Dying Is Not An Option

January 17, 2018—I remember it like it was yesterday. The sun was bright, as it often is in my hometown of Phoenix, Arizona. I had gone shop-hopping in search of a show-stopper dress for an event that I had been invited to speak at that upcoming weekend. As I drove, I streamed jazz and then R & B music, and before I knew it, I had changed the station again, this time to an oldies radio station I really liked. However, I wasn’t enjoying any of my favorite stations as much as I usually did that day. It had been only a few weeks since I had rung in the New Year in Napa Valley, California. It had been a great trip, but my enjoyment had abruptly ended when I came down with the flu. If my memory serves me correctly, I have never had the full-blown flu before. This may sound hard to believe, but I have rarely suffered from allergies or caught a cold. It had been years since I had the slightest sniffle, and these flu symptoms somehow felt different from anything I had experienced before. Being health conscious has always been a top priority for me. I decided to become a vegetarian in 2014 and went to a plant-based diet in 2016. I also exercised regularly. As far as I was concerned, I was healthier than some women half my age. Therefore this caught me by complete surprise. In November, I had gone in for my well-woman’s visit. After the exam, my doctor sat down, looked at me, and took a long, pregnant pause before gingerly saying, “Hey, let’s get you scheduled for a mammogram. Would you be okay with that?” “Sure!” I replied. I thought nothing of it because he knew I got mammograms only every few years or so. In 2009, I had a biopsy on my breast; it had proven to be calcification. This was the second time that I needed to address a breast-related concern. Before the appointment, I had been feeling a little off-kilter—nothing significant, but somehow different. After the doctor suggested a mammogram, I complied immediately and set the appointment right away. Hardly any time had passed after my mammogram was done before someone on the office staff called and asked if I would go in for an ultrasound. At that point, I was beginning to worry. No one was saying anything specific about what they suspected, but the requests certainly made me feel that something was wrong. I started to feel somewhat better about things because rather than scheduling me for an immediate appointment, the radiologist scheduled me for an ultrasound nearly two months out, on January 3. That’s not urgent, I rationalized in my mind. After returning from my trip to California, I had the ultrasound done. Although I continued to struggle with increasing flu symptoms, I managed to make it to the appointment. After the appointment, the nurse informed me that the doctor needed me to come back for a biopsy on the fifteenth. Then I was told that the doctor would review the results of the biopsy and call me if anything was discovered. The wait kept me on pins and needles. Two days had passed and still no call about the results. As much as I tried not to think about it, the thought kept creeping in my mind: What if it’s cancer? The thought came and went at least a hundred times, but I continued to fight the idea. During my day of shopping, I was headed to one of my favorite resale shops in Scottsdale, My Sister’s Closet, while thoughts raced in my mind a mile a minute. I am certain that is why I kept constantly changing the radio stations: it was nervous energy. As healthy as I was, there was just no way the outcome would be cancer. No way! At about eleven in the morning, the call came. It was my doctor. I put on a smile, answered the call, and tried to sound hopeful. The doctor greeted me kindly as always. Then he asked, “Are you driving, Ms. Thomas?” “I am,” I responded. “Why don’t I call you back after you make it home?” he suggested. “No, it’s fine. I’m pulling over now,” I answered. I pulled into a nearby neighborhood and parked the car. Then I took a deep breath. “So what’s the word, Doc? Did you find anything?” He seemed to take a breath as well before slowly speaking these words. “Ms. Thomas, it appears you have cancer.” Attempting to shine a ray of hope, he went on to say, “The good news is that it’s only about two centimeters in size. Picture the size of an M&M.” Did he just say that I have cancer? my mind said. Thoughts began racing. Was I exposed to something as a child, like some of the people I had seen on TV shows? Had I experienced some form of radiation damage because I was too close to a microwave? I managed to gather my composure and then retorted, “Two centimeters? That’s not so bad. I’ve got this!” The doctor went on to say that it was stage 1 breast cancer, grade 3 medullary, and triple negative. He also recommended that because of my age (fifty-five at the time) and the medullary component, I should give careful consideration to undergoing genetic testing to rule out BRCA1 or BRCA2. The BRCA gene test is a blood test that uses DNA analysis to identify harmful changes (mutations) in either one of the two breast cancer susceptibility genes—BRCA1 and BRCA2. People who inherit mutations in these genes are at an increased risk of developing breast cancer and ovarian cancer compared with the general population. The BRCA gene test is offered to those who are likely to have an inherited mutation based on personal or family history of breast cancer or ovarian cancer. It is important to note that this test isn’t routinely performed on people who are at average risk of breast and ovarian cancers. The doctor also encouraged me to contact the nurse navigator right away to begin taking necessary steps. For a moment, I felt like Charlie Brown during those times when he was in class and only heard, “Wah, wah, wah, wah!” I didn’t understand a lot of the terminology or what the long-term effects might be. I was encouraged by the fact that the lump was small and only stage one. In my mind, I thought all I needed to do was have the lump removed, and things would be back to normal, or at least near normal. Easy peasy! The doctor and I talked for another fifteen minutes or so, but it seemed like an eternity. Just before ending the call, he reminded me that the nurse would be in touch to schedule my first appointment. My ex-husband Alexis and I had an unusually cordial relationship. In fact, he was my best friend, and we talked about everything. He was aware of the appointments I had already gone to and knew that I was expecting the results any day. Logically, with the type of relationship we shared, Alexis was the first person I thought to call after receiving the news. I remember the silence on the other end of the phone when I began telling him the news. Alexis had lost his mother, Barbara, to breast cancer on January 15, 2011, which was the same day as my biopsy. He never mentioned it, but I’m sure the coincidence of the dates crossed his mind. Barbara had been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. Like me, Alexis was somewhat relieved when he heard that my diagnosis was stage one. “Oh, good. They caught it early!” he replied, breaking the silence. “Doretta, you’re the healthiest person I know. You’ll be fine!” As a very supportive and attentive man, Alexis always felt he had to come up with a solution for every problem. After we divorced, Alexis and I made a commitment to work together to make life easier for the sake of our children. Surprisingly, that plan worked, and we coparented all the kids together. The boys loved us for the decision, and we were grateful for our ability to continue our relationship as friends. We knew that we would forever be life partners. The truth is that despite divorce, we never stopped loving each other. The next step would be to break the news to the boys. In true fashion, Alexis immediately came up with a plan. He wanted us to tell them together. He asked me to contact each of our sons, plan a family meet