Nobody wants to write a post like this but I’ll go ahead and write it as hiding from things is not necessarily something I find to be helpful.  Two weeks ago, I found a thickened area in my breast that wasn’t necessarily a lump, but strange nonetheless.  I oddly wasn’t too concerned but called my doctor for an appointment that same day.  He ordered a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound and I was able to make it to that appointment the following week.  I went in for the mammogram and waited for the radiologist to read the results.  I sat in the room and watched as other women left one by one.  Then they called me back to take more x-rays of my right breast.  After those x-rays they wanted an ultrasound so I went back for the procedure and then returned to the waiting room.  By now I was starting to get uncomfortable.  All the other women had left and I was alone in the room.  A nurse called me back into an office so the radiologist could meet with me.  Now I knew I was in trouble.  I sat in a tiny, tiny little office that had a box of Kleenex next to my chair and thought, “Oh shit.  This isn’t going to be good news.”  A warm and comforting nurse came in along with a cold, clinical radiologist and he very bluntly stated his findings, which he said were highly indicative of malignancy and then walked out of the room.  I was left stunned.  My instructions were to get biopsies competed and the nurse was giving me instructions on how to do that.  I couldn’t comprehend anything she was saying.  A wave of panic came over me and I looked pleadingly at her. 

“Please will you make this appointment for me,” I said.  “I cannot navigate a phone system right now.” 

“Oh sugar.  Let me see what they have.”  She scrolled through the appointment times.  “It looks like they are booked up until the end of next week.”

I started crying.  “I have children,” I said. ” I need this appointment immediately.  I want it tomorrow.  It cannot wait.”

She looked at me so sympathetically and whispered, “I have the direct number of the nurse that works over in that department.  Let me see what I can do.”

And as God would have it the other nurse said that she could get me in the very next morning.  She then hugged me and said, “My honey breast cancer is not a death sentence.  This will not be easy but it’s treatable.  You can go on having a long and happy life, remember that!”  I hugged her tightly and left.

Once I managed to find the car, I called David in a haze of panic and confusion.  I knew nothing about any oncologists or medical care for cancer in Austin.  I had no family living nearby.  What if we didn’t catch it early enough?  Am I going to die?  What about my children and husband?  What will this mean for them?  What am I doing wrong in my life to lead me to this?  How will we get through this?  Will we get through this?  Truthfully, I don’t remember much about the rest of that day.  I was mentally exhausted and fell into a deep sleep that night.

The next day was even more unpleasant.  I do not like medical procedures at all.  I find them terrifying.  David came with me and I must say that I was surprised with how well I handled it.  The doctor took 14+ samples of tissue.  I sang lullabies to myself as he was injecting me with lidocaine and taking the samples.  I only screamed, “Mother fucker!” once when he took a sample that was accidentally outside the lidocaine area.  He gave me rest times and offered to let me come back to do it in two sessions.  I told him there was no way in hell we were doing that.  I wanted it all done today.  We took samples in two masses and one lymph node.  We pretty much knew the masses were malignant but were holding our breath for the lymph node. 

There was no hiding the anxiety or inevitable sense of the hardship that was coming.  We went ahead and told the boys.  It was a horrible conversation to have and I can’t bear to recall it.

Thankfully we had to go to San Antonio for a swim meet for the weekend, which helped distract us.  It was a very emotional few days for all of us.  My breast looked like it got hit by a truck from the biopsies.  The rollercoaster of emotions going through me was crippling.  Finally, my doctor called me Tuesday morning that the lymph node tested positive and he was waiting for the other pathology results.  I went from feeling helpless to charging full steam ahead to get a handle on things.  I found an oncologist by asking my neighborhood friends for help.  I was overwhelmed by the amount of love and support I received.  I had my first oncology visit this past Friday and I absolutely adored my doctor and have found a surgeon who I will meet with next week.  The whole network of people and the cancer center I am at have been wonderful.  I went from feeling terrified, helpless and overwhelmed to feeling terrified but supported and taken care of and ready to fight.  David has been by my side at every appointment and has been beyond supportive.  I could not imagine going through this without his unshakable love and take-charge attitude when I am too overwhelmed by life.  My dad and sister and brother say they are ready to come out and help and stay with me the second I need any help, my mother reached out, and David’s family has been a wonderful source of comfort as well.

The cancer is stage II and treatable.  However, I still have a bunch of scans and tests they need to run so hopefully we don’t get any surprising news on that front.  I start chemo in 2 weeks and should get my port placed sometime next week.  After chemo is all done, I’ll have surgery.  I’ve decided to completely overhaul my nutrition and begin exercising so that my body is better ready to handle it.  I’m getting half a dozen calls a day and they are all telling me where and when I need to be for what test and what I need to do and I just show up ready to act and get the ball rolling on my treatment.

Just say the word ‘cancer’ and your entire lens on life will immediately shift focus.  With stunning clarity I saw the version of myself I wanted to become not just for my family but for myself.  I imagined a stage with old versions of myself stepping into the background, having taken their final bow and new leading roles stepping forward.  I’m choosing to see cancer as giving me a second chance at living my life.  I told my children, when they were crying one night, it was like being on a ship at sea in the dark.  You have to look for the lighthouse.  It will always be there for you.  Just keep on looking for the light.  Cancer will also force you to confront all your deepest fears.  Mortality?  Any and all things medical?  Leaving my family behind?  My children growing up without a mother?  Take a big whiff.  Those are deep fears and they’re breathing down my neck every night.  Yet at the same time now is the chance for me to be the mother to myself that I never had growing up.  Kind, patient, caring, and loving to all those scary parts.  My prayer is that as my family moves through this difficult time, we are put together again more beautifully than before.