Someone to Lean On

Someone to Lean On
  A Lump in the Road column One spring morning, my six siblings and I played in the living room while my mom did mom things — like washing our laundry, cooking our food, and picking up our messes while we made new ones. Then someone got the bright idea of climbing onto the mantle over the fireplace and diving onto the pile cushions we’d heaped onto the floor. When it was my turn, I flew straight into the corner of our coffee table. The scar on my forehead is one of the few visible signs of my rough-and-tumble childhood. Remarkably, I’ve never had a broken bone, no stitches, no ER visits. So 45 years after the coffee table incident, when I was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer, I was a first class rookie in healthcare. I didn’t know what I was doing. My husband found a lump in my breast. I saw a doctor the next day. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It doesn’t meet the characteristics of cancer.” That didn’t sound right, so I scheduled a mammogram. “I know where you can get cheap chemo,” the tech said while my boob was smashed in a vice. Chemo? Me? I thought. I guess I have cancer. A few days later, a surgeon told me I needed a mastectomy 
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