Member-only story
The Letter That Had to Be Written
It was a club I didn’t want to belong to but had been forced to join. We sat in the waiting room, half of us distinguished by the one thing the others didn’t have; a large safety pin affixed to our shirt or blouse, holding our surgical drain in place. It was the “haves” and the “have-nots” and I was not pleased to be on what I considered to be the wrong side of this equation.
It had started with a mammogram that led to an ultrasound and on to a biopsy. This was the third doctor in a week and when I awoke from the anesthesia it was this man who announced that I had Stage 3 cancer that was moving aggressively through my right breast. I didn’t say a word as a nurse adjusted the bed so I could sit upright and a man brought me a small ham sandwich and a plastic container of apple juice.
The doctor’s name was Daniel Weingrad and he was very bossy. I told him that I didn’t even live in Florida and before I could tell him I had just gone through Hurricane Andrew and needed to return to California where I really lived he interrupted.
“This cancer is aggressive and you must have surgery this week. It’s the best chance we have to save your life.”
He was quite dramatic and he got his way. I had a radical mastectomy and even some of my chest muscles had to be removed. The next two weeks were a blur and I’m not sure how I…
