“And on Friday, September 18th, I held my husband’s hand as I was told that I had DCIS {essentially Stage 0 breast cancer} as well as early invasive breast cancer.”
…
Two years ago. Two years ago — after about two and a half weeks of testing. Two years ago, as a mommy to three boys — ages 6, 4, and 2. Two years ago as a 33-year-old woman with no family history of cancer. Two years ago in the year 2015. Two years ago, having just celebrated my 10-year-anniversary with my college sweetheart. Two years ago.
We sat. And sat. And sat. We went into one exam room first. To meet my medical oncologist.
And my radiation oncologist.
And then another exam room.
For my surgical oncologist. My nurse navigator.
My genetic counselor.
My medical oncologist.
My radiation oncologist.
My surgical oncologist.
My nurse navigator.
My genetic counselor.
My. Because it was mine. The cancer. The cancer that they had been trying to nail down, poke into, figure out over the last two weeks. It was mine.
It had somehow weasled its way into my almost non-existent-post-nursing-post-three-babies breast. And set up shop. With all intentions of taking me down.
I was surely living in some alternate reality, right? There had been no warning signs. There were no red flags. Except feeling a lump earlier that week. I was a healthy, physically-active, non-smoker. There were no risk factors — none.
This was not my life. I had most definitely stepped into someone else’s life. And I wanted to find the rabbit hole out of this hell I’d fallen into, and be transported back to my regularly scheduled program.
But that’s not how life goes. You can’t go under it. Can’t go over it. You have to go through it. You have to look the storm in the face and say, “So we’re doing this, eh?” And you must go through it.
I sat. I breathed a sigh of relief as my medical oncologist explained that while there was a lump that could be felt, the lump did not seem to be the cancer. It was more likely inflammation from cancer busting through my lymphovascular spaces — the spaces that carry blood, I think they explained. There was no lump. But there was. I could feel the lump. That’s why I had gone to my doctor. That’s why I had been so concerned.
But my lump? My doctors. MY team of oncologists. This team that I had just hired. They told me that the lump was more superficial than anything. They had attempted several tries to “hit” the cancer through biopsy. They had stuck the needle directly into the mass. They explained that it is like trying to hit a raisin in raisin bread… when you stick the needle in, you might hit the cancer cells… or you might not. And within my 2 centimeter lump, they could only find the cancer present in the lymphovascular spaces.
We found out that day that what they had previously reported, that I had DCIS (Ductal Carcinoma In Situ — Stage 0 breast cancer) was still true. But I also had early stage breast cancer. Maybe Stage 1. We wouldn’t know until we ruled out lymph node involvement but there was no physical proof of it having traveled outside of the breast.
My diagnosis was still not complete. But there would be chemotherapy. There would be a mastectomy. There would likely be radiation. There would be full-fledged, life-erupting, innocence-killing treatment.
But I probably wasn’t gonna die from this.
I mean, they told me I wouldn’t. That with the initial findings, it would not likely be a terminal diagnosis. It had not likely traveled all over my body.
But I sobbed. I sobbed with the idea of even having to think about these scenarios. I sobbed thinking of my boys and their mom sick. I sobbed and held my husband’s hand. It was like a revolving door of news. And we went home with papers. More appointments. More fact-finding to be done. And a diagnosis. I had cancer.
…
I said as I wrote, “I might have cancer but cancer won’t have me.”
And that’s not actually true.
I wish I could say it was. I wish I could tell everyone starting this that once you get your diagnosis or once you have your staging or once you know your protocols or once you have a timeline that it gets easy. That you just set your sails and you are on path. But that’s not true.
I broke down hundreds of times over the course of my treatment. I broke down the day they delivered the news, while rubbing my back, that it was actually in my lymph nodes. I broke down when I found out it wasn’t genetic. Because I was relieved and yet, even more confused. I broke down when I walked into my first chemo adorned in a Wonder Woman outfit. I broke down when I was neutropenic and had to find someone to watch my boys while I was admitted to the hospital. I broke down. Over and over again. From events and days and moments. I was strong on occasion. I was broken on occasion. And I was fighting every single day to have some semblance of goodness in my life so I could thrive instead of survive.
