cancer: The Waiting Game

Amy Majernik-Herrmann
5 min readJul 23, 2015

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“Joe, can you hook me up with something?” was how the conversation began when I had my first MRI. Joe was the guy responsible for tapping my veins to find the best one possible for the contrast that would be administered. I was looking for some Valium or something to quiet my nerves. “Sorry, you had to request that from your doctor.” Oops. The thought of 90 minutes strapped down inside a tube was not a pleasant one. I’d had an MRI before due to a running injury, but it wasn’t nearly as long and it didn’t involve cancer, so I wasn’t nervous. I was on pins and needles for this one, nervous-shivering as I sat and waited. Once they rolled me in, I practiced my deep breathing and vowed to take up yoga once well again. All was going smoothly until…BAM! A hot flash. (Yes, that period of womanhood has graced me with its presence.) I started pumping the panic button. “Amy, are you ok?” echoed a voice in the chamber. “No, I’m not. No, I’m not.” My heart raced. “PLEASE get me out of here and remove all of these blankets!!!” I remember seeing Menopause the Musical with my mom and her friend many years ago. I sat in between them in a little theater in Chicago and fake laughed as tears rolled down their cheeks. Now I get it. At the end of the day, the procedure was painless, but I was grateful when it ended.

Fast forward to my appointment at the Cleveland Clinic and my need for a second MRI. I was going to be smart this time around. Drugs. Just give me some drugs. I didn’t care how long I would be lying in that tube as long as I was medicated. Rectal contrast? No problem. Drool escaping from the side of my mouth? Nothing that a little handkerchief can’t fix. My girlfriend who drove me to my appointment promised that I wouldn’t drool; I would just feel completely relaxed. And I did. I wasn’t frightened by the sci-fi basement that is the MRI/CT/PET scanning department of the Cleveland Clinic. I didn’t flip out when the nurse twice missed my plump veins and called her go-to, a guy with 30 years of experience sticking people. And I didn’t give a damn about how long the procedure would be. I was drugged. And happy.

Hindsight being 20/20 I probably could have handled the MRI without the drugs. At least my confident self would like to think that. But they were pretty nice. Perhaps I should have taken some prior to all of the other appointments I’ve had along this journey. First there was the CT scan with contrast to check my pelvis, abdomen, and chest for cancer. Then the first MRI which was 90 minutes in the torture chamber. Next up my yearly PAP smear plus an added bonus of a vaginal ultrasound to ensure that all of my girly parts haven’t been plagued by the little “c”. A mammogram where a spot was detected on my left breast would be up next; followed immediately by an ultrasound where I waited alone in the dark silently weeping while I planned my strategy for how I would handle my new and more complex situation. (Really could have used the drugs then.) I’m happy to say that I will not need to execute my strategy as it merely was a water-filled cyst. But damn, how much can a girl take?

After MRI number two, my surgeon called the next morning. There was some pleasant chit chat — about what I have no idea. I could hear and feel my heart pounding in my ears as I awaited her next sentence. “Well, I have some good news,” she said. I felt a smile cross my lips. “The tumor is T2 and you will not require chemo and radiation prior to surgery.” Long pause. The people at the swim club must have thought I was crazy as I paced and cried and thanked her and cried some more. “You also do not carry any weird gene mutations, so that’s good for you and your kids; although they will need to begin colon screening at 34.” I breathlessly thanked her as I sobbed. Then I sat down in a private nook across from the tennis courts and sobbed some more. My kids. My kids would not be in danger because of me. I had not saddled them with something beyond their control. I was at peace.

cancer is a waiting game, as anyone will tell you. You wait for tests. Then you wait for results. You wait for more tests. You cry. You swear. You curse the God that you believe in for dealing you this card. (It’s ok, folks. I’m not going to HELL because a nun told me she did the same thing.) You privately pity yourself while not pitying others for taking the “wrong” path. You have bouts of braveness and those of humility. You do a lot of forward thinking about your own demise and then you slap yourself back into thinking positively about your outcome. You think about your kids and savor those sticky little hands that grab yours in the grocery store, not wanting to let go. Those sweet little-boy cheeks that you can kiss at night knowing that someday, someone else will kiss those cheeks. The need that is there for Mommy to be ok makes your heart swell with love and sadness at the same time. With tears in his eyes, he tells you that he doesn’t want you to go to the hospital. You hug him trying to be strong but your eyes tell a different story. You are dying a little bit inside seeing him hurt so much.

I don’t know why I have been handed this card. Perhaps it is to make me more aware of how good I have it and how much worse it can be. Perhaps it will teach me to be more patient with my kids and my family. Perhaps I am meant to educate others of the importance of all types of medical screenings and checkups. Don’t run from them because you can’t hide. Disease eventually will find you. I don’t know why and I never will, but as I prepare and wait for my surgery tomorrow (Friday, July 24), I leave you with this song. I’ve been singing it and hearing it everywhere since being diagnosed.

I will fight the good fight.

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Amy Majernik-Herrmann

Mom, Wife, Athlete, cancer diagnosed but not defined, friend to the unfriended, passionate, determined, principled, opinionated, strong willed, empathetic heart