Part Two - Blue Suitcase

As Airport Man begins his journey home, I begin a journey of my own.                                                        

I book an appointment with a local orthopedic and after examing the small lump on my left, upper arm - just below my shoulder - he orders an MRI. Two days later the MRI shows two masses. One is labeled a "benign or malignant mesenchymal tumor," and the other a benign vascular tumor. Tissue sampling is recommended and an excisional biopsy is scheduled at my local hospital the following week.

A PET scan is also ordered. During a PET scan (positron emission tomography), radioactive glucose is injected into a vein. Because cancer cells take up more glucose than normal cells, a scanner is used to take pictures of areas where glucose is absorbed - highlighting cancer cells in the body. 

In between all this, I continue my connection with Airport Man, determined not to discuss anything about my health concerns. But there is more in play than just another cancer scare. After listening to my angst around dating again, a friend recommends I read the New York Times bestselling book, Attached - the science behind adult attachment. The book breaks it down into three categories - anxious, avoidant, and secure. I devour the chapters dedicated to anxious attachment, and for the first time in my adult life, realize I am not "boy crazy," obsessed, or insecure,  I am simply acting out patterns I learned as a child. 

During one of our many lengthy conversations, I confess my new self-awareness to Airport Man and everything about "us" feels lighter. I also have a skill set to work from and recognize my heightened anxiety before I react. Previously, I would often end a relationship the minute I felt I was losing control.  

When I finally find the courage to confess my health concerns,  Airport Man states with the perfect balance of empathy and conviction, "Try not to worry, we are in this together."

We.

"We" are strangers who met a month ago and have spent only four whimsical days enamored with the nuances of each other. 

Airport Man likes to read an actual newspaper and do crossword puzzles. I am obsessed with Tiktok. He likes socks. Socks are practical and fashionable. He has a large collection of socks. I like to mix colors together when getting a pedicure. His speech is reserved and proper. I am boisterous and outspoken. He keeps his personal life private. I live mine out loud. Music is important to Airport Man. This is where we click. And cooking. He likes to cook. We cook well together. He prides himself on being the fittest man in the room. He is by far the fittest man I have ever had the pleasure of undressing. His hair is thick. His rich, olive skin is tan - highlighted by my fair complexion. Our differences are vast but what draws me in is so subtle. His scent. His laugh. The touch of his hand. The stride of his step. He pauses before he speaks and he means what he says. And when he pulls me close, then tenderly bites my bottom lip, I am sweetened and electrified.

The morning of the procedure, Airport Man wishes me well. 

During the biopsy, I am given a mild dose of sedation known as twilight anesthesia and am surprised to hear the thump and feel the pressure of 5 punctures. The radiologist's nurse explained that I would have an excisional biopsy - which removes the entire mass. Instead, I am given a core needle biopsy, where a hollow needle removes only samples of the tumor.

After the biopsy, I text Airport Man, 

All done. about to be discharged.

How are you feeling? he asks.

Ok...sleepy. mild pain.

And then Airport Man goes silent. From the beginning, we develop a pattern of texting each other goodnight and good morning. Both my good morning and goodnight texts go unanswered, It is almost 48 hours before I hear from him again. 

This is incredibly triggering. At first, I worry he is dead, then I worry it was too much for him, then I worry how to respond. Everything I learned in the book, Attached, goes out the window. 

In a late-night call, with the courage of a well-poured glass of wine, I tell him how his lack of contact after my biopsy triggers me. He is compassionate and apologetic. I am confused.

I discuss the situation with anyone who will listen. No one has a logical explanation for his disconnect. My daughter tells me to stop relying on him and reminds me that I don't even know him.

The day before my PET scan appointment, the oncologist's office calls to tell me my insurance denied the scan and when I push for more information the nurse unwillingly tells me I have cancer. 

I have cancer. AGAIN. 

I march straight to the hospital records department and obtain a copy of my biopsy report. To my disbelief, it reads, sarcomatoid malignant neoplasm. By definition, sarcomatoid carcinoma is a rare, aggressive cancer that spreads fast and is difficult to treat.

For those of you not keeping score, this is my 7th primary cancer. Primary means each cancer is its own, not one cancer that has spread to other parts of my body. In order, I have been diagnosed with melanoma (left side of upper back), breast cancer (right), breast cancer (left), melanoma (left side of lower neck), rectal cancer, (low-level tumor) melanoma (left side of chest), and now, a soft tissue sarcoma. Soft tissue includes muscle, fat, blood vessels, nerves, tendons, and the lining of the joints.

With pathology in hand, I begin the laboring task of shopping out my cancer. As bizarre as this sounds, when dealing with cancer, especially something as rare as a sarcoma, you have to find the best of the best and you have to find them fast. Until I have a plan in place, knowing where and what treatment will take place, I am consumed with fear. Simple tasks are laboring and focusing on anything other than cancer is impossible. 

I research soft tissue sarcoma specialists and reach out to Johns Hopkins, Dana Farber, Memorial Sloan-Kettering and Mayo Clinic. I schedule a PET scan at Johns Hopkins. It is a hospital I trust and know well. This is where I received cutting-edge treatment for my rectal cancer. I also schedule a meeting with a sarcoma surgeon at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. 

Before either of these appointments, I have a scheduled trip to New Orleans to attend the first week of Jazz Festival with my must-haves, the women I cling to in times of sorrow or joy.  

Days before I leave for NOLA, Airport Man arrives for our second playdate. This time he arrives knowing I have cancer, again.

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