‘This is treatable’

By John Bach

My wife, Julie, at one of our favorite places on earth — Betsie Point Lighthouse near Frankfort, Michigan.

Cancer.

Of all the words I never thought would invade our home, this was the one I didn’t fear. All that changed this week.

Julie told me about 10 days ago that she found a lump in her left breast. I, of course, immediately assured her it was nothing and that she shouldn’t immediately leap to bad news. In our 31 years together, that’s always been her thing. She assumes the worst. “My wrist hurts,” she would say. “Must be wrist cancer.” “Please don’t say things like that,” I’d respond. “It’s not funny.”

This past Monday she went to the Cropper Breast Institute in Montgomery for her mammogram and ultrasound. I was late getting there because I screwed up the times. I was so confident all would be fine that I didn’t even close my office door or bring my laptop home. I rushed to Building 100501 only to realize that I forgot my mask. It’s a freaking pandemic and medical facilities still require masks, you moron.

Ever since being vaccinated, I’d gotten used to not wearing a mask again. So, there I sat outside the building and texted Julie. “I forgot my mask, so I’m outside. Did they say anything?” “Nope,” she responded.

Then it occurred to me that maybe I had an extra mask in my car. As it turned out I did. Josie had left a pale yellow mask in my glove box, so I ventured inside the building only to find that I was actually sitting outside the completely wrong building. I never told Julie that part. When I finally got up to the breast imaging area, the lady told me to have a seat and they would come get me before any consultation. Julie texted me that they “took what felt like a ton of pictures,” then, “I’m so scared.” I responded, “I know baby. I’m sure they are just being thorough.”

I sat outside in the waiting room for maybe 30 minutes when they came and got me. Julie had fear in her eyes. I could see it immediately, and the lady was awkwardly walking us back to a private room. Julie immediately said to me, “this isn’t good.”

Once settled, the nurse navigator and the radiologist launched into a long explanation about what they had just done and what they were seeing in both the mammogram and the ultrasound. I could tell he was building up to something, and inside I’m screaming for him to get to the freaking point. Then he did.

The first bad word was “malignancy,” and he pointed out a 2.5 cm “mass” in Julie’s left breast on the screen. It was all black and white and looked like a marble in her breast.

Immediately, Julie began sobbing. I rubbed her back and told her it was going to be OK. The “nurse navigator” immediately assured her “this is treatable.”

OK, so they weren’t saying certain things. They didn’t say “it is too early to tell.” They didn’t say we “shouldn’t assume the worst.” They said “this is treatable.” In other words, without confirming it, they were confirming that my wife has breast cancer.

I sat there stunned like an idiot. Rubbing my wife’s back out of impulse and telling her “it’s OK.” We don’t know what this is yet.” We left there with instructions to return for a biopsy on Wednesday. Deep down both of us knew this was really serious, but we held out hope that the biopsy would — could — bring good news. Relief even.

It didn’t.