It’s on a post-it

…The last six months have been beyond insane. I’ve cried. Oh I’ve cried. And cried. And cried. Buckets. Bath tubs. Pools full. Of tears. I’ve been in the hospital 4 times. I’ve had 6.5 rounds of chemo. I’ve done 10 rounds of labs. I’ve lost my hair. Most of my eyelashes. A good bit of my eyelashes. I’ve had two rounds of strep. Two rounds of c diff. I’ve received countless rounds of fluids. I’ve hugged my boys more times than I can count. I’ve kissed my husband wondering how I ever could have picked the very best man at age 22. I’ve cried happy tears. Tears of joy for good lab results. Good results from chemo. I’ve been terrified after positive results from a lymph node biopsy that showed me the cancer was further than we’d all initially thought it had gone. I’ve toasted to joys and sorrows. I’ve started seeing a therapist. I’ve started taking antidepressants. And anxiety meds. I’ve found more support than I think any one person deserves. I’ve been closer to my husband and family than ever before. I’ve been happier than ever to be a mom to my three boys. I’ve found joy. This extremely inexplicable joy?! In friendships, in God, in the love of doctors. I’ve grappled with intense fear. This extremely scary fear of the unknown. Believing often, that the cancer was everywhere. And that I only had months or years left on this planet. I’ve watched good pour out. This extreme fountain of true goodness pouring out like a water fall in my life. From people I knew and didn’t know. From people who believe in good and in authenticity and in life being a gift.

It’s been the cancer coaster. That’s what I call the last 6 months. I’ve been on the Cancer Coaster. And it started with a call from Deb, my angel nurse from Nebraska Med, calling to let me know that I have DCIS. Then Stage 1. Then, eventually, because it was, indeed, present in the nodes, I was Stage 2. And Deb stood by me every step of the ride. She navigated the rails for me. She helped me figure out how to stay sane. And what is normal and what is not for a breast cancer patient {you too, Catherine!!!}.

And to date I’ve completed 6ish rounds of chemotherapy. And last week… a bilateral mastectomy. And the mastectomy… it was the scariest part after first round of chemo for me. Because of the unknowns. I was terrified that I wouldn’t wake up. Or that when I did, there would be worse news than I expected. I told you all, I. was. scared. Through so much of this, I’ve been afraid that 33 to 34 years was all I’d be given walking this earth. And the idea of leaving my husband. My beautiful boys. And my family and friends. All the beautiful parts of this life… The idea of having to go out at 33 from cancer, that made me scared.

And then, the day before the surgery, I got a peace, once again. I was overcome with a peace. The first time leading up to a procedure that I had peace. And so, from last Thursday, until today… I have had that same peace. I’ve been in pain. I’ve been sore. And pretty much sleep over half the hours of the day right now. The outcomes “visually” from the mastectomy are way better than I anticipated. The boobs look like bruised nursing boobs — like right when your milk comes in and you get a little lumpy and engorged — but purple. So overall, that’s been great. My pecs and pits and abs are beyond sore. And using my arms to push up from anything is no-can-do. And I don’t stay up for very many consecutive hours.But mentally, I’ve felt really good. I’ve felt really groggy. But happy. I haven’t been scared for any of the post-surgery stuff — I’ve only been frustrated by the lack of mobility at times — but I stopped being scared about the pathology call. Because I’d pretty much decided that whatever would be would be.

And then, today. Today I got a call. And it brought all of this… this last 6 months… right into the forefront. It was like I was on a movie where someone wakes up after hitting their head and the whole world and events of the last 6 months are swirling around them in pictures. Their life is literally flashing before their eyes.

