The radiologist wouldn't look at me. Instead she focused her gaze on the films in front of us. "This -- this part right here." She was pointing to a grayish-white area in a sea of more varying shades of gray and white. I saw it, but didn't totally understand what I was seeing. "This is worrisome and suspicious to me." She repeated that phrase, "worrisome and suspicious" at least three times during the appointment. And yet, for some reason I left feeling neither worried or suspicious.
Worrisome was a getting a parking ticket. Or forgetting your mom's birthday. Or missing a deadline. It wasn't a cancer diagnosis.
Suspicious was feeling like your colleague who called in sick was actually making powder turns in Tahoe. Or that your client that promised the "check is in the mail" might have forgotten to pay you. It didn't indicate to me that my life was about to change. Radically.
But apparently, "worrisome and suspicious" turned into "terrifying and life-threatening" because about 10 days after that fateful ultrasound, I got the news that I had cancer.
It's with this deceptive ambiguity in mind that as I approach my fifth "cancerversary" (see below) I figured a quick Cancer Glossary might be helpful not only to cancer patients, but to those who know someone with cancer. (And let's face it -- that's pretty much everyone in this day and age.)
Cancerversary: There's some debate as to whether this date represents your date of diagnosis or the date upon which you became "cancer-free." I choose to say my cancerversary is Feb. 1, 2007, which is the date on which I was driving home and got a call on my cell at 6 p.m. saying that the parts of the scan that were "worrisome and suspicious" were in fact, cancer.
Inscanity: Every cancer patient knows inscanity. Tests are ordered, MRIs scheduled, CT scans are performed. And the time between the test and when you receive the results, when you worry and imagine the worst, is inscanity. Having just scheduled a follow-up ultrasound for what is very likely just scar tissue, I understand inscanity.
NED: I can't claim to know about other cancers, but in the breast cancer world, many of us describe our current state when we finish treatment and all scans are clear as "No Evidence of Disease," or NED. I've seen more than one happy post on the BC forums after a clear scan titled, "Sleeping with NED!" We hope, in fact, that NED gets around.
Why don't we just say "cured" or "in remission"? Well, it may seem nuanced, but the difference is critical. In additional to being medically inaccurate, saying one is "cured" after cancer just seems to test fate in a way that is arrogant and dangerous. (That's my gut talking, not my head. I know that what I say doesn't actually change my medical status.) "Remission," meanwhile, seems to imply that the disease is potentially present but being held in check for a period of time TBD. Neither of these accurately describes the trajectory of breast cancer and many other cancers, when a recurrence can happen decades after diagnosis, and vice versa, women have remained cancer-free and clear for many decades beyond that initial "cancerversary."
Foobs: This one is just what it sounds like. Fake boobs. I've heard (and used) this one so many times you'd think you could look it up in Gray's Anatomy (the reference book, not the show, though I think a story line around Foobs would fit the series well). After reconstruction, many women end up with breasts that look remarkably similar to what they started out with. Others end up with breasts that look almost nothing like what they started with, for better or for worse. Foobs feels particular appropriate in those cases. I'm in that camp.
Chemopause: In many cases, the treatment for breast cancer can be as physically taxing (if not more) than the cancer itself. One of the many fantastic (sarcasm is so hard to convey in writing) side effects of cocktails such as Adriamycin/Cytoxin/Taxol is early temporary or permanent menopause. And when it comes on all at once instead of gradually over time, the side effects are not only intense but surprising. When you're wearing a wig, it's August, and a hot flash has you wiping the sweat off your brow in the middle of a meeting, tempting you to tear off the wig and toss it in the wind (or worse yet, at your nearest colleague), you know you're probably in Chemopause.
I guess since we're members of a club we never wanted to join, we deserve to have our own secret language, full of inside jokes and code words. Or maybe it's simply because there are literally no words in the dictionary to describe some of the unique experiences that come along with a cancer diagnosis in this modern age. Either way, a Cancer Glossary seems as relevant to me as an Urban Dictionary.
These are just a few. Please feel free to add your own. I'm sure I've forgotten some. I blame it on "Chemobrain"...