And I prayed. I turned to God more than I ever had. I dove into the word. I asked anyone and everyone to join in the chorus of pleading to the Universe and to God that I would and could do this.
…
Life got easier. Even in my hard. It got easier to do and to predict. It became our sort of normal. I began to experience life as an insanely good thing. Even when it was hard, it was overflowing with goodness.
My doctors and other “advisers”, from September 18 and on, these people have been my braintrust. My people. My go-to. My medical family. This team of mine did every part of fulfilling their duties as medical practitioners. But they also did so so so much more. They became mine.
…
I felt scared. Exhausted. Lost. And at times, defeated. I wasn’t mad. I never really got there. I was sad. I was shattered. I walked into the house that afternoon. On September 18. After eight hours with these people who I decided that day to entrust with my life. Even though I’d only just met them. Even though I’d received an information overload and grown my medical vocabularly tenfold. I was in a surreal outside looking in state. Even though I felt such a relief that it didn’t seem to be advanced even though it was aggressive. I was still in disbelief. I walked into my recently-new-to-me home and I looked at my mother-in-law and father-in-law who had watched our boys all day, and I said, “Welp. I have cancer.”
September 18, 2015.
It was that time that I got cancer. I definitely didn’t yet understand or get cancer. But it had gotten into my life. And decided it wanted to drive for a bit. And it did take a front seat. But my doctors got to determine the route. And I got to sit in the backseat and watch it all happen around me.
And now. Two years later. It’s different than the one-year-out DX day. It is a time where my hair is mostly back to its original state. A time where I just completed another surgery. A time where I have been so fotunate to have survived — 6 rounds of chemo, two hospitalizations, one sceroma, one bilateral mastectomy, one fecal transplant, 28 rounds of radiation, and two reconstructive surgeries. One half of a lost nipple, one lost head of hair, one successful colonoscopy, 10 drains, two expanders, four implants, one port, and weight — lost, gained, lost, gained. I have survived. And now, truly, I AM THRIVING.
Now I can call “the hardest chapter I’ve ever had to write,” “That time I had cancer.”
Two years out, I can honestly tell anyone starting their treatment or diagnosis that I am lucky to have discovered that lump. I am blessed to have MY TEAM. I am insanely fortunate to have my village and all their goodness. I am a better person because of my battle. I am.
I am more faithful, more patient, more overwhelmed by the gorgeousness that is getting to be healthy, I am more touched by life and the moments, I am more grateful each and every day, I am more me. I would never recommend getting cancer, but if you do, if you have to do this, if you have to do it all — don’t gloss over it, don’t hide under it, I dare you fighter to GO THROUGH IT. Live as much as you are able. And thrive thrive thrive whether it is early or advanced.
…
“And on Friday, September 18th, I held my husband’s hand as I was told that I had DCIS {essentially Stage 0 breast cancer} as well as early invasive breast cancer.”
And since that day, the story unfolded. I am 35 years old. My boys are beautiful. They are 8, 6, and 3. They are in 3rd grade, Kindergarten, and pre-school. My husband will turn 37 this month. We have been married for 12.5 years. My parents and my in-laws, they are healthy and living life like rock stars. I am a proud aunt to beautiful nephews and a niece. I continue to write. And speak. And THRIVE.
And now. I don’t have cancer. And it doesn’t have me. And when I look back, I am still so glad that I had it if it means that maybe someone else doesn’t have to. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
I survived. A malignant neoplasm of the female breast. Clinical staging IIA (T1c, N1, cM0). No obvious tumor on US. Lymphovascular spaces were filled with tumor cells. Triple positive.
I survived. Chemotherapy. 6 rounds. Every 3 weeks. Carboplatin. Taxotere. Perjeta. And a year of Herceptin. I survived. Bilateral nipple sparing mastectomy and lymph node dissection. I survived right chestwall radiation.
That time I had cancer.
I survived.
And I will always always always feel grateful… beyond grateful.