Today, I got the call…
“Ashli, it sounds like you were sleeping. Would you like me to call back?” I knew it was Deb, my nurse, and I never want Deb to call back… I want to talk with her every time I can. But it didn’t occur to me what she could be calling about.
“No no… I’m good… I always sound tired right now.”
“Well, how are you feeling?”
“I’m good… tired and sore… but I’m doing alright.”
“Well. We got your pathology results back.”
“What?! You did? Is it that time already. Omygosh. Okay. Okay.”
“Well, we are all very happy. Let me look through here. Yes. We just met on you. And we can’t call you 100% response.”
“Ohhhhh…. because the lymph nodes were bad?”
“No no, sweetie. The lymph nodes were amazing. In fact, the first two nodes that we took during the sentinel node biopsy months ago were the only that presented signs of disease. All 14 we took this time, those were not only clear but showed no evidence of every having any disease.”
“Wha?! Oh. Oh. Oh! Ohmygoodness!! Deb!”
“And then, as we mentioned, there was a small lump that we pulled out, that was still in the lymphovascular spaces, and it was a malignant tumor. It appears to be the remnants from the original 2 cm centimeter tumor that we found prior to starting chemo. So technically, while you weren’t “full-response” to the chemo, we got all the tumor out and have all clear margins.”
“Wow. Whoa. Oh my goodness. I love you so much, Deb.”
“Yes, so we will talk with Dr. Wahl about if radiation is a yes or no. But you, my dear are currently without cancer in your body. You did awesome.”
“I don’t have any cancer right now? What do I do now?”
“You heal. You have a lot of healing ahead of you. Physically. Mentally. You figure out radiation. And then, you figure out what tomorrow looks like… without cancer.”
“I love you. And Dr.s T and T. I love you all over there.”
…..

I didn’t expect that call, friends. I expected that it was all over the lymph nodes. I expected that there would be much more tumor hiding in there. I didn’t expect for the staging to decrease. And for them to be questioning if radiation is even necessary. But again, I’ve been showered with goodness. And just like that. Last September 7, I didn’t think I had cancer. And then, by the 8th, I did. Yesterday morning, March 2, I still had cancer, and today, today I am waking up with the knowledge that I do not have active breast cancer. I may have radiation. I will definitely have another reconstructive surgery. Even though the C has left the building, we still have to clean up from the mess she left behind.

Now, I am not technically in remission. From what I understand, my five year anniversary of having no recurrences will be when I am cancer-free. But right now, I will have a sort of clean slate with a wall built up around any cancer cells who are thinking of starting something.

What an incredible life we live. One moment, we’ve got cancer. The next, we’re survivors. It can change just like that. Like the snap of a finger. It’s hard for me to put this all into words right now. It’s hard for me to articulate. And it’s hard to figure out how to praise God, thank Nebraska Medicine, and repay all of you for your support through this time. And for helping me survive through the dark nights and elate in the brightness of the dawn. It will be a process, not a one-shot wonder. It will take me time to process this, and to figure out how to handle the reality that Nebraska Med treated this in such a way that I am currently without disease. And that you all prayed to a a God who listens. And he answered. HE moved my mountain.I will have scans every three months for awhile, I will continue with Herceptin infusions for the next 6 months. I will be on Tamoxifen, a drug that suppresses my ovaries, for 10 years. And there will be other ways to keep this cancer at bay. Because that. Just. Happened. Cancer. Happened. 

But friends, for today, as I lay in bed and take it easier than easy, I will just be thankful. Thankful for negative pathology that lead to positive calls. For the research that went into having antibodies like Herceptin and Perjeta. Overly lovey dovey toward Nebraska Medicine and all my docs, nurses, and staff, who rocked this treatment plan with me. Obsessively gushing over my husband, boys, famil{ies} and friends. And to all of the people who will be with me over the next six weeks as I heal, get back to driving, start growing hair again, and beyond. And who. Have provided support long before the cancer diagnosis… I love you. More than I will ever be able to put into words. Today, I woke up without cancer in my body. It will take awhile for me to believe it. Just as it too a while to accept when I was told it was there. And as I’ve said over and over again, who knows what tomorrow will bring? I have no guarantee against recurrence. I will have to get through a few scans before I truly trust that we can breathe a bit. Because my body has shown us this: It likes to grow cancer. It is ripe for it. So I know I will continue being a fighter. But for today, I am thankful for this day. This life. This goodness.

The roller coaster just stopped for now. And I am battered and bruised from the ride. I am also filled with exhiliration and happiness from the feelings left behind by the highs. I am filled with disbelief as I sort of can’t believe it’s technically outta there. I am filled with pride, a bit, that I made it through the ride. And so much gratitude for the goodness and kindness and care that I received all through it. And as I continue to heal.

I wrote it down. On a post-it. Because that’s what you do with life’s really big moments. You make small daily reminders. And you take steps toward goodness and making life worth being around for.

We’re not quite into the next chapter but I like the near-ending to this one much better than the start. Makes me hopeful for what’s up next. And thankful that I can say, today I do not have cancer in my body.

Wow.