March 17: My husband, Roberto (Sapo) Guajardo, and I wait until I'm called in for a CAT scan. The hospital gown is just one in a long line of cancer-related indignities.

Mamta Popat

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Drip. Drip. Drip.

In January, the spotting was so minimal, so innocuous, that for several days I ignored it, sure it was nothing.

Drip. Drip.

Two weeks later and it hadn't stopped. It hadn't increased, either, but I casually looked it up on the Internet. It could be nothing or it could be uterine cancer. My mother died of uterine cancer. Not believing it meant a thing, I called my gynecologist.

Thursday, March 2

It's been a month and a half since I started spotting — a month of that waiting for appointments, waiting for results.

After the sonogram indicated a thick endometrial lining, there was a certain relief when Dr. Martha Laird told me she wanted to do a D&C — the scraping of tissue from the uterus — and a hysteroscopy on an out-patient basis at the hospital "just in case." Today, as they prepare me for the procedure, I can't stop crying. I'm terrified.

Wednesday, March 8

They said results in 48 hours. It's been more like 148. Finally, Dr. Laird gets the results and calls. I have cancer. I pace back and forth on the patio outside the newsroom, the phone smashed to my ear as she speaks. I can't seem to catch my breath. Her voice is full of encouragement and caring.

"It's Grade 1," she says, explaining the cancer was caught very early. "This is one of the most curable forms of cancer."

I have cancer. It's the only thing that registers. There's a constant humming in my ears, as though I were trying to drown out the sound of her voice.

My option: a hysterectomy. Dr. Laird recommends a complete one. She also explains that as a gynecologist she can do the surgery, sew me up and send everything to pathology. If they find anything suspicious, they'd have to go right back in. If an oncologist does the surgery, action can be taken right then.

I hate the thought of Dr. Laird not doing the surgery, but I have cancer. I didn't think that was possible, though why I think I'd be immune is just too silly to consider. Mom died of uterine cancer, for God's sake. My brother Dean died of cancer. My grandfather died of cancer. Why would I be exempt?

Tucson has the world-renowned Arizona Cancer Center. It accepts my insurance; Dr. Laird doesn't. The decision is made.

But first, I have to tell my husband, tell my sisters, my brothers. I try to call Sapo, but he's not answering his cell. I call sisters Betsy, Ellen, Patti, Barbara and Nancy. No one's answering. Michael's not home, Peter's not at his office, Bill's in court. Finally, Barbara answers. "I have cancer," I say and begin to sob. This sister, the baby in my family of 10, immediately takes charge. And her voice comes through with authority and compassion. She'll call the others. She'll be at my house tonight. She'll make dinner. She'll take care of me.

I try Sapo again. I don't know why I feel compelled to tell him over the phone. I just have to tell him quickly. Maybe I think saying the words "I have cancer" will take all the power out of it. He answers and I tell him. "Come home," he says.

Later, he sobs. I ache for him.

Word has spread and I'm on the phone almost constantly. Michael, Barbara and her children come over while Sapo's at the theater.

I do not want to be alone with my thoughts. I don't want to think about what I know I have to think about: healing, changing my lifestyle, changing my life, being a person who has cancer.

My sister gives me a light sleeping pill, but I wake up about 3 a.m. sobbing. Sapo wakes, too, and holds me.

Thursday, March 9

Dr. Molly Brewer will be my doctor at the cancer center, but she can't see me for a week. I take the appointment and vow to check for cancellations every morning.

Monday, March 12

Today has been a tough day. A friend says she knows someone who is a 26-year survivor of uterine cancer, and it hits me: I am now a person with cancer. That's my identity. I'm not a sister, writer, wife, aunt, independent woman. I am a cancer victim (I hate that word). And, hopefully, a cancer survivor (oh how I hate that term, too). The realization is paralyzing.

My emotions, which are right under the surface, just pour out of me. I cry when I can't staple two pieces of paper together, cry when someone asks, "How are you?" I think it best I get in touch with a counselor.

Thursday, March 16

My first appointment with Dr. Brewer. Last night I was bombarded with vivid dreams. Most were of doctors saying I had to wait to have the cancer cut out. Or that I'm not that sick. You'd think I'd be happy with the last one. Instead, oddly, I fear that people would stop loving me if I was well.

