That C Word

Cancer is a word you  have to practice saying. It doesn't fit nicely on your tongue or anywhere in your mouth.
A month ago today, Jan 11, in the middle of a conversation, my friend said- I have a lump.
A WHAT? I said.
A lump.
A lump?
A lump.
uh. You need to get that looked at like right away.
And one week later, I knew she was going in to get the results of her initial exams. The time for the appointment came and went and no word. After awhile, I texted her: So what'd you find out?
The answer: I have to tell my parents first.
I don't think I've come down to normal living since. There is just no way that can be good news in that context. That night, she texts: Can you come with me to the cancer hospital next Mon? I have a biopsy then and I'll need another set of ears (because medical terms in a non-native language can be daunting). (And that was the first time the C word made an actual appearance. But I didn't say it. Not then. Not for awhile. I did cry, though.)
We needn't have worried about the terminology. There was no way to misunderstand what the nice doctor was saying- Stage 1, yes, but definitely malignant.
I heard everything the first time he said it but only retained one phrase- Stage 1. Maybe because she's older, smarter, wiser; maybe because it's her- her stage 1, her lump, her body- she got it all the first time. The second time, I got it, too. I could repeat it. I retained it. I might have even said the C word once or twice. But mostly I said, to myself- Stage 1. Stage 1. Stage 1. (choke) stage 1 (whisper)
That was the sudden ray of sunshine to grasp for. The bright spot to stand in.
There was a flurry of communications. What to do? Where to go? Stay? Go back to the States?
There were definite points made for each option but in the end, my friend chose to have her surgery here. A nurse-friend told her- After surgery, you'll know more about the KIND of cells you have, what kind of tumor. You can always go back to the US then if it seems best.
Surgery was perfect. Surgeon was happy- The perfect Stage 1, perfectly contained, lymph nodes are fine, everything looks great!
So, up to and for 5 days after the surgery, we coasted along. We made jokes on facebook- jokes in which the C word was used a little more freely. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Cancer begone. And so on.
And then the pathology report.
Perfect Stage 1, ok...but a very vicious and aggressive little Stage 1. The kind that will quickly grow up, not into some funny little lab specimen but a roaring deadly lion. Aggressive. Aggressive. Aggressive.
And so treatment.
And so there's a plane ticket booked and some kind soul (or souls) back in the Golden State is doing some legwork to have things ready to roll. My friend goes back with a bit of her perfect Stage 1 in paraffin so the dr's there can pass judgement.
And I've been practicing saying that word. That C word. I hate it. It doesn't fit. But it pushed its way into our lives. Into all of our lives. When we least expected it. It was just a tiny little perfectly contained Stage 1...but it snarled and bit and left me breathless.
It's getting a bit easier. In one sense.
But I don't think that's one of those things that ever really gets easy. Not when it has meaning. Really has meaning. It's the kind of word that leaves you gasping for breath and hoping that the ride is soon over. And ends gently and stays on the tracks.

And to the very dear friend who shared her own experience with my friend (who let me read it, too): Thank you so much for taking out some of the 'scare' and readjusting the light to shine, not on a black hole but on a fresh day, somewhere in the future, when the wanna-be lion will be a thing of the past.