No. 08: D A B D A

Psych 101 in college years ago, DABDA was my way of remembering the five stages of grief: Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

With my diagnosis of Breast Cancer, I went through these stages—twice. Once before the surgery and then after the surgery. I am probably still in the Depression stage (it's been three weeks since B-Day). I find myself crying when I hear my favorite songs from my youth. Luckily, it only lasts as long as the song—which I normally play when I am in the shower or in my car—so no one is the wiser.

What were these stages? While I had the first Mammogram, I felt good going into the Breast Center. I had no signs, regular mammograms, and I gave myself breast exams once a month—or 6-8 weeks. I was happy. Life was good. I had retired. The new Hip was functioning. My golf game was set to take off—once I had a few months of hip recovery. And I was planning to start retirement travel. I was free. And then came the report: Radiologists found something concerning.

DENIAL BEGINS: The second Magnified mammogram was scheduled—strictly precautionary. It was enough to call for the Biopsy. The biopsy came next, with an 80% chance of it all ok. It was not. Miss 20% here then was sent for an MRI to make sure nothing was missed. Guess What. Another suspicious area was discovered.

REPLACED BY ANGER: Why is this happening? All along the way, it was just—precautionary, then you have an 80% chance—until the diagnosis was—you have cancer. Then I was really angry. Angry at myself—what did I do wrong? I did see a few months ago one breast was a little larger than the other. But—no one has perfect symmetry, so why worry about that? I did breastfeed. Did I do that too long? (I stopped when they had teeth, if they have teeth, time to be real) Did I not breastfeed enough? Was it from my mother—Oh yes, MOTHER. Mother-daughter relationships are tough enough as they are. My mother had breast cancer, a mastectomy. I was a primary caregiver. She kept crying, "I am glad your father did not see me like this." I look like her. And, if you trust my husband, I sound like her. I am built like her. I am the same age as she was when she had it. Anger swelled.

Then there were all the procedures. Procedures where the loving nurses kept rubbing my arm—reassuring me all was ok. Please do not touch me. Can't you see, we need to get these procedures done? Make me well. Make me whole. I knew they meant well, and it was part of nursing. I did keep my mouth shut and let them do their thing.

BARGAINING: Between each procedure, I cannot say I bargained. I did not feel I had many chips left to bargain. Ironically, the past few months had been full of surgeries. First came a hip replacement. Within three weeks, the incision developed an infection; back to the OR we went to clean and repair as an outpatient. The Bone doctor admitted it could have been done in the exam room, but protocol made it necessary to get an OR. Maybe I could exchange 2 breasts for a right hip. Nice bargain, I knew what to expect with hips. We had just gone through that. My Bone doctor said I was heading for another hip replacement anyway in a few years. What else can I give in return for breasts? I took a body survey.

THE DEPRESSION: People—friends—are loaded with great intentions. People who heard what was happening offered so much help. Taking me to lunch or dinners or my personal favorite—Happy Hour. Everyone offered help in any way. (What way? I am losing a part of my body??) Some who were survivors offered a variety of tips. Many simply texted each day asking how I was doing and they are praying and thinking of me. It got to be too much, to be honest. I only looked at texts certain hours of the day. Some friends told their friends who had mastectomies, and I received calls of support from strangers. While it was great to know people are there to support you and they care about you, I did have to put on a happy face. I kept seeing the ad for some drug with the woman holding a smiley face in front of her own. That was what it was like. Depression, mixed with guilt, as I wanted to tell each one to stop and leave me alone for a little. I must have been showing depression because once I said something at dinner and a good friend said, "I am giving you one more day to feel sorry for yourself, and I do not want to hear anything more."

Wake up call. I began to appreciate all the calls, the texts, the offer of help. And some of the best coping mechanisms—journal your thoughts. Talk to good friends. There are support groups you can call or attend in person. What my friend said did come with a bit of truth. I was a little mad, but she had gone through the same thing—once lumpectomy, one mastectomy... alone.

I realized the die is cast. Onward with the surgery. And, sure, I will cry, but I promised myself only in the shower or car. No one around. We are ready for...

ACCEPTANCE. The surgery was not for two weeks. A Special Mother's Day weekend was planned by the girls. My Pre-Op included happy hour and dinner on the rooftop of a nearby town. And you know, I planned to live each day to its fullest. I/We, whomever I was with, we all had fun. We talked openly. It was inevitable to have the mastectomy. It was the wait. But I accepted what was coming—and really thought, Let us Move On! I did not realize my family was going through the same kind of process until one day, at breakfast.

One of my Boob Buddies, a survivor herself, had brought me a coffee mug, pink and emblazoned with "survivor." My daughter, as I drank my coffee, got mad. "Why are you using that mug? It's too early. You do not know anything yet. Put it away." I had accepted. I told her simply, "I am a survivor. Let us remember that." It calmed her down. And having me say it out loud did help me and her.

The second set of DABDA came after the surgery. I do not think it was as bad—or lasted as long—as the first round. DEPRESSION—yes. It took me three days to even look at my body. I was supposed to take a shower 48 hours after surgery at home. I stretched it to 72 hours. And I really did not fully look—I glanced. When it came to the wonderful JP Drains that had to be emptied 2-3 times a day, I held my shirt closed above my stomach while my assistants (husband and daughter) drained the contents. Then while they measured, I closed myself up again, hoping they did not see much of the sterile strips, the drains, and the caved chest. For a few days, I only glanced at my chest in the mirror. I was careful to wear a robe in the bathroom in case someone came in... plus it added protection to the drains. I never realized how many drawer knobs and door knobs and spigots in a shower that tubes could catch.

I think I really only did depression and acceptance in the last round after surgery.

I have reached acceptance. Let's face it. The hard part is now over. It is time to live.