September 12, 2001

September 12, 2001


The television in the hospital waiting room was tuned to a morning news program. Endless video of two hijacked airplanes slicing into two huge, identical buildings. No sound, at least not on video--silence, then a gaping hole, then smoke, then fire, then eventually, the buildings falling onto themselves. People with nowhere else to go jumping out of windows. Men and women covered in soot, running down ash-strewn New York City streets still carrying brief cases, women with high heels in their hands.

With half my attention tuned to the TV, the other half dazed, a nurse startled me by calling my name, “Mr. Sanford, can you come with me.” 

I followed her into an examination room, my mind reeling. Sandra was sitting on a chair, her head tilted slightly downwards. I looked at her face, an ashen, pale look on that beautiful freckled face. A look that showed little emotion or maybe it was too much emotion?  She looked at me as if she did something wrong, like she betrayed me somehow. Her lips were shut tight and tension lined her greenish hazel eyes. Sandra leaned over to me and said, “Its cancer.” I now understood the look—it was fear.

I no longer thought of hijacked airplanes and terrorists. My head went fuzzy, my legs felt like they were attached to someone else’s body; I didn’t want to cry, and I sure didn’t want to say something trite and reassuring like “Everything’s going to be OK.”  People die from cancer every day, don’t they?  The gears in my brain were grinding with a million thoughts, but my lips would only say—“I love you, and I’m here with you”. I put my arm around Sandra’s shoulders and pulled her towards me.

We sat in that examination room staring at the stainless steel table and white paper sheets, the tongue depressors and latex gloves, the sound of our hearts beating above the silence.  We waited for the doctors. 

Dr. D, entered the room, handed us her business card, and immediately addressed Sandra, “You knew you had cancer, didn’t you? Couldn’t you tell from the lump in your breast?” Sandra couldn’t quite grasp why she said this. Do all cancer patients get scolded?  Was she trying to make Sandra feel guilty in some way?  Sandra didn’t respond--she sat there quietly.  Dr. D lifted Sandra’s hospital gown and examined her breasts, molding and prodding and poking. She asked Sandra to stand up straight so she could see the difference between the right breast (the one with the tumor) and the left. Dr. D told us the tumor was two and half centimeters, about the size of a golf ball. She explained the situation, and then, without taking time for questions or discussion, she dictated the action we would take. First, chemotherapy would reduce the size of the tumor--hopefully.  Two rounds—three months per round.  Surgery would follow. Whether a lumpectomy or mastectomy would be performed depended on how much, if at all, the tumor had shrunk from the chemotherapy. After surgery, a daily dose of radiation for six weeks, then one more round of chemotherapy for 42 weeks, then Sandra would take a daily dosage of an oral chemo drug for the next five years. The course of treatment lain out, Dr. D was off.  The door closed behind her, leaving the two us with just our thoughts. 

Next, we met with a patient counselor who recommended that we join a support group for cancer patients—“Dealing with this kind of news is very difficult, it will help you answer a lot of questions.” The question I wanted answered, was, why was the doctor such a bitch? An administrative nurse entered the room and laid papers down in front of us--some to be signed, others to be read, and still more because that’s the way it is with cancer.  The examination room became claustrophobic, too crowded with strangers; it was losing its air rapidly.  It was taking too long, time was moving in slow motion; we both had this great desire to bolt, to leave and not come back. But instead, we sat there stunned, like we were hit by a Joe Frazier left hook. 

As we were signing papers, listening to the counselor, Dr. H, the oncology radiologist entered the room. She was a short dark haired woman of about 45; her loose, colorful clothing and oversized earrings gave her the appearance of an aging hippie. Her easy smile and warm voice offered kindness.  She handed us her business card, shook our hands, and sat down on a small stool. As she wheeled herself over to Sandra, the stool inched away from her, and she fell.  Sitting on the floor she looked slightly embarrassed, but got up quickly, unsteadily.  She wheeled over to Sandra, this time successfully, and lifted Sandra’s gown and began the breast prodding and poking.  She laid out the radiation treatment, which would take place after the surgery and before the third round of chemotherapy.  A small round tattoo would be inked on Sandra’s right breast to pinpoint the position of the radiation beam.
I glanced at my wife and saw her look down in her shy way, the way she did when she didn’t want the attention focused on her. I saw a tear run down her face. Maybe it was the mention of the tattoo. The thought that this cancer, like the tattoo, would never leave her. “Am I going to die?” Sandra asked, her voice broken with emotion.  Dr. H disarmingly said, “Don’t worry honey, you’re not going to die, we’ll make sure of that.”  She said it with a softness in her voice, a knowingness, that gave both of us a moment’s comfort. But I had my doubts; how did she know Sandra wouldn’t die from this disease?  Dr. H got up tentatively from her stool, smiled at us, shook our hands, (I noticed a slight tremor in her right hand), and said goodbye.

