew. At other times, I just focused on the pain in my chest, knowing that it was grief for the milestones in my children’s lives that we might experience without their father.

I was starting to recover after my deep depression that came when my husband was diagnosed with cancer. The world was starting to feel brighter and more interesting, but I was still a gray, dull version of myself. With raggedy nails.

When one mom had suggested going to a nail salon, I almost cried with joy and was quickly joined by the other moms. We were volleyball moms and had four hours to kill before our 13-year-old daughters started their first match of the tournament in Spokane, Washington.

Are we playing the Idaho Crush at 4, one mom asked. Yes, they usually have a strong team. Hope we serve well, said another. What do we know about the 2 PM team? They have a good club, but we should be competitive if we are playing well, a third mom said. I just hope they can play AS A TEAM, interjected one of the moms and we all sighed in unison.

I closed my eyes for a moment. The small talk was bubbly and light, filled with the excitement of a first tournament day. I let the melody of the conversation wash over me and enjoyed the moment as long as I could.

Our children’s pursuit of volleyball united us more deeply than one might expect. On this team, the girls had been practicing two to three times per week for 7 months and played together in regional tournaments. The matches were almost always close, and the suspense was brutal. Most of us could remember specific plays from certain matches, the suspense, the referee decisions, and the glory of the victory or defeat. For this time – unfortunately – it was mostly defeat.

I had always liked talking with other women. So much so, it was a reason for choosing my profession as an obstetrician-gynecologist. I loved learning about their lives and finding ways to make their reproductive health better. Childbirth, motherhood, menopause? Anything in this ballpark was usually a fun topic of conversation for me, especially if it made a woman’s life more joyful and meaningful.

And here we were, in Spokane, Washington, at a nail salon. Honestly, it felt like paradise.

The nail salon was busy, and we were quickly sent to pick out nail colors. For some reason, I was drawn to a pastel purple Easter egg color. I grabbed the bottle of polish, turned it over and read the label.

Shiny Plum, it said.

“Not sure if you know,” I said to a mom on my right. “My husband got a bad diagnosis last year. Advanced cancer. It’s been tough.”

I wasn’t sure why I was divulging this information. It would certainly bring down the mood, but it felt like a safe space and moment to share.

“No, I didn’t know that,” she said turning towards me, eyes wide with concern and surprise. “I am so terribly sorry. What kind of cancer, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said leaning closer.

Now, it was my turn to be surprised. To ask me this question so quickly, the chances were high that she was in the medical field.

“If you can believe it, male breast cancer,” I sighed and looked down to reflect upon the purple nail polish.

“That’s really rare, isn’t it?” she asked, leaning in.

This small affirmation was all I needed. I began to tell her everything about his diagnosis and the mistakes in his care. I wanted and expected more from his cancer doctor. And didn’t trust that they were giving him the best that cancer care could offer. I was frustrated and fearful. Tired and a little hopeful. Angry, yet grateful. It was a confusing mess of emotions.

She began to share her story and that of another mom in the group. Each had lost a parent to cancer recently. This group was no stranger to grief and loss. Cancer had robbed us all, but at least I still had my husband.

“I am not sure you know,” she said, “but I work for a pharmaceutical company. One of my co-workers is a nurse, who runs their breast cancer trials. She knows every breast cancer specialist in Seattle. She might be able to recommend a new oncologist,” she said.

Joy! I thought. A chance to get a personal recommendation for a new breast cancer doctor from someone who knew the Seattle breast cancer specialist scene…it was too good to be true. I held tightly to the bottle of Shiny Plum and could scarcely breathe.

“More than anything, I want his doctor to tell us the truth,” I said. “If something doesn’t look good on his scan, I want them to tell us. And I really want a doctor who can have a frank conversation about his chances of survival. I deserve to know.”

“You need a truth-teller,” she said. “Look, my friend at work is very generous with her time. I’ll call her right now. She would be happy to talk to you and give a recommendation.”

And that’s how it happened. In less than a minute, I was explaining my husband’s medical care to a stranger, who was politely listening and providing murmurs of affirmation. When I began to speak about his breast cancer doctor, she became silent.

“If I were you, I would get a second opinion from a new doctor. I will give you the name of the one that I recommend if you have something to write it down,” she said.

Relief and gratitude washed over me, as I reached for a pen and a sticky note from behind the salon counter. How did I get so lucky to have happened upon this contact? And of all places, in a nail salon that was a five-hour drive from Seattle. I squeezed the bottle of Shiny Plum and began to feel hopeful.

Perhaps, this would be a turning point. The day was starting to feel considerably brighter.

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