Chapter Five

Song of the Beast

Her inception took place one hot summer day in 1980. Her delivery took months. It wasn’t a typical birth. It was more like a long drawn out C-section. The operating room was filthy and smelled of paint fumes and metal filings. It didn’t take place in a hospital, but a body shop. The doctors weren’t doctors at all, but a bunch of sweaty young guys with air chisels and hand grinders. Her mother was a 66 Chevy Impala two door hard top—and her daddy—well let’s just say the International Harvester Company put out an early vehicle that resembled the modern four wheel drive Suburban. We stripped him to the frame and left the essential ‘manly organs’ in tact, you know, the motor, transmission, transfer case and differentials. The first thing the Chevy lost was her top; she became a new sexy hard top convertible. Top-on in the winter and topless in the summer. The red tuck-and-roll bench seats were perfect for the drive-in, or a pile in. After we mated the two it looked like a monster truck on estrogen and she took a step ladder to climb aboard.
Who knows what we were thinking. Probably the same thing any twenty-one-year-old single dude would be thinking—‘babe magnet.’ Problem was, she was the babe and she drew dumb young men to her like a man magnet. We called her The Beast. She was a money pit. She had big wheels and tires, new interior, paint, computerized state of the art control center, and a soft cover for the rain.

July 13, 2010
My ‘babe’ had her first Magnetic Resonance Imaging scan today. Before the procedure, the receptionist called to schedule and asked Mary if she was closter phobic. Mary didn’t think so, but considered taking something to help her remain calm. I explained to her it wasn’t so bad. She just needed to close her eyes and relax. They gave her an IV with contrast so they could get the best result. Mary’s paternal relatives have an extensive history of cancer, so the oncologist is running the BRCA gene specific battery and taking as many extra precautions as possible.
She had to lay topless, face downward with her breasts pulled down for the scan. At first she was so tense she thought the ‘beast’ was running before it even started. However, after she put in her earplugs, it didn’t take long for Mary to relax. She said she actually fell asleep a few times. I’ve seen her fall asleep half way through a sentence before, so it didn’t surprise me.
The giant MRI starts out with a click, click, click . . . click, clunk . . . clunk . . . clunk, clunk. There’s no rime or reason to the sounds, but the monstrous machine is intimidating no matter how you look at it. Thank goodness for modern technology.
They sent us home with a CD of the inside of Mary’s breasts. And of course the first thing I did when we got home was to put it in the computer and ‘check it out.’ Sometimes I think I‘m pretty smart. Looking at the inside of someone’s body is not one of those times. Even though I know where the tumor is, I couldn’t distinguish between healthy tissue and the cancerous beast lurking inside.

I think it was our fifth or sixth date that included The Beast. It was a drive up American Fork canyon. The top was off and Mary clung tightly to the arm rest on far side of the vehicle. We were still miles apart. Had I known then what I know now about Mary; a trip in a 4x4 was not a treat. She’s never liked the instability, or the big machines. She was a good sport, it was just the distance between us I didn’t like. I’d suggested she could scoot a little closer, but she wasn’t having any part of it.
It was the nature of the gravel base, the ride, and the angle of the road that got things moving up and down—oddly enough, just on the passenger side. We were making a sharp turn on an up hill slope, where the road had been severely wash boarded. The Beast bounced, and then bounced again with a little more force. Mary began to laugh. I know that laugh now after thirty years of marriage. It is typically perpetuated by something embarrassing or something that makes her uncomfortable, but is still very funny. It’s almost contagious. By the third bounce we were both laughing and it was the force of that bounce that finally broke Mary’s vise-like grip from the passenger door’s armrest. The fourth bounce had her air borne, her arms scrambling for something to hang onto. But it was the fifth bounce than landed her precisely by my side with her arms wrapped tightly around my neck.
“There’s more than one way to scoot you close,” I chuckled.
We hiked that evening to a little place we call Silver Lake. There’s an aspen tree on the bend, just above the last steep climb of the hike, and on its east facing trunk the words are carved ‘Ken + Mary.’ I’m not quite sure how, but I had the nerve to implicate a relationship worth carving in a tree. Mary reluctantly went along with my vandals’ act and let me carve her name next to mine. She was worried the tree might suffer from the deep scar. I told her not to worry, the aspen tree is tough and vigorous and gains strength from the trees that surround it and tie their root systems to each other. It would be just fine.

