He Who Must Not Be Named

“Cancer,”  the solemn answer so often whispered when asked about a person’s devastating illness or untimely passing.

When you say the word cancer, do you kind of whisper it? I do.  I wish I could remember the movie in which the characters talk about this. How it’s too scary to say out loud.  I’m guessing it isn’t just me and the characters in that film who feel this way.  
In the first Harry Potter book we learn along with Harry about He Who Must Not be Named.   I suppose like the characters in the series we fear that if we say it aloud we will somehow be invoking doom upon ourselves.  In the first book Dumbledore encourages Harry to use Voldermort's name. "Call him Voldermort Harry... Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."   Maybe it's like that with cancer. 

When I was a kid, we never went to the doctor.  Basically at my house if you were seeing a doctor your were either in the ER with a fishhook in your eyelid or you were being admitted to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, so I'm not really sure how I became so medically motivated.  Let me explain. I'm pretty much the biggest hypochondriac you have ever met. I've never been a run to doctor kind of hypochondriac, instead I am a Web MD kind of hypochondriac.  Prior to the web, I would actually go to the library and look up my symptoms in giant volumes of medical conditions. I'm not kidding.  I would stand there between the stacks sure my liver was about to quit  or I was about to experience a stroke.  I have completely convinced myself on numerous occasions that death was close at hand. Liver cancer has always been one of my biggest fears and the threat of pancreatic cancer has gripped me. Brain aneurysms also make my list of likely ailments and one of my most far out fears is death by poisoning.  When I was a junior high aged kid some jerk in Chicago put poison in Tylenol bottles -  cyanide I believe.  I have never gotten over that.  I struggle, really struggle, with taking the first capsule out of a bottle. For many years my twitching eye and tingling hands had me convinced I was developing MS. I know it may sound like I am being facetious, but I swear I have spent hours agonizing over real and imagined symptoms. I always stop short of seeing a doctor though.  Not because I think my symptoms aren't real, but because I am too afraid to say it aloud.  I'm too afraid to have a doctor confirm my suspicions.  I'm too afraid to know the truth. "What if I am dying?"  I would rather not know. Still, I drive myself and those closest too me crazy as I fret and fixate on these conditions. Over time my symptoms will subside and for a while I will be free of  fear. Sadly, thoughts and new symptoms  will creep in and consume me and I will be back online. Have you ever seen that meme that says, "A worried mother does better research than the FBI." I completely agree with that one by the way, and along those same lines I would say, "A hypochondriac does more thorough research than a medical fellow." That's why when the lump in my left breast first formed and then began to grow quickly I googled extensively.  I was sure I had a fluid filled cyst in my breast.  In my initial research I found caffeine consumption was  thought to contribute to the  development of such cysts.  This gal ran on diet coke for about 15 years so of course that's what is was. Since it is something that has to be taken care of, and won't just go away, I actually went to the doctor.  My doctor's nurse practitioner thought I might be right and I left that first appointment thinking I was in the clear.  This little cyst will be taken care of in no time.  She sent me to have an ultrasound to confirm our findings.  I made the appointment for about a week later.  That lump was growing so fast.  I swear it had doubled in size by the time I got  the ultrasound, but it was a cyst and I was still drinking diet coke so... After the ultrasound I returned to my doctor's office and saw the nurse again. About another week had passed and that old lump had continued to grow. "It's not a cyst, it's a mass.  You need a diagnostic mammogram." Words like well defined and encapsulated entered the dialogue.  I made mental note of these words for my google research that night.  I called Steinberg to schedule the appointment and their first available slot was mid September- a lifetime away. I grumbled about  our crummy new insurance plan and the close to a month wait  but set the appointment.  Armed with new information I sat down to google.  Using my new arsenal of terms I quickly diagnosed myself with a fibroadenoma.  For the next day or so I was content with my research but the lump seemed to be getting bigger each hour.  There was no way I could wait a few weeks to have that mammogram. I called my doctor's office to ask if there was any way they could expedite the process.  They told me my insurance wouldn't approve a stat order so I would have to wait.  I called my pal Carol.  She is my darling friend who works at West Valley Imaging. Before a massive overhaul to our health plan we were able to have diagnostic tests done at their location.  I asked her how much it would be to do a test there with her. It wasn't cheap but both Doug and I agreed waiting was not an option.  I really felt like I needed some answers.  Carol worked her magic and I was able to see her the next business day at 8:00 AM.  I spent the entire night on the computer.  My google searches had gotten more specific.  I added rapidly growing, painful and disfiguring to the my previous searches.  The night before I went to see Carol I had my first encounter with the phyllodes right there in my kitchen. I showed Doug what I had found and announced, "This is what I have."
The next day after the usual hugs and chatter, I stood shirtless in Carol's relaxing exam room.  I told her about all of my research and asked her if she knew anything about phyllodes tumors.  She said she knew very little about them. I wasn't surprised.  My research told me they were very rare. When the exam was done Carol sent me on my way. She is always encouraging and hopeful.  She too used the terms, encapsulated and well defined  but I could see a little look of concern on her face that day as she told me I would need a biopsy to get any conclusive results. "I'll be praying for you," she said as I left her that day.   This just got real.  
Driving home that day I allowed myself to think the thought I knew would consume my hypochondriac self from this point forward, "Do I have cancer?"