The Appointment That Saved My Life

Six years ago today I went to an appointment that saved my life. I was late—by about ten years. I should have started getting mammograms when I turned forty, but I didn’t have insurance and didn’t realize I could get them for free.

Finally, because of the pandemic, which killed my business, I was able to get Medicaid. (Thank you, ACA, but that’s another story.) I began checking boxes. The first: a visit to a PCP that revealed high blood pressure and high cholesterol.

The second revealed cancer.

I celebrate today. I celebrate that devastating diagnosis. Not because I was happy to get cancer. Because I’m happy to find out I had this interloper, as I called it, so I could do something about it.

I’m happy about the doing, not the disease.

I did something. I did a lot of somethings, with a lot of help, support, and love.

I look back on that newly-minted fifty-year-old woman with tenderness. She was naïve, believed she was invincible. (She’s Gen X, after all.) She was scared. So scared.

But her grandmother—my grandmother—had breast cancer much later in life, and she survived. Mine wasn’t genetic, but I had evidence the disease didn’t dictate a death sentence.

Death sentence.

During my biopsy, the technician told me not to be worried because breast cancer was no longer a death sentence.

My brain latched onto those two words the way burrs clung to our Shih Tzu’s fur. The only way to get rid of them was to shave him. Since a lobotomy seemed a bit extreme, we went camping instead. I unplugged. I lay in a hammock staring up through the canopy as the leaves rustled in the breeze, the partly cloudy sky a backdrop I felt like I could fall into. Jim sat beside me, gently nudging me back and forth like a baby in a bassinet.

My journal entry from the next morning was, in hindsight, painfully optimistic.

I was actually joyful about getting my boobs squeezed in a vice, but it didn’t take long for my world to crash. They called me back and said I needed a second mammogram, then a biopsy. We know what happened after that.

I’ve lived so much since that day. Experienced so much fear and joy and love. And wonder. Wonder at the possibilities. Wonder at what I’m capable of. Wonder at the kindness and generosity of people.

I remember when I mentioned a medical marijuana card and that it was expensive, and three people, one I barely knew, offered to send me the money. I remember the friends who drove out of their way to porch-drop things they knew would help me. So many big and small acts that made it all bearable.

Cancer wasn’t a gift. (Despite the unfortunate title I gave one of my posts about it.) But it revealed the true gifts of love, kindness, and generosity.

My life is so good now. And I’m going to celebrate today. I don’t know how. Will it be a dinner out? Or just an intentional evening? I don’t know, but I’ll do something to mark this day.

It’s the day that saved my life.

Ever since then, I’ve felt like I should create meaningful things for the world. Because I want to say thank you, yes, and because I feel so much joy at being given this second chance.

I truly am grateful and am so happy to be here. So very happy.

And now I’m ready to bring this story into the world. I’d written and shared much of it as I lived it, and now I get to tell the rest of the story.

Two weeks from today, on August 18—the six-year anniversary of my diagnosis—I’ll launch the Kickstarter for Diary of a Cockeyed Optimist.

The campaign is already live in preview, and you can follow it now to be notified the moment it launches. I would love to have you there when this next chapter begins.

Follow Diary of a Cockeyed Optimist

Six years. A blink and a lifetime.

Before I go, consider this your reminder to get checked. The appointment you make could save your life.

Much love,

Theresa