I could write about the last few days, but I can feel the yawn stretching across my face as I recount the hours of staring at a flashing curser, re-writing Chapter 3 of my book, and recovering from a head cold. So, instead, let’s get in our time machine (cue music from ‘Back to the Future’) and rewind the clock by a year.

I lie on the crinkly paper of the exam room table and wince as the nurse gently asks me to lift my arm behind my head. She passes my surgeon a 60 cc syringe and I turn my gaze so that I can’t see them analyzing and draining the grapefruit-size baby from my armpit. My lymph system went into overdrive when Dr. C removed some of its troops during my recent surgery. So, for the third time in a week, I am back at the Cancer Agency in search of some relief.

To distract me from my procedure, the surgeon tells me about the positive pathology report that just landed on her desk. She informs me that she removed the tumour with clean margins, which means that she got it all. My grimace turns into a smile. No more cancer. I can go back to work and get on with my life!

Then the nurse pipes up with what she thinks is more good news. Dr P (who has followed me for years through the hereditary cancer program) just referred me to the best breast cancer oncologist in Vancouver. I stare at her blankly. Why the f*@k do I need an oncologist?

My voice squeaks. ‘But I thought I wouldn’t need chemo if you got all the cancer and the tumor measured under half a centimetre.’

My sweet nurse looks back hesitantly and her speech picks up speed. She promises to have Dr. P call me as soon as possible and then tosses out words like your age, the aggressiveness of your tumour, and your genetic pre-disposition. All I hear is CHEMOTHERAPY.

I whisper a quiet thank you and slide my mask tightly into place. I don’t want her to see the devastation underneath. Chemo means that I have to admit that I’m sick. Chemo patients throw up, lose their hair and have skin that takes on a blue green hue. I don’t want to see that person every time I walk by a mirror.

I hide behind my mask for the rest of the appointment while I ask about their holiday plans and joke about naming my armpit baby if she comes back for a fourth visit. I don’t take off my mask until I get in the car. Then, I sit in the parking lot, look at my hair in the rearview mirror, and sob until only a dull ache remains.

This morning, as I lay in bed, I thought about the masks that most of us keep close by. Why do I hide behind mine? What is so terrible about showing vulnerability?

In some ways, this blog has allowed me to hang my mask back up and show you what is underneath (at least some of the time). I realize that even though you may not have experienced cancer, you can probably relate to the emotions of a year ago. It seems to me like fear is universal…

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