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.

Things I’ve learned since being diagnosed with cancer.

1 – When you’re afraid, reframe.

One of the first tests I had done after it was confirmed I had cancer was a bone scan.  I was terrified for more reasons than one and was shaking as the technician injected my veins with some sort of radioactive substance.  I hated that I was being injected with something that I didn’t understand at the time and I hated feeling vulnerable and having no idea of what was coming next.  The man who did the injection was an ex-military member, huge, and very intimidating to look at but he ended up being one of two angels in disguise I met that day.  He was so kind, made me laugh, explained the process, and showed me the machine.  After the injection I had to wait two hours as the substance circulated through my body.  When I came back, he helped me onto the machine and because I am claustrophobic, he stayed with me in the room.  The machine, however, turned out to be rather slow so he eventually needed to tend to some other duties and asked another technician to sit with me.  I was motionless on the table and in complete silence because I was too afraid to talk in case it messed up the results.  Once the bulk of the machine was well past my face and over my abdomen however I managed a little whisper and asked the technician if I was allowed to talk.  He laughed and said yes.  I started asking him questions about the next test I would have to get in a couple of days, which was an MRI. The MRI also terrified me because I am extremely claustrophobic and I told him this.  The man was quiet for a moment and then said thoughtfully, “You just need to reframe the way you look at it and be thankful we have such amazing technology.  It’s saving a lot of lives.”

His wise words have been like a hand to hold through some pretty scary moments for me.  I made it through my MRI, CT, and other tests partly because of his words.  Did I like it?  No.  Did I want to have it done?  No.  But nevertheless, I am grateful for it.

2 – Support will come to you from the most unexpected places

I never expected that friends I rarely spoke to would pop up and cement themselves so firmly in my corner.  It has taught me a very important lesson (and one that I’m still working on), which is how to receive help.  I am learning how to lean in and connect because people are there who are reaching out and actually wanting to help.  And you don’t have to know them very well to be there for them.  It’s not always going to be the people you expect.  So the next time I may be too shy when wanting to pay it forward and help someone, and thinking why would I be a comfort for them when we rarely connect, I know that won’t be true.  Reach out and do it anyway.

3 – And in the most unexpected ways.

Help, support, and love doesn’t have to be a big grand gesture.  It’s the tiny little happy icons that pop up on my phone every few days from a friend that let me know she’s thinking of me.  It’s the meal that the neighbor brings, the cheerful card that comes to me every few weeks, or the hand massages that William and Colin like to give me, or David letting me go to bed early every night while he cleans up the kitchen, or one of the many other countless ways I have seen so many others help out.  Basically I have learned that I, myself, don’t have to extend some massive gesture to others to be helpful.  I can offer what I can in whatever capacity I am able to give.

4 – Bad things happen, but I still have power over my health.

I considered myself a healthy person before I was diagnosed with cancer but shit happens and there you go – I have an aggressive cancer at 43 years old.  But I am NOT a victim.  I can act.  I can research, change, grow, adapt, and become a better version of who I was before the diagnosis.  I want to be here to see my children and grandchildren grow up and I will do everything in my power to help that happen.  And you know what?  I still have the mindset of  a healthy person… just a healthy person who happens to be getting treatment for cancer, which is why I think I’m handling the harsh treatments so well.  In other words, I refuse to be passive.  When bad things happen, get into power mode, take ownership, and do the work!

General health update: The cancer is responding to the chemo very well and the tumors have shrunk considerably – well enough that I can get a lumpectomy rather than a full mastectomy.  I have 4 more treatments of chemo out of 16 to go!  Surgery will likely be the end of April or early May.  Then 30 rounds of radiation (I think), then I don’t know.  I’m trying to take it one step at a time!  I meet with my oncologist at the end of march to talk about the options and full plan.  I also think I have to be on a medication like tamoxifen for 5-10 years.  BUT everything is going quite well and moving in the right direction and looking great!  Keep the prayers up, please.  They’re helping!