You Can't Poke Fun at Cancer

I had heard the spiel before, though the miles of paperwork and intricate details of the treatment plan were, admittedly, rather new. Frankly, I had been told all I needed to know. I had Breast Cancer, stage two or three, and it was invasive ductal carcinoma with multiple affected lymph nodes, or something to that effect. At age 33, with a nursing one year old daughter and two other children ages five and three, that was more than enough to process at the time. I had spent the requisite hours in a sobbing puddle of mess and had reconciled with whatever treatment would entail: hair loss, sickness, double mastectomy, scars. Regardless of what else was in store, I had finished processing to the extent I was able. In fact, it had taken some convincing by my first doctor, for me to believe I had anything but some “cheese curds plugging my milk ducts.” It was one of my jokes, that he had most decidedly not laughed at. Honestly, the poor young surgeon looked like he might cry and that was what hit me like a punch in the gut. How serious does breast cancer have to be, for your small town general surgeon to be in tears? That was the beginning of a dizzying spiral into the abyss of panic.

It would have hit me hard on any given day, but my husband’s diagnosis of a rare autoimmune liver condition was sitting heavily in my back pocket. With three children at home and a liver transplant on the horizon, a life threatening breast cancer diagnosis just wasn’t within the realms of comprehension. We began the full diagnostic process in what the medical system deemed to be a hurry, though the month long timeline made it feel more like running through molasses. I was an urgent case. The oncology board convened to advise on my situation and to determine a treatment plan, as happens with rare and serious cases of cancer. Even now, seven years later, typing the words rare and serious leaves me queasy and light headed. Treatment was to begin with chemotherapy, before all of the testing results came back, because my case was too urgent to wait and the medications used would not change regardless. However, the oncologist informed me that the chances were high that it was a virulent triple negative or triple positive cancer, as is most typical in young breast cancer patients.

That was the depth of information I had when the oncologist began her full dealing of informational cards, requiring my signature, to convey my understanding of all the risks: hundreds of them. But the risk of not accepting treatment, I knew was certain death. The gruelling hours-long oncology appointment, my first of many, was coming to a close. I felt nothing much more than relief at finally beginning the treatment journey. I had a vague concern about forgetting a change of underwear, given that the treatment would begin the next morning and we would have to stay overnight. I looked into the petite oncologists dark brown eyes and her slim, but serious face and true to form: I cracked a joke. After hours of listening and signing papers I couldn’t hold it in and so with a perfect deadpan I said: “Phew! For a moment there, I thought you were going to tell me I had cancer!” Silence enveloped the room. The oncologist turned to her nurse and they conspired. With a nod, to the doctor, the nurse marched from the room sporting a pale grimace. Not one person laughed.

I by contrast, dropped the facade and openly chuckled away. I looked at my husband in order to declare: “That, right there, was funny!” Perhaps my doctor didn’t have a sense of humour? I wondered to myself. In short order, it became rather clear that my oncologist believed I had endured some kind of psychic break and I was very rapidly moved on to the psychiatric clinic downstairs. Evidently cracking jokes in oncology appointments is not the way to win favours with the medical staff. I attempted to explain the misunderstanding but, after my joke, it all fell on deaf ears; so I endured the chat with the psychiatrist, who turned out to be rather a swell guy. Now, seven years post treatment, I cannot help cringing at my joke, but when I show up for my yearly oncology review, my oncologist admits, reluctantly, that I am sometimes, kind of funny.