My One Night Stand With Cancer

The Breast Clinic. I’m here to get a small lump checked out.
I’m a little
nervous. I didn’t anticipate being nervous. It’s not my first trip to the Breast Clinic,
and when I’m nervous, I tend to pretend I’m somebody else, somebody less nervous
than me- like a politician, or a therapist, or a… rock star. Today I’m a rock star. I sign
in verbally while asserting my new persona. “What up? Tania Katan in the house.”
It’s working. I’m cool again.
Maria, the young receptionist, looks at me like maybe she has something
stuck in her throat. She hands me a clipboard worth of paper and instructs me to fill
out all the forms.
Name: Tania Katan
Age: 30
(Other info, such as address and phone numbers, have been omitted due to the high
volume of groupies trying to get a piece of me.)
Have you ever had breast cancer? Yes
If “yes”, at what age? 21
Did you have surgery? Yes, a modified radical mastectomy
If “yes”, did you have reconstructive surgery? No, I opted for tattoo surgery
performed by Stag, the Venice Beach artist. Blue Shield didn’t cover that.
Why are you here today? I found a lump in my remaining breast.
INTRO: When Tania Katan was 21 years old, she was diagnosed with stage-3 breast
cancer. She survived, minus a breast. Exactly ten years later, it happened all over
again. With a sense of humor forged by the unthinkable, Tania navigates, once again,
through a world filled with doctors, chemotherapy, and support groups, in My One
Night Stand with Cancer, by Tania Katan.
I’m sitting at my less-than-desirable job at Print-O-Rama thinking of ways to

quit. Every day for the past 110 days I’ve had thoughts of going to lunch and never
coming back. But weighty realities like having health insurance force me to
reevaluate my position.
When I was twenty-one I had health insurance. When I was twenty-one I was
diagnosed with breast cancer. One might draw the conclusion that health insurance
equals cancer. For more than nine years I’ve been cancer-free, as well as health
insurance-free, and I’ve been fine. Maybe it’s OK to quit today. But I’ll wait until I get
my biopsy results from the Breast Clinic.
The phone rings. “Hello, Print-O-Rama, where we say “Four colors, four
presses, four reasons to give us your business.’ “ Actually, that’s only two reasons,
but my boss won’t let me change it.
“Hello, may I speak with Tania Katan?”
“Uh, this is Tania Katan.”
“This is Dr. Milkin.”
My primary care physician? Does she need four-color printing? I’m having
difficulty breathing. See, the only time doctors have called me in the past was when
they were delivering bad news.
“Well Miss Katan…” Thick mist oozes from the phone. I’m stuck in smog,
choking. “At least it’s a small malignancy. If you need anything, feel free to call me.”
I hang up the phone. This can’t be happening. Lightning NEVER strikes twice
in the same place, right? Health insurance does equal cancer – wish that theory of
mine could have stayed a theory.
I find my father Elliot, sitting at his makeshift desk – a card table – when I
arrive home from work. How do I tell him I have cancer again? Aren’t there any
singing telegrams for this kind of news? Singing mammograms? Maybe I don’t have
to tell him – not until I go bald and he starts asking questions.
“Dad, umm… So last week I found this lump in my breast. I went to the doctor
to have it checked out and it looks like I’ve got cancer again. Crazy, huh? Who would
have thunk it? So, how are you doing? How’s work?” I want him to say something,
but he’s a man of few words. He takes my right hand and squeezes it tightly.
My mom blackmails me to come to a support group meeting, telling me that
she would give me a surprise if I came. SURPRISE: She gave me nothing. She felt like
a support group would be good for both of us. Me, I’m not so sure.
A middle-aged woman stands up. “Hi, my name is Cindy. I’m thirty-four years
old and I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. Is it my imagination, or
are women getting breast cancer younger and younger? I even heard of a woman as
young as twenty-six being diagnosed.”
This announcement produces a concerned gasp from the audience, followed
by loud whispering. I can see my mother get excited, full of sensationalism and
pride, like she’s got her very own People magazine story sitting right next to her.
“Mom, don’t even think about-“ She’s up.
“Well my daughter had breast cancer when she was twenty-one years old.
She had a mastectomy and everything.”
The mob of middle-aged women manages to push me to my feet so that I can
offer some insight. “Hello, my name is Tania Katan, and like my mother told you, I
have breast cancer. And I had breast cancer. I’m missing a boob, so I am qualified to
be here.” The women go nuts, raising their hands. I am the president of the United
States holding a press conference.
“I can’t believe that a twenty one year old had breast cancer! Where did you
grow up?”
“In a microwave. Next question.”
“Does your family have a history?”
“A long one, thank you for asking. Next question.”
“How did you know?”
“Well, once the lump exceeded the size of a golf ball, I thought, Maybe
something’s wrong.”
The woman in charge of ceremonies saves me from the lions. She ushers the
ladies to leave the room, to leave me alone.
Dr. Moore, my oncologist, doesn’t even open my chart. He starts rattling off
what appears to be a previously unrehearsed monologue. “We’re going to treat this
cancer aggressively.” I almost expect to hear prerecorded cheers and laughter. “So
what we’re going to do is blast the cancer with Cytoxan and Adriamycin. Adriamycin
is one fierce chemical. You’ll definitely lose all of your hair.”
My hair? Last time I lost some hair, not all; there’s a big psychological
difference. No matter how many times, just for fun, I’ve said in my head, I wonder
what I’d look like bald? I didn’t really mean it. If I have some hair on my head, then
I’ll look like I just have thin hair, but If I’m bald, then I’m just a young woman with
cancer.
Here’s how the first three weeks after my first chemotherapy go: During the
first week I find it difficult to smile, not based on any internal turmoil or feelings of
unhappiness, but based solely on the fact that I have no motor skills. Most of the
time my body is fatigued and my mind is foggy. Although I write in my journal
incessantly, I fear that it is all incoherent. I have a strong desire to start a Chemo
Brain Exchange Program, where people who are going through chemotherapy can
temporarily exchange brains with healthy, clear-minded folks.
But after the first week I start to feel more like a human being. Mom and I
take short walks to the beach, where we talk about the future and dying and how
much we love each other and other stuff that I can’t remember because
chemotherapy strips you of your memory. Dad and I shoot a few games of pool, and
even in my weakened condition, I kick his butt.
For my last chemotherapy treatment, I could barely walk up the eight or so
steps without breaking into a sweat. But I feel like I’ve arrived somewhere. And I
feel like I’ve only completed the first leg of this long journey. The twenty-one-to-
thirty-one leg. The growing years? The cancer years? What’s next?
Cancer has a funny way of leaving as quietly as it arrived. We move on with
our lives, and things appear to be the same as they were before the cancer. Except
for the differences. Now my family hugs each other all the time. And when my father
squeezes my hand, he’s hard-pressed to let go. And at thirty-three years old, when I
go out of town I call my mother to let her know I’ve arrived safely at my destination.
When I hear that a friend of a friend has been diagnosed with breast cancer, I offer
to listen. I guess what I’ve figured out is that life is precious and temporary, so
there’s no need to pretend to be someone other than who you are.

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The Breast Clinic. I’m here to get a small lump checked out.

I’m sitting at my less-than-desirable job at Print-O-Rama thinking of ways to

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