The good news – I survived my surgery!  Overall, it was a positive experience.  The surgery center was great and the staff put me at ease.  I was scared but not as terrified as I was for my chemo port placement even though this was a larger procedure.  They managed to perform the oncoplastic lumpectomy, a sentinel node biopsy where they removed 4 lymph nodes, and even removed my chemo port.  The only slightly embarrassing thing I remember was asking them before I went to sleep if they wanted me to sing them a little song.  I remember them saying, “Awwww!  Let’s hear it!”  I don’t know if I actually sang the entire thing or not before I fell asleep.

Next thing I knew I was being wheeled out to the recovery room telling all of them in a rather drunk fashion that they had done an amazing job.  They were laughing and told me that the surgery went great and all 4 lymph nodes came back negative.  I went home about 1.5hrs later with a pesky surgical drain attached to me, but overall felt pretty good.  I had a lot of pain from the lymph node removal for about a week and a half but it slowly seems to be getting better and is much improved now.

Now for the harder news.  Thursday, I had three different doctor appointments.  The first was with my oncologist to go over the pathology report.  The great news is that all the margins came back clear from my surgery and the data back on the cancer was reassuring this time.  Chemo had worked its magic and it had gone from being 2 large and aggressive tumors all the way down to one 4mm spot of cells that had lost their mojo for spreading viciously. 

Now I need to explain that I had always looked at my cancer journey as having three distinct phases. 1 – chemo, 2 – surgery, 3 – radiation.  Then came the next era of a couple of meds for a certain number of years and lots of healthy lifestyle changes.  I was excited to embark on a new cancer-free journey.  This way of approaching my treatment has allowed me to compartmentalize things and get through it step by step.  I was rarely overwhelmed because of this strategy.  I went to the see the oncologist that morning with naive excitement, pen and paper in hand to take notes.  The receptionist said I was glowing at the reception desk and I told her that I was excited to be back without having to do chemo and finally move on.  However, once there I felt like I was dealt blow after blow.  My medications will not be simple and it has created a very long 4th phase I was not anticipating.  For the next 3 years, I have 4 very strong medications to juggle that come with a long list of heavy-hitting side effects. 

• Two large (and painful from what I hear) injections I need to receive every month for 3 years.  If I get my ovaries removed, I can eliminate one of them.  I’ll very likely need them removed either way after the treatment is done so this is something I’m seriously considering once everything settles down.
• An infusion I need to receive every 6 months for 3 years.
• An oral pill I need to take for 3 years.

I was crushed.  None of them were the meds I thought I was going to be on and had heavily researched.  The appointment was an hour long of listening to the regime and side effects but also of the strong research that supported taking them.  I am so grateful for my oncologist and medical team.  I trust her experience, intelligence and compassion.  There is no question there.  But to be expecting one thing you thought would be easy and then learning it’s actually going to be another long, difficult process was crushing for me.  I was so excited to be nearing the finish line after months of difficult treatment.  I was sad and deeply disappointed.  It’s like seeing the finish-line of a marathon and then the officials decide they’ll just move it across state.  I sat there as she spoke trying to process what she was saying.  David, who saw me freeze with my pen and paper, quietly took the notebook from my lap and began writing all the notes for me.  Then I learned the medications also have a drug interaction with one of the meds I take to manage my bipolar disorder and there is no alternative in its same class to replace it with.  This was another blow altogether.  I have been stable for a very long time and doing well.  To lose an entire class of drugs that I have relied on for over 15 years is also challenging and unpredictable.  I want to do all I can to stay cancer free but I also need to ensure that I am able to take care of my family in a healthy way.  Balancing my physical health and mental health has never been so complicated.

The appointment lasted so long that I missed Colin’s presentation at school that he worked so hard on.  I had been looking forward to it and he was excited that I may be able to see it.  My heart sank even further when I realized I would never make it back across town to his school.  At this point I felt defeated.  Missing Colin’s presentation was the straw that broke the camel’s back for me.  Once I realized I’d never make it to the school, I allowed them to squeeze me in downstairs to begin the process of radiation since we were running behind on it.  I’ll have it every day for 6 weeks.  That’s life.   Then I went home, scarfed down some food, and headed to the surgeon’s office for my post-op visit.  She was very pleased with the way it was healing and so am I.  You can barely tell I had surgery except for being about a cup-size smaller in my right breast, which I actually prefer.  If I want, I can get the other breast reduced to even them out later on.

Yesterday morning I woke up as I did in those first few weeks after learning I had an aggressive cancer.  For those first few moments everything is good but then you remember the news you had been given the day before and the sinking feeling returns.    Yes, there is so much to be grateful for and that is not lost on me.  Not even for a second.  It does not, however, ease the sting of what’s to come.

I know I will adjust.  I know I will get my positive mojo back.  And I know that I will process this and get my ‘bring it on’ mentality back.  But for now, I am mourning the uncertainty of the next few years.  If I can’t allow myself to grieve during the process of a cancer diagnosis , I will never truly recover.  I know I will never have my care-free, pre-cancer life back.  I have grieved this.  Cancer, like motherhood, has fundamentally changed me and the way I view the world.  It has softened, shaped, and shifted me in a way that needed to happen.  Now it’s time to pick up the pieces, readjust my outlook, and move forward again.  Grief and gratitude can coexist, and so I let them.

Thanks for listening.