Dr. Brewer's tall and holds herself with an elegance and confidence, but lacks arrogance. Completely approachable. She asks for questions, then answers them in ways I can understand. She is happy to have Barbara there, and welcomes her questions, too.

"I have many siblings," I warn. "Good, good," she said. "Family is important."

Surgery, we hope, on Monday. That way, Sapo, in the middle of a play at Arizona Theatre Company, can be there. If we can't get an operating room, it won't be until a week from Tuesday, as Dr. Brewer will be out of town. So will Sapo, in Phoenix doing the play.

Dr. Brewer thinks she can do the surgery arthoscopically and vaginally. That would be a relief — a quicker recovery than if they have to slice open my abdominal wall.

Friday, March 17

A CAT scan this morning. "I don't like surprises," Dr. Brewer explained. That's a little ominous.

To get the full picture of my body, they make me drink a thick concoction dubbed "Contrast" before I go in. "It tastes like a banana milkshake," the doctor said, trying to sound convincing. It does not taste like a banana milkshake. It's just foul. Then, right before the scan, they stick a needle in my vein and flow iodine through my system. It's warm and very strange; I feel it rush through my veins, especially in the pelvic area. Creepy.

Later, I call Anna, the surgery scheduler, to see if Monday is a go.

"No," she says. "I'm sorry." I begin to sob. Again. "My husband leaves town after next week," I try to explain. "He has to be there."

An hour later, big-hearted Anna calls to say surgery has been scheduled for Monday. I am so grateful.

Late today, I stop in for pre-op stuff. Blood. Urine. Drink this; it'll clean your bowels. No solid food after midnight Saturday. Here's what to expect with anesthesia. So much information. I listen, nod my head as though I understand, but it seems as though they are talking to someone other than me. I feel joyfully disconnected from this woman with cancer who's about to have her reproductive organs sliced out of her body.

Saturday, March 18

It's my birthday today. I'm 58. A year younger than when Dean died. Fourteen years younger than when Mom died.

Family converges on Tucson to celebrate my birthday. What joy, what happiness, to be surrounded by those I love.

Monday, March 20

I go to the hospital optimistic, and the minute the IV is stuck — painfully — into my hand, I begin to sob and I can't stop. Two hours in pre-op with warm blankets and visits from doctors gently explaining what to expect. And I sob and sob and can't let go of Sapo's hand.

I am so very frightened. What if the cancer hasn't really been caught early? What if the lymph nodes are involved? What if I die on the operating table? And my uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes — they are all going. I don't know what that means to my system. To my life.

I'm wheeled into the operating room. It's crowded with stuff, and everything is covered in plastic, sort of like my friend's childhood home in Brooklyn. A mask is put over my face, all the while someone explains what's happening. And then I am gone.

Later this evening, I'm in my room, full of flowers and family and an exhausted Sapo. I weave in and out of consciousness as a morphine drip keeps me pain-free and in a dreamy state. Dr. Brewer comes by. She thinks the cancer is all gone. Everything went beautifully. But, she warns, the biopsy will confirm what she suspects. I'll know in a few weeks.

Sapo said he almost passed out when she told him.

Tuesday, March 21

Last night was one of lights on and off, morphine drips, "vitals" taken, and my niece Natasha staying with me in case I need something.

The catheter is finally taken out. If I can urinate on my own, I can go home. It's tough. Finally, I can go. I can barely stop. That is the final test to let me head to my own bed. I'm bloated, gassy, and I hurt. I hold my belly whenever I stand. But it looks as though I'm cancer free and I'm going home. Life never seemed so good.

Now, the hard work begins: My life must change. I have been given my health back; now I have to cherish it.

Friday, March 24

Barbara has made dinner every night this week while Sapo is out doing the play. Pampered by her, by her children.

My belly hurts, but I'm getting bored with this "take-it-easy" stuff. I want to walk. Run. Ride a bike.

Saturday, April 1

Lots of short walks around the block. And I'm off the pain pills. While my belly is tender and my energy low, I'm feeling better and better.

Sapo's in Phoenix and Ellen has taken a week off from her teaching job to care for me.

