Dear Tiny Lump,
Oh how I wish I had a time machine. That last conversation with Dickie still really hurts, even if I was the one doing all the hurting. Nothing feels more final than the wrong words spoken in the heat of a moment. No wonder James 3 speaks so boldly about taming the tongue. It tells us that the tongue is small, but it boasts greatly (v.5), that it is a fire and a world of evil, defiling the whole body (v.6), set on fire by hell itself, and full of deadly poison (v.7). And then it declares plainly: taming the tongue is impossible.
Tiny Lump, the problem of the tongue – and the heart – can’t be solved by willpower alone. It takes the resurrected power of Christ within us to master the tongue, and that power only comes to those who hand their lives over to Him (Romans 8:10–14). With man, it is impossible. But with God? All things are possible (Matthew 19:26).
There’s only One who can take control of the tongue. When His Spirit lives in us, He convicts us when our lips betray us. And in that conviction, we turn, we repent, we cling tighter to Him. Slowly, He takes more ground – even over our unruly tongues.
But more on that a little later…
We’re back from Paris. The drive home was awkward – just the two of us in the car, still navigating the tension of our last conversation. But we made it. We survived.
Reflecting on those discussions, I realised something: if I think I’m burnt out, then it’s probably time to do something about it. No one’s going to book me off work just because I tell them I’m overwhelmed. I need to take more decisive action.
After some Googling, I found a Burnout Clinic in Amsterdam. They offer a free online test. Here’s what I got back:
“Thank you for completing the Burnout Test from Burn Out Poli.
As you may recognise yourself, Marlene, you are currently reporting too many stress-related symptoms. We recognise a serious build-up of chronic stress that leads to burnout – a pattern that is becoming risky.
You can prevent this, Marlene, by immediately pacing your energy and daily activities. This requires mental, emotional, and physical awareness under the guidance of a specialised coach.”
Finally! Someone who gets it. I signed up for a callback to schedule an intake. I don’t know if it’s too late to save my health – or my marriage – but I know that I need to change before anything else can.
Good news: I managed to get a GP appointment at 8am. She did a full physical, asked the usual health history questions, including breast cancer in the family. Based on everything, she’s referring me to the hospital (just to be thorough) for a breast ultrasound – or likely a mammogram, since I’m over 30 and apparently that’s the norm due to breast density. The radiologist will decide.
Honestly, I still don’t know how serious any of this is. But it looks like we’ll be meeting face-to-face soon, Tiny Lump. No more hiding. The GP is being thorough, and I just want confirmation that you’re nothing – so I can move on and focus on healing from burnout.
Later that day, the burnout clinic called back! I have my intake scheduled for 10 June at 13:00 in Amsterdam. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe again. Help is finally on the way.
Just before 11am, the hospital called. I’ve got a mammogram booked for tomorrow at – you guessed it – 11am. Apparently I can take two paracetamols before the appointment. To help with the pain. Yay.
Tiny Lump, I don’t think you’re going to love all this attention.
Do you even know what a mammogram is? I sure don’t. I know my mom gets them yearly and always says they hurt. But I’m sure it’ll be fine.
In the meantime, I’ve got the May month-end close at work. Honestly, all this medical stuff feels like an inconvenience. And I’m convincing myself tomorrow won’t bring any bad news anyway. More important to focus on what I can control. I’ll watch a few mammogram videos on YouTube tonight and prep myself.
Sleep tight, Tiny Lump. Your days are numbered.
11am is my appointment. But Toothless needs to be at the vet at 1pm. We figured Dickie should drop me off at the hospital while he takes Toothless. I’ll take the bus home. That way, no rushing. No pressure. Just a quick in-and-out.
Ignorance is bliss. Isn’t that what they say?
I’m sitting in the waiting area, right across from the mammogram room. It’s oddly peaceful here. A friendly nurse steps out and calls my name. Mrs Logchies. I stand up. Let’s do this. Four months since I first felt you, Tiny Lump. Now we find out what you are.
The mammogram wasn’t too bad. Thanks, pain meds. You seemed to “enjoy” the hug of the machine, Tiny Lump. Maybe you’re happy to finally be seen?
Afterwards, the nurse tells me the radiologist will check the scans and call me back if they want an ultrasound.
They call me back within five minutes.
That’s fast. Good sign? Bad sign?
They want to do an ultrasound too.
Back in a gown. On the table. Gel on skin. Radiologist enters. No small talk. Just silence. Click. Click. Click. Snapshot after snapshot. It feels like thirty minutes. It was maybe three.
Then she stops.
“I am really concerned and uneasy about what I’m seeing. I would like to do a biopsy. Of the breast and underarm.”
Wait. Now?! I thought we were just confirming that everything was fine.
“What else could it be,” I ask nervously, “if it’s not cancer?”
“I don’t think we should even go there,” she replies. “What I’m seeing does not look good.”
And just like that, the movie begins.
Even as the world crashes down, life goes on. It’s month-end close, and there’s no mercy in corporate finance.
But Friday brings a strange blessing. Dickie is away for a bachelor’s. Just me and Toothless. I decide to call the burnout clinic to cancel, just in case this really is cancer. They understand and wish me well.
Then – ping – a new email:
Subject: New results available in your patient portal.
What?! Already?
I open the report:
“Echo-guided aspiration of lymph node in left armpit: malignant cells consistent with adenocarcinoma metastasis.”
No. No. No.
I read it again. And again. I translate it. I read it again.
I call Dickie.
“It’s cancer,” I say. “It’s cancer.”
I spent the weekend trying not to think about you, Tiny Lump. It was useless.
I watch YouTube. I find Eamon and Bec. I watch her cancer journey. Her calm. Her grace. I don’t know what lies ahead for me yet – but watching her helps.
Today, I go for the breast MRI. More of the unknown. More waiting. Still holding onto a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, this is all a big mistake.
It ain’t over until the fat lady sings, right Tiny Lump?
Curious to know more about me? Get to know me here!