Well, the waiting was finally over. On November 22, 2013, I finally had my first appointment at Dana-Farber.

It wasn’t easy getting that appointment. It required a myriad of calls to insurance companies, the nurse manager at the health clinic, and Dana-Farber.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I knew I’d be meeting with the breast surgeon and the oncologist. I figured it’d be a couple of hours. I would learn exactly what was going on. The appointment was more of a whirlwind of meeting including the surgeon, oncologist, nurses, research coordinator, and genetic counselor. I learned a plethora of information but no real particulars since the pathology on my biopsy samples were not complete and genetic testing was needed to determine treatment.

Before the appointment, still in some denial, I was in the hoping for the best mode. I figured I would definitely have to have a lumpectomy and maybe, some radiation. It came as a shock to me that my tumor was considered too large to be removed via lumpectomy.

Instead, choice #1 was to start with chemo to see if the tumor shrinks enough for a lumpectomy, if not, mastectomy it is followed by radiation and lastly, hormone therapy. Choice #2 was to start with a mastectomy, then chemo followed by radiation and top it off with hormone therapy.

I wouldn’t know about the exact type of chemo until the pathology of my biopsy sample and the BRCA 1, BRCA2 genetic testing were complete. The genetic testing was an extra fun waiting game added on. If the test is positive, your risk for cancer in the other, unaffected breast goes way up along with your risk for ovarian cancer. It means that you have to make a decision on whether to do a bilateral mastectomy, followed by another whooper of a decision on whether to have an oophorectomy before you turn 40. Talk about a shit sandwich.

So after an incredibly long appointment, you just realize how much getting cancer sucks. It’s great that we live in a world and a country in which you have options. This is great because you get to do the whole staying alive bit.

But, you soon realize cancer treatment is really a matter of choosing the least shitty option. Because your life and your body as you knew it is not going to be the same. Neither are you.

I decided to go the chemo first route. I figured it would be nice to see if lumpectomy could still be an option.

So, I would have to wait, you got it, another two weeks. At the end of the two weeks, I would have to do the scans and tests to make sure the cancer hasn’t spread past my lymph nodes. The day after those tests I would find out the results of the genetic test and what type of chemo I would be getting.

In the meantime, because chemo does a number on your ovaries and I haven’t had children yet. The next step is meeting with a infertility specialist. Hooray for more appointments.

You would think after being diagnosed with breast cancer. You would be immediately thrown into a whirlwind of appointments. Maybe picture a super-dramatic meeting with a doctor whose awe-inspiring words include “we’re going to save your life damn it.” You know something like the spanish telenovelas I grew up watching. Noppppe. That didn’t happen in my case at all.

Instead, I felt like I was waiting in a two week line for a kiddie roller coaster. A long line for a ride you don’t want to be on.

Even though, at that point, I knew I had breast cancer. I had no other information. I didn’t know what stage or how bad it was. I tried to refrain from using the information trove of the Internet. I figured the only thing it was going to do was scare the shit out of me. It’s usually you have a cold or cancer. Since I already had cancer, I figured the only other thing I’d found out is that I’m dead. Sooo yeah, I didn’t want to spend two weeks shitting a brick.

What I found interesting is that in those two weeks, despite not knowing what’s going on or having any treatment underway, it was easy to fall back into a false sense of what life before cancer was like.

Even in those two weeks, the time I had to spend telling people I had cancer; for the folks I did tell, I felt like I was dissociating myself from the self that has cancer. It’s difficult telling anyone you have cancer. It makes it more real. It bums the other person out. It also feels like hey, everyone, look at me. I want attention; I have cancer. Followed by the holy crap, I have cancer. What the hell. I can’t believe this. It’s a merry-go-round of the stages of grief.

As much as not knowing or being in treatment isn’t great, those two weeks didn’t suck as much as they could have. The seemingly endless doctor appointments, tests and scans were about to start.