It was a long, exhausting day, but it wasn’t over. We tried to eat.  I looked at Sandra and thought about us—about everything we’ve been through—our marriage, our daughter, our business. Sitting across from her in the restaurant reminded me of the time I’d proposed to her 11 years earlier.  It hadn’t been much of a proposal.  In fact, we weren’t even going together at the time—I was dating someone, she was dating someone. I had no intention of asking such a question that evening.  I didn’t have an engagement ring for her.  I didn’t have a rehearsed speech. I just reached across the table and grabbed her hands and pulled them towards me, and said “Why don’t we get married.  It wasn’t even a question.  She looked at me like I was crazy, like I lost my mind, and said “Really?”  Now it was back to me, and I felt flushed and excited and nervous, I sat there for a second thinking, “What do I say now” what have I gotten myself in to”; I finally said, “Yea, let’s get married!.”  I knew right then, over pad Thai noodles and hot and sour soup, at a little Thai restaurant we liked, that this was the person I wanted to spend my life with. I finally realized right then and there, after much searching for something that really didn’t exist, that she was the one who made me happy, who made me complete, who I loved more than anything in this world.  We would be married three months later. That seemed like a long time ago as we sat having lunch at Wendy’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers at UNC Chapel Hill Medical Center, both of us scared to death. Cancer. That was the word now firmly planted in our minds.   

We slowly walked back down the endless hospital maze, saying nothing, trying to figure out which turn to get us back to the oncology unit—the cancer ward, as they used to say.  As we waited for the next doctor, my mind began to wander.  I kept silently repeating something I’d read in a Yiddish quote book, “Cancer schmancer, as long as you’re healthy’; and it stuck in my head like a bad pop song.  Then I wondered, do I have to do all the cooking now?  Do I have to get Samantha up in the morning, lay out her clothes for school, and make her breakfast?  Do I have to do all the laundry, the vacuuming, the dusting—do I have to balance the checkbook?

Do I have the strength to deal with Sandra going bald, and possibly losing a breast?  How would I, God forbid, deal with her death?  Could I really raise my nine-year-old daughter by myself?  I didn’t know, and I didn’t like myself for thinking these thoughts.  I felt like a child who was no longer going to get his way.  I should have been stronger, more compassionate, more adult-like. Are these the thoughts of a grown, strong man?  Shouldn’t I be better equipped to deal with this kind of situation?  I thought of people I admired, and how I thought they would handle the situation.  Goddamn it, why couldn’t I be stronger!?  Why didn’t I know what to say to my beautiful wife?  So I sat there with all these thoughts going through my brain, unable to speak, and finally realized that Dr. G, the oncologist, and the leader of the oncology team, was now standing in the room. He shook our hands and handed us his business card.  He asked Sandra to sit on the examination table.  He lifted her gown, and proceeded with the obligatory poke and probe of her breasts.  I was impressed with the way he did this exam. He took his time and he seemed more thorough than the other doctors.  It seemed that he was looking for something the others might have missed. (Maybe there was hope after all?)  He didn’t just examine her breasts, but also her belly and legs. He listened intently to her heart through the stethoscope. Both Sandra and I suddenly felt more at ease. This quiet, unassuming man, who also showed an obvious sense of confidence—a quiet swagger, brought something different to the room—something substantial.  I knew immediately he was the doctor I wanted to treat Sandra. He was smart, and he had a dry, subtle sense of humor.  He was evidently a big sports fan and punctuated a lot of his talk with sports analogies; we’ll have a relief pitcher waiting in the bullpen if our ace gets into trouble, (referring to the drug treatment Sandra would soon be on.)  Dr. G explained the proposed treatment in detail; he drew diagrams and charts on a yellow legal pad that helped simplify some very complex ideas.  He explained that Sandra had a very bad and aggressive form of breast cancer, something to do with receptors and inhibitors, stuff that immediately went over my head.  He described the specifics of chemotherapy, and what to expect from it. Sandra would lose her hair.  She would be nauseous; she would be tired and have diarrhea or be constipated.  He then said the words that startled us, “We need to start right away.” Dr. G looked at both of us, shook our hands, said he would see us soon, and left the room.  I felt better with him in the room—I was now left again with my own rather feeble thoughts. 

The day at the hospital ended.  We went outside into the beautiful warm, sunny day--the Carolina Blue skies above us.  We passed a few people as we headed to the parking structure, over the concrete bridge, but nobody was saying anything. They were mostly walking without expression, staring into space, in a fog, not wanting to make eye contact.  We were also staring into space, numb, silent, and thinking about what to say to our nine-year-old daughter when we got home.  How about, “Mommy has cancer?”

Our world will never be the same.