Pain

I am no stranger to pain.  I had two kids without drugs; I’ve ridden my bike so far that I’ve gotten blisters in places no one should have blisters; I had a kidney stone as large as a Maine blueberry; I had a couple of tattoos removed, and I even dated a Republican once.  So getting three tumors and a nipple removed because of breast cancer wasn’t that big of a deal as far as physical pain goes, but no one told me that my armpit was going to be on fire for the rest of my life.  The pain radiates down my side and makes things like using my machete size paper cutter excruciating.  Add in wedging clay, painting, drawing, basically everything I do all day long, and it’s no wonder my arm pit is screaming.

I went to see my radiology oncologist, thinking he might be able to help.  He tried to examine me and I shrank from his touch.  He decided to send me for a mammogram.  Like this makes sense.  It’s painful for someone to touch me, yet send me to a machine to get smashed?  But this is what happens once you get breast cancer–mammograms become compulsory for any symptom.  I wonder if I broke my foot, would a mammogram be ordered?

While I was waiting for the mammogram doctor to come out from behind his magic curtain and give me courage or a new brain, I read magazines.  Allure had an interesting article about Math magazine.  It’s not about Math.  Google it.  I did.  Then I read about Henry Winkler.  He sort of regrets not taking the lead in Grease; he didn’t want to be typecast.  I totally get that.  I was just reading about Lisa Bonet’s milestone 50th birthday, when I got a phone call letting me know that my gynecologist is in the hospital with a back injury.  She is having surgery and won’t be available to remove my broken parts.  This is the smart, cool doctor who told me no toys or boys after the procedure.  I like this woman.  And I feel really awful for her.  Back injuries are bad.  She’s got a long road ahead of her.

I remember when Dad injured his back at work.  It seemed like he didn’t move off the floor of the den for weeks until he had his back surgery.  I remember he was walking with a cane when we went on a road trip to Vegas the following summer.  Our diesel Oldsmobile broke down in the desert and a semi truck pulled over to help us.  Dad and I left mom and Aunt Toni with the car and hitched a trip with the trucker into town to get a tow and a rental car.  That’s the way to come into Vegas–riding high in semi, just when the neon is starting to glow.  I remember dad getting out of the truck using the cane and the side of the door panel to ease himself down onto the sidewalk.  He sucked in his breath and I knew he was hurting, but he put one hand on my shoulder and took a step toward the dealership where the trucker had dropped us.  Dad of course never said a word about pain.

I don’t know why things happen the way they do, but sometimes I think my parents were taken so that they could help in ways they couldn’t while they were here on Earth.  I am grateful everyday that my mom hasn’t had to watch her grandson’s schizophrenia unfold.  It would have killed her.  And I am so glad my dad doesn’t have to see me travel this cancer journey.  My pain would have been unbearable for him.    And thinking about them, makes me feel like a great big whiny baby for crying about my armpit.  But it’s a hundred times easier to concentrate on that pain, then the pain in the middle of my soul from losing them.

The mammogram was fine.  I knew it would be. Apparently,  there is a nerve that runs down the side of our bodies and it was cut to remove my lymph nodes.  Sometimes this thing called cording develops and causes tightness and pain.  I probably am not helping the situation with all the prep I do for the little velociraptors.  So my doctor ordered me to rest my arm.  Easy for him to say.  He obviously has no idea what an art teacher does all day long.  I didn’t bother to tell him that I also drive a manual transmission.  He is sending me to physical therapy.  I guess if that doesn’t work out, I can always try my hand at writing for one of those magazines that people read at the doctor’s office.