I've Been Out-Tumored

My best friend has breast cancer - in both breasts. She’s 37 years old and has a little boy who is 20 months old. She has a 13 year old stepson, a new job, and no time for cancer. She’s facing surgery and radiation and the possibility of chemotherapy.

We found out yesterday, two days after the mammogram and biopsy. She doesn’t see the doctor until Monday, but we know that she’ll have surgery within the next two weeks.

And while I know it will hit me eventually, I find that my heart has simply not taken in this information at all.

And my mind, well, my mind is apparently completely unwilling to deal with the situation. Each time I begin to “go there”, I simply conjure up distracting images of our respective tumors vying for the title of Most Tumor-Ific.

For background:

• I have a liver tumor - Keith Richards.
• Zingerzapper has two breast tumors - Donna and Nick.
  
• These three lumps are (in my mind at least) battling for tumor supremacy.

The Battle*:

Keith Richards: Let us just be clear – I’m the oldest. You guys are simply the new kids on the block, and I am not impressed.

Nick: Not impressed? Not impressed?! Whatever, dude. There are two of us and only one of you.

Keith: Yes, but both of you together aren’t as large as me. I’m the size of 1 ½ golf balls, yo. You aren’t even close to that.

Nick: Well, yes, but you’re forgetting the small fact that we are cancer. You’re all benign and stuff.

Keith: She’s not cancer. She’s like Stage 0.

Donna: I am too cancer. Just because I haven’t broken through that stupid milk duct and invaded the surrounding breast tissue does not make me not cancerous. I’m cancerous, dammit. You better recognize.

Keith: Fine, fine. You’re cancer. But you’re a really small cancer. You’re like the Rhode Island of tumors. Whereas I, I am the Texas of tumors. No wait. I’m the Alaska of tumors. Which one is bigger? I always forget. It doesn’t matter. I am the Biggest State of Tumors.

Nick: But didn’t your doctor guarantee that not only are you not cancer, but you have no hope of becoming cancer? I thought so. Donna and I are small but mighty CANCEROUS tumors. Eat that, big guy.

Keith: I am big and cause ongoing pain and discomfort. And I’m totally pressing on her gall bladder. What are you two doing – a little hardening, a little discomfort? Geesh, you wouldn’t even know you were there.

Donna: I think someone is a bit of a One-Note Nelly with the whole “I’m so big” thing. That’s really all you got, Keith.

Carol: I have to agree, Keith. Your only comeback is, “Ooh, I’m gigantor. I cause the organs around me to quiver in fear.” You haven’t even been biopsied. Pfft!

Nick: Who the heck are you? You weren’t invited to this contest.

Keith: Oh her, she’s my friend Karen’s tumor. She’s most likely not cancerous either.

Carol: Well, there is a 20% that I’m cancerous. Plus, even though I’m most likely not malignant, I reside in the thyroid. Therefore, my biopsy was especially icky and painful.

Donna: I must remind you that both Nick and I have been biopsied, and we’re going to be removed by a lumpectomy. Nick might even get a masectomy.

Carol: So, what you’re saying is that your days are numbered….I’m sorry, am I smiling at that?

Keith: Don’t be so smug Carol. I’ve heard the same about you. You’re also scheduled to make an involuntary exit early next month.

Carol: Whaa…?

Keith: That’s right, peeps. All of you are making your exits this May, and I’ll still be around as the guardian against french-fries and good eating for Zany Mama.

Nick: But in the meantime, we’re still way more Tumor-ific than you are.

(Nick, Donna, and Carol all nod their heads vigorously in agreement. Keith gracefully gives in and goes back to badgering the liver he rode in on.)

So, yeah, it’s been a hard week. It’s also been hard to be in my group of friends recently. We are, apparently, infested with tumors in my social circle. My liver tumor is tame in comparison to what my friends are going through, and when not making up ludicrous imaginary conversations, I am aching for them.

So, please send your prayers, your warmth and healing energy, and, yes, cross your fingers.

*And yes I know this is a bit sick and twisted, but it’s marginally better than the OG Tumor Rap Battle that I had planned to pen. I cope with humor – or attempts at humor, as the case may be.