The Results

It was Wednesday morning (10/9/2019)-Dylan’s birthday. I was up early, I mean, I didn’t really go to sleep. I picked up my phone, walked out into our family room and sat down on the couch. I made my annual birthday post on Facebook and sent Dylan a “Happy Birthday” text. I couldn’t help but think, “Today is going to be the day that I find out I have cancer. Today…on Dylan’s birthday.” After making the birthday post, I was mindlessly scrolling Facebook and this scripture came across my news feed, “But the Lord stood at my side and gave me strength. 2 Timothy 4:17.” I reposted it. That day, I had a feeling I was going to need a little extra strength.

I got ready for work. By the time I got to Willmar, I did not even remember the drive in. My mind was blank. I remember sitting at my desk-staring at my computer screen. I couldn’t function. By noon, I could not wait any longer and I called my doctor’s nurse. I left a message for her. About an hour and a half later, she called me back. My phone rang. I looked down on my desk and saw “Family Practice” on my phone screen. My heart started to race. I thought to myself, “This is the call I’ve been waiting for. Please, God let it be good news.” I hesitated to answer it. I picked up my phone, stood up, closed my office door and put the phone to my ear. As I was shaking, I mustered out, “Hi, this is Angie.” On the other end, I heard, “Hi, Angie. This is Cassie from Family Practice. Dr. Hoffman has your biopsy results, and he would like to see you in his office to go over them with you. Are you able to come in at 4:30 today?” My heart sank. My legs went numb underneath me. I dropped down to my chair. Tears rolled down my face. “Cassie, it’s not good is it? Is it?” She replied, “I’m sorry, Angie. Can you be here today at 4:30?” I responded through my tears, “Yes, yes I will be there.” I hung up the phone and let out a wail. I cried hard. For the past six days, I have been trying to prepare myself for this moment. After all, I knew I had cancer. I knew that lump was not supposed to be there. But, until I actually heard those words, “He would like to see you in his office”, there was still some hope that I was wrong. But, we all know what those words mean. I dialed Wayne’s number. He answered, “Hello?” He knew why I was calling. I could tell by the tone in his voice. However, I couldn’t talk-just cry. Obviously, he heard me crying and said, “Ah fuck. Are you serious?” I was able to pull myself together and say, “Dr. Hoffman wants to see us at 4:30 today.”

“Dammit!” He replied.

“I’m going to come home now, and we can come back into town together,” I told him.

He said, “Okay, I’ll be home when you get there. I love you.”

I hung up the phone. I knew in that moment that this would change our lives forever. I went to tell my co-worker about the phone call I just received. He already knew. He heard me crying. I told him I needed to go home, “and I don’t know when I will be back.”

I grabbed my purse and walked out of my office. I cried as I walked out to my car. I cried as I got into my car and drove out of the parking lot. I cried the entire way home, along with filling my head with so many horrible-racing thoughts. I thought about the movie, “Safe Haven” (one of my all-time favs), and I could actually see myself, like the mother in the movie who passed away from cancer, writing letters to my boys for them to open on their birthdays, graduation days, and wedding days because I wasn’t going to physically be there. I wondered how long I had to live. I wondered if Wayne would re-marry. You might be thinking right now, “Uff-da, this chick is being dramatic.” But you guys, these were real thoughts. At this time, I knew I had cancer. That’s it.

I pulled up to our house and stared at it as I cried some more. I got out of my car and slowly walked up to the front door. I opened it, walked in, and saw Wayne standing in the middle of the living room. I dropped my purse and walked over to him. He threw his arms around me and we stood there, in the middle of our home, that we literally built together, and held each other as we cried. Hard. We didn’t really know what to say to each other. All we knew was that this was going to suck. So, naturally, we grabbed a beer and went out to our patio and sat down. We talked. We laughed. We sat in silence. We cried. Then, I remembered it was Dylan’s birthday and how horrible it would be for him to find out that his mom has cancer-on his birthday. That made me cry harder.

We walked out to the truck and made the trip back into Willmar. The trip was quiet. I told Wayne, “I probably won’t remember when we get there, but make sure to ask Dr. Hoffman where he would go for treatment if he was in our shoes.” I trusted our doctor, and in my mind, this was the most important question that I needed answered today. We pulled into the parking lot at Family Practice Medical Center. We got out of the truck and walked into the clinic. I felt like I was going to vomit. I was scared. I was nervous. I checked in at the front desk and then we sat down in the waiting room. We were quiet. I knew Wayne was just as scared as I was. A nurse came to get us and bring us back to an exam room. She said, “You can just have a seat and Dr. Hoffman will be in in a little bit.” She closed the door behind her and there we sat. Waiting. My heart was racing. I swear I could hear it pounding in my chest. Then, there was a knock at the door and in walked our doctor. I could see the pain in his eyes. The pain of having to give a young, healthy couple the news that he was about to give us. He also saw the fear in our eyes and said, “Yeah, it’s not good news, I’m sorry” as he shook our hands (remember when we could actually shake hands with doctors?) and sat down next to me on his stool. He looked at me and said those three words that no one wants to hear, “You have cancer.” In his hand was a piece of paper. It was my Pathology report. He explained to us that he called and talked to the Radiologist so he could explain the Pathology report to the best of his ability, until I saw an Oncologist. As he’s talking, I am looking at the report that he is holding in front of me. I see numbers that I have no idea what they mean, but I know that the numbers I’m seeing aren’t good. My heart starts to race faster. I become completely full of fear. My doctor says to me, “You have what’s called, “Invasive ductal carcinoma-that’s the fancy term for the type of breast cancer you have.” He continued to explain the ‘Nottingham score’ which is used to determine the “grade” of the breast cancer. He told us that they basically look for how different the tumor cells look from normal cells and how fast the cells are dividing and reproducing. [I appreciate how my doctor doesn’t sugar coat anything because in this moment, I want to know exactly what I am up against.] He looked up from the report he was holding, looked at me and said, “Yours is icky.” He told us the ‘Nottingham score’ is a scale from 3 to 9, and “Your score is 9 out of 9. This means the cells in your tumor are ugly, aggressive, and growing rapidly.” At this point, the tears rolled down my face. He then said, “You’re young. So that is also a concern with having an icky cancer like this. But, that also means that your body is strong.” He told us, “You will definitely have to do chemo and have some form of surgery.”  Then, he said the magic words, “If I was sitting in your chairs, and it was my wife, I would go to Piper Breast Center.” Wayne and I both looked at each other and said, “Then that’s where we are going.” Our doctor told us not to look up anything from the Pathology report online, “It will only make things worse.” I thought to myself, “Yeah, easier said than done.” He said, “You really need to wait until you see your Oncologist and he can explain it all in further detail to you.” We chatted a little bit more, he told us we could stay in the exam room as long as we needed to, gave us a hug, and he walked out of the room. I cried. I was weak. I could hardly stand up. I really have no idea what exactly I was just told, I just knew it wasn’t good. I leaned up against the wall in the exam room and let out another wail. Wayne grabbed my hand and gently said, “Let’s go.” We walked out of the room, through the building, outside through the parking lot and to our truck. I felt, once again, like a walking zombie. “This didn’t actually happen, did it?” All I wanted to do was wake up from this nightmare. I climbed up into the truck. We started driving, and I started crying more. I turned to Wayne and yelled, “I don’t want to die!” He turned to me, grabbed my hand, looked me in the eyes, and sternly said to me, “You will not die!”