Monday, April 3

I sweat. Morning, noon, night, for no reason at all, without the slightest notice, sweat pours out of me. My face turns red. My clothes stick to me. It trickles into the folds of my skin. No estrogen in my system now, and my system is burning with protest. Ugh.

Friday, April 7

Just back from my post-op visit with Dr. Brewer. The best news possible: They got all the cancer, a not particularly aggressive form of uterine cancer. No follow-up treatment. No every-three-month visits to the doctors. I feel so giddy I insist on hugging her.

But the stitches haven't quite healed, so no sex for three more weeks. When the time comes maybe, just maybe, I might have a libido again. If not, I can go on low doses of estrogen.

And she definitely wants me to get genetic testing. With a grandfather, mother and brother who died of cancer, I — and my siblings — may be likely candidates for other cancers.

Meanwhile, diet is important. And exercise, Brewer says.

But for right now, this moment, I'm going to revel in the glorious realization that I don't have cancer anymore. I'm free of that paralyzing burden.

Monday, April 10

Got my statement from insurance today. The hospital bill — just the hospital bill alone, which doesn't include the doctor or the anesthesiologist, tests and X-rays — is a little more than $18,000. Eighteen thousand dollars for a one-night stay. Insurance negotiated that down to $600. Six hundred dollars. There's something wrong on both ends of this.

I add up all the bills since January. The cancer has cost almost $34,000. I have paid out about $6,000, and more than half of that was not applied to my $4,000 deductible because — well, who knows why insurance companies make the decisions they do? Asking for explanations or clarification only confuses more.

Still, I'm lucky: I have insurance.

Tuesday, April 18

Oh, my aching thighs.

Started with the trainer yesterday, courtesy of my brothers and sisters. A much-needed "get well" gift: a year's membership to a health club and time with a personal trainer. He seems as determined as I am that I drop weight, get in shape and feel good about myself again.

Friday, April 21

Met with the nutritionist and her advice was shockingly simple: Be moderate in whatever you eat. Plant-based foods are best. Eat fruits and veggies. I don't have to abandon the steaks I love; they just can't be part of my regular diet.

Sunday, April 23

Funny, I had expected great profundities to come out of having cancer. But my thoughts are consumed with moving without pain, eating right, paying bills, staying healthy. It's very mundane, really.

Thursday, April 27

Had blood drawn today to see if my cancer is genetic; if so, it'll alert me to be on watch for other types of cancers. If it is in my DNA, genetic counselor Jessica Ray says there's a 50 percent chance my brothers and sisters are susceptible, too. I'll know in about four weeks, providing the insurance company will cover the nearly $2,000 cost.

Back to work Monday. Eager to get my life back to normal. Too much worry, too much relief, too much reflection. Just all-around too much.

Monday, May 1

Life returns to normal so quickly. I'm busy at work; I get to forget I had cancer. Had being the operative word here.

Friday, May 5

A follow-up visit with Dr. Brewer. She's giving me estrogen and says it'll help with hot flashes, moods and my sex drive. She tells me I'm healing well, looking good and doing the right things. She tells me I'm well. Not sick. Healthy. Cancer-free. I want to keep her in this small room at the Cancer Center and have her repeat it over and over: "You don't have cancer anymore."

Monday, June 12

Insurance won't cover the costs of the genetic test. It seems I have all the criteria necessary but one: a close relative younger than 50 who has had cancer. I'm already struggling with bills the insurance didn't cover; I can't afford to pay for the test. My option is to pay attention to my body, which I would be doing anyway.

Monday, July 31

I've coasted through the last few months feeling free. Then, last week, I was gripped with a fear that I was going to die. Soon. I became obsessed with planning trips and activities I've always wanted to do.

I realized quickly what I was doing and talked the fear down.

But I suspect I'll always be haunted by the specter of cancer. When my head aches, stomach hurts, back throbs, will I wonder, "Is this cancer or just everyday aches and pains?"

I don't want to forget, however, what Sereta Robinson said to me when I went for counseling in April. I was searching for what I'm supposed to take away with me. What's the lesson in having cancer and surviving it?

The answer is in you, she insisted. We talked, we laughed, we did guided imagery, and this is what I came away with:

Be present, be focused, be joyful, be kind. Live.

Life's Turning Points