How Do You Spell Relief?

Relief is not spelled R-O-L-A-I-D-S, as those of a certain age would naturally reply.  This morning, relief was spelled L-U-M-P-E-C-T-O-M-Y.

My date with the Dutchman answered some pressing questions, notably:

• biopsy three told us nothing we didn’t already know – i.e. I don’t have an invasive flavour of cancer – so, I get to skip the sentinel node biopsy, chemo and (best of all) another attempt at an MRI
• Mum’s breast cancer has no bearing on my own condition, so I get to skip genetic testing for the BRAC-1 and -2 business
• mastectomy is too aggressive for the cancer I have (yep, I asked the tough question), so I get to keep the booby

I fairly skipped out of the hospital.  Knowing exactly what I have, and how we’re going to deal with it, makes the planner in me very happy.  It lets me make checklists and critical paths, and exercise my control freak muscles.

This afternoon, relief was spelled P-U-B-L-I-C.  The emotional strain of keeping secrets is over, at long last.  (Except for Dad. I still won’t tell him ‘til after surgery.)  Now I can plan my next appointments, organize my winter work schedule, and take phone calls without having to speak in code.  It turns out, I wasn’t cut out to be James Bond.