July 13, 2010
We met Dr. Jennifer Tittensor this morning. Did I actually spell that right? I better check. Yep. She specializes in breast surgery. She called her staff in early so she could fit Mary into her tight schedule. Lindsey (formerly Dickenson, a daughter of one of our close neighbors) is the Dr.’s Nurse practitioner—and she’s expecting her first child in less than a month. She met with us first. Lindsey told us what a great person Dr. Tittensor has been. Just the act of bringing the staff in early told me the story, but it was even better when we heard it from a friend. We were also reminded of our neighbor who passed away just a year or two ago from breast cancer. It was disclosed that same office staff had seen her too.
There we were, Mary and Ken, sitting in a surgeon’s office, a new bend in the road of life, with a long steep climb ahead, both waiting to see how deep the carving of a breast might be. Mary was worried about the horror stories she’d heard of someone going into surgery for a lumpectomy and coming out with a mastectomy. I can only imagine the anxiety those thoughts might have created.
Mary was told to strip to the waist. I asked her if she wanted my striptease ensemble again. I got a sharp “no”. I complied. Lindsey returned and we went through the routine of health history, how long ago the lump was discovered, family history, and so on. Then we waited.
When the Dr. Tittensor arrived she immediately apologized for being late. With not much difference in height between the two women, she thrust her hand forward and vigorously shook Mary’s hand. I was next. She introduced herself and her slight accent and mannerisms reminded me a little of Holly Hunter in a much more wholesome style. Her long dark hair was pulled into a tight pony tail and I imagined her as a girl trotting around the arena on her father’s ranch in the not so distant past.
With the pleasantries in the past, the doctor methodically explained the details of what we should expect; surgery, three weeks of recovery, four months of chemotherapy, and radiation therapy. On the day of the lumpectomy she would install a portacath through her neck and down near the heart. It would be much more convenient than many needle pokes into the veins, and quite often the veins have a hard time through Chemo.
With so much information it is hard to digest it all in such a short period of time. There’s the Her2, reconstruction surgery, lymphedema, how Chemo will effect her body, and will there be a surprise mastectomy if something new is discovered during the lumpectomy?
The doctor was cordial and answered all our questions one at a time. No, there would not be any surprises. She never started a lumpectomy and then turned it into a mastectomy. She said that we were still waiting for the pathology for the last data on the Her2, if it turned out positive it would make the fight easier than if it turned out negative. Some reconstructive surgery would take place during the lumpectomy and some would be after the radiation because radiation can actually shrink the breast tissue two sizes. We would learn more after we met with the plastic surgeon.
Lymphedema is always a concern. It is desirable to leave as many of the lymph nodes intact as possible. Lymphedema takes place when the nodes are not present to remove the fluid that builds in the tissues. It causes swelling and pain. Dr. Tittensor said that she would try first to find a sentinel node, or two, and see if cancer is present. If they were clear she would leave the others intact. If not, she would take the group near the arm pit to have them examined. This is important in establishing the staging of the cancer so Chemo treatment could be decided.
Mary has been reluctant to tell her friends about this traumatic event. She doesn’t want the big C on her chest where only her breasts have been. I reminded her about the aspen tree. The roots of aspen trees interlock with each other becoming one system. Each tree gains strength from the connection to another. I know that Mary’s friends and family, neighbors and co-workers will unite with her, with us, to give her the strength she needs to help her through this heavy task.

Many years passed and one day we planned an early Saturday morning family excursion to Silver Lake. The day arrived and we loaded our daypacks and water bottles into our Ford Expedition 4X4 and headed up the canyon. We had big kids and little ones, strong young men and little girls, all helping each other as we trudged up the rugged trail. The little ones grew hot and exhausted while the men were anxious to reach the top. I remember clearly the vivid pictures of two little children hoisted onto the shoulders of their big brothers, helping hands stretched out as we each worked together to reach the top. And there, on the bend, just above the last steep climb of the hike, and on its east facing trunk, the aspen, the words still roughly visible Ken + Mary to which were added the words + Jake + Daniel + Chrissy + Austin + Kayshia + Kinley.
When we reached the top, the mountain air was crisp and cool and the water of the lake ice cold. We were at the base of timberline, the last place on the mountain peak where the trees could grow. The boys stripped to their underwear and dared take a frigid dip in the clear water. We laughed and played, told our children the story of their parents date, the night their mother was forced to sit close to dad. We shouted at the ridge tops and listened to the echoes of our voices, a time so shortly past.