February was pretty much a blur. Before I knew what was going on inside my body, I anticipated the things I needed to do. There were items I had been saving for years, taking them out of the darkness once in a blue moon to admire or use. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like my mother. We found a stack of new dish towels as we cleaned the closets after her death. My dad shook his head and said, “Here we are using these old stained dish towels, and there’s all these hidden in the closet.” Mom had a lot of things she was saving, never using, and what for?
I asked my children if they wanted some of the collectable art from my days as a weaver. My son kept asking why I was giving my things away. I hadn’t shared any news with them yet and simply said, “I am cleaning out our house, so you don’t have to.”
In a storage cube in my closet was a beaded purse I had for years, bringing it out when I was feeling funky and dressed up to go to a concert or some other special event. It was bright red with the Coca-Cola logo on front, beaded with tiny seed beads and lined with red satin. My sister-in-law collected Coke memorabilia. I knew she would love it, so I gave it to her. I’m not sure if it was before or after or in between the CT scan, biopsy or PET. The tests got progressively more invasive as time went on. My mind became preoccupied with thoughts of heaven, funeral plans, and the goal of cleaning out my house after I retired. I hadn’t even enjoyed a full year of retirement when this series of unfortunate events began.
The weekend before further testing to determine a course of treatment, I was reminded of what could become my new life. We attended a fundraiser for my new son-in-law’s niece. Her uncles had planned a spaghetti dinner, a silent and live auction. They did a bang-up job. At 23, not only did this young lady have breast cancer, but so did her mother, grandmother, great aunt and second cousin. It was in their genes. Something I had no clue about. I had no idea how any of this worked. We didn’t see a lot of cancer in our family or extended family. We were like Blue Zone people, socializing, drinking, working hard, and living into our 90s. Of course as stats go, we did have a large extended family, so the odds were in our favor.
Somehow watching those brave Barnhard ladies walk about like “normal” people didn’t make me feel better about my situation. In my head, once I knew the certainty of my disease, followed by treatments, I pictured my shrunken body and hairless head unable to show my face in public places. And fundraisers? I am sure it was a bit early to be thinking of that, but this young lady’s uncle said, “No one should have to use their life savings to pay for medical bills.”
Wow, how much does cancer cost? I had been saving and working two jobs for the last 10 years so I could afford to cut back or stop working for money if I desired. It was supposed to be my turn to live a little.
Wanting to be supportive and part of the fun, my daughter and I perused the silent auction items, stopping the longest at the children’s table. My children know how much I love science fiction — Star Trek, Star Wars, and more recently The Mandalorian and Grogu (Baby Yoda). My daughter wanted me to see the stuffed Grogu and tie blanket with the baby (50 years old Grogu was considered a baby) on a beautiful blue background. The back side was green, matching the creature’s skin color.
I kept bidding, thinking of how important the money was to the cause and how important it was for me to have something to hold onto in the unknown. My brain was already planning where to put the hospital bed and IV with drugs for my final days. I wondered if I could be in the high tunnel with my plants.
Thoughts of recovery after major surgery prompted a nesting urge unlike any I experienced with my pregnancies. I could live with one lung, couldn’t I?
A new long terry cloth spa robe the color of dawn’s turquoise streaks had arrived a few days ago, and the tie blanket was the perfect match.
I tossed the idea of buying a new sofa on the table, and my husband seemed willing to shop with me. He didn’t, however, acknowledge an awareness of what I was thinking. For years, my daily routine began with devotions and quiet time on a worn over-stuffed chair. Often, I got up hours before the sun and read and then fell asleep curled up with an afghan until dawn. JC called that corner filled with books, Bibles, pencils and note books “Sue’s nest.”
The old brown chair’s matching couch was beginning to show signs of wear and tear from sitting and sleeping, so I decided that weekend to continue my “nesting” by looking for some new furniture.
On the Monday following the fundraiser, we were invited to lunch by my new son-in-law before they headed back to Huron. I took time to cruise the furniture stores before meeting them at Stonehome at noon. Not having any luck at the first store, I headed downtown and spent a long time discussing sofas with a nice salesman. By lunchtime, he knew why I was shopping.
Funny, the first person I said “lung cancer” to was a complete stranger. His assistance to find something unique and affordable was much appreciated, but I had to talk with my spouse before making any decisions.
Lunch was awesome. We went back to the furniture store. My new curvy sectional couch with recliners and a two-person love seat would be delivered Monday, Feb. 27.
My memory and notes are beginning to match the reality. I found the entry in the doctors notes. The CT scan on Feb. 15 was to investigate the abnormality in my lung. A CT scan was a cross between an x-ray and an MRI — quick and painless,. There wasn’t enough time in the tube to think about what was going on inside and outside my body.
The test notes posted later that day brought us closer to the final diagnosis. In order for that that “thing” in my lung to show up on a chest x-ray, it had to be larger than one centimeter. It was. The surgeon who ordered the tests had yet to call and schedule an appointment to see me.
All I could understand from the CT scan notes was the doctors needed to dig deeper before a final diagnosis and plan of care could be determined.
First, a lung biopsy and PET scan were already scheduled for Feb. 22 and 23, giving me another seven days to think.
INDYchildrendotme 
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