In support of my close friend Robbin, who is having worrisome problems, I make appointments for both of us with my gynecologist. It's been several years since my last pap smear and I am not concerned. My life is hectic, typical super mom stuff. I juggle the demands of two teenage daughters, a husband, extended family and friends, satisfying social schedule, a career, an acreage home with gardens and horses.

First Biopsy - Renée's Help To Escape

The results of that pap smear lead to my doctor requesting that I have a cone biopsy to explore some cellular anomalies that concerned him. Unquestioning, with only the vaguest idea what the procedure was or it's purpose I agree. Under my doctor's orders, I enter the hospital in the very early morning with arrangement made to have someone fetch me in the afternoon. It requires an anesthetic and a "minor" surgical procedure.

Waking up, everything is blurry, the edges shifting, feeling sick to my stomach, hot stabs of pain in my guts. The nurse breezes in. She tells me that I will have to go the bathroom on my own and eat before they will let me go home. The sandwich she gives me is a smoked meat of some kind. The smell alone motivates me to the Herculean effort of getting out of bed and going to the bathroom.

Slowly, slowly, I sit up; swing my legs over the side. Panting, wait for a minute, then slowly slid to my feet. Holding my middle, I crab walk to the bathroom. Sitting down is another learning experience. Relaxing is wonderful. Discomfort, not pain. OK, this is do-able. Standing up is OK, a little dizzy, do-able, back to bed.

Finding my clothes involves a bit of walking around; OK, this is OK. Dressing is OK.

Her quick footsteps are coming down the hall. As I look towards the door she rounds the corner --- yes, here is Renée. She's holding out a slushie to me. "Here Mom, thought you would like to have something cold and delicious to drink."

"Thanks darling; it's so great to see you. I am almost dressed but just look at this disgusting sandwich they say I have to eat before I can leave."

Renée holds out her hand, "Give that to me while you have a little slush and finish dressing."

She disappears into the bathroom, in a few minutes I hear the toilet flush. She comes back triumphant, "There, that sandwich is where it always was intended to be."

She holds out her arm to me, "Lean on me as much as you need to, we'll get you by the nurse's station on our way out of Dodge."

The CALL

A few days later, the call from my doctor was totally unexpected. His so very gentle voice over the phone, telling me …. what? Wait, I don't understand!!! He is telling me that the colposcopy results are such that he wants to book me for a hysterectomy very soon. He continues by telling me that I have cervical cancer; that the sooner I have surgery the better, increasing the chances for a full recovery. I am in a state of shock. A cone of silence descends over me. Although I know the doctor is speaking to me – I cannot understand what he is saying.

Looking up at Ken, Renee and her boyfriend Derek, I burst into tears. This most unusual action by me creates semi-panic. “What? What's happened? Who's on the phone?” The questions are fast and furious. I just hand the phone to Ken and sit down tears pouring down my cheeks. He turns his back to the room and is speaking quietly into the phone. Renee kneels by me, puts her arms around me and rocks me gently; soothing me as I have soothed her so often.

As a family, there are lengthy discussions. We are reeling in shock. Tears from my youngest daughter Stacie, “Oh, Mom, I just knew you would get cancer from smoking”. Out of the mouth of babes. And I am in denial - No, no, it can't be smoking. So many people smoke – they don't have cancer. I say to her, lovingly, gently, “Darling, it's the wrong end”. I am trying to reassure her and myself. Here is the test of motherhood; despite my inner chaos; I must try and protect my children and husband from this attack on our family unit.

The only treatment option presented by my doctor is a complete hysterectomy. But I am only 36. How can this be happening to me? Although our family is complete, certainly no plans for any more children – the prospect of immediate surgically induced menopause looms in my mind. Cancer or menopause? Well …. menopause sounds like living – cancer does not.

We are united, we will "beat" this thing.

The call is made to my gynecologist and I tell him to book surgery, I am prepared.

Meanwhile, our chiropractor Dr. Sindelar, who is our primary "family doctor", suggests supplements and vitamins to best support recovery. I begin immediately. The surgery is booked for mid-October, 1986. My mother, a retired nurse, books her flights and will come to be there when I return from the hospital for a few days.

I taste for the first time the necessity to live on two levels; the smiling confidence to project for my family, friends and all the rest of my world of associates and co-workers, and the middle of the mind solo nightmares.

World events take a hand. A nurses' strike cancels my surgery date. I will be rescheduled at the earliest possible time. Mom's visit is wonderful. Due to financial pressures, she will not be able to return.

My horse, my Leo, becomes my confidant. As soon as I approach the fence - he comes. He is always there, ready to listen, very loving and doesn't respond negatively to whispered horrors. He blows in my ear affectionately, nibbles on my collar, lips my sleeve, snorts his distain at my fears.

The vitamins and nutrients I have been taking have made my hair it's shiniest and bounciest ever. I feel and look the healthiest I've ever been.

After a four month wait, in February of 1987, I am rescheduled. It's a relief and traumatic simultaneously. This knowledge has been in my mind, looming like an ugly monster with outstretched greedy fingers to clutch at and suck away my very life. Melodramic, perhaps. Never the less, the mental stress is very real.

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