Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis by Roberta McReynolds

Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis

It was a couple hours later after Mike and I returned home before I told him. That’s when the first tears flowed. He held my hands and told me not to worry about things needlessly; we didn’t know anything yet. He is my rock, but he hadn’t seen ‘it’. He needs time to absorb the news in his own way and time, but I wanted to warn him and be prepared, " ... in case we get a phone call." Silently to myself, I am actually saying, "When we get the phone call."

The waiting begins. Days pass and I battle with intrusive thoughts. I want answers, one way or the other, so I can have that element of control in making decisions and choices. Knowing nothing makes me already feel like a victim, a role I do not intend to play.

A week goes by and then it happens. Somebody has been given the uncomfortable job of phoning and informing a stranger that, "The radiologist saw an area he’s concerned about and you need to come back."

"I saw it, too. I’ve been waiting for your call," I tell the faceless voice. I glance over in Mike’s direction; he is staring at the television, but I know he’s listening and his world has just shifted off center.

The caller makes the first of what will probably be many appointments, three days from now; another seemingly long wait. First another round of mammography images, then an ultrasound. I’ve never had one of those before; unfamiliar territory.

I hang up the phone as a new wave of heightened anxiety sweeps over me. How ironic that in an hour I’m supposed to speak at an art gallery honoring cancer survivors who have completed an art therapy program. I have been a participant since this complimentary therapy program began five years ago, not as a cancer survivor, but a caregiver. Am I soon to wear that other label?

Has orchestrated timing arranged for me to be among a group of people who understand what I’m feeling, more than anyone else, at this precise time? Even with my feelings of dread that idea makes me smile.

When I arrive at the gallery I try to compose myself and be cheerful. This is a happy occasion for the participants. The art facilitator approaches and says, "Hi, how are you?" The very words I want to avoid.

I hug her and say, "Hi."

Not answering her question didn’t get past her. When Cris asks how someone feels, it isn’t just a courtesy. She really expects an answer. "How are you?" she repeats, "I haven’t seen you since the art show."

"The books turned out beautiful," I respond, eyes averted from her face as I turn the pages of a booklet highlighting some of the artwork and quotes from our artists.

"How are you?" Cris repeats. Busted. There’s no getting out of this. Over Cris’ shoulder I see Cheryl, the one who organizes all these amazing programs available to the community. She is visiting among a cluster of people nearby but turns her head in our direction. What am I, some giant ‘blip’ on their radar screen?

Both these women are supportive, safe, and loving people to trust with my heart and soul. As I confide to them about the phone call I received just before leaving home, I glance around at the room filled with so many friends. I gain comfort seeing so many survivors.

I had intended to keep this information private for now. I’m apprehensive about breaking the news to our adult children (two live out of state) and coping with their reactions and emotions while I struggle with my own. Mike and I have decided to put that off for a number of reasons until after the tests on Friday. Then we’ll have some definite answers.

The mini-speech I make to the group sounds disjointed and rambling to my own ears. The strange thing is I feel like I’m talking out loud to myself. The images I’ve painted are projected on a screen and their symbolism has suddenly, without warning, taken on deeper values. Cris and Cheryl know what’s happening with every struggling word I utter in front of an audience which includes doctors specializing in oncology and staff from Cheryl’s department at the hospital.

I introduce the next artist and take my seat. Cheryl has purposefully sat directly behind me and reaches her hand forward to touch my shoulder in support and acknowledgement.

Refreshments are served after the program and I hunt for anything chocolate. I have just forked some decadent cake into my mouth when, Lin, the facilitator for the complimentary therapies writing group, approaches and asks, "How are you, really?" How do these people read me so easily?

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Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis

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