Cancer is a Real Mindfuck

Everyone has a friend who has survived breast cancer. And many of us have that ‘one’ who didn’t. Which friend will I be?

This is the question I’ve had in the back (and front) of my mind & heart since hearing the news last week that I have breast cancer.

Years ago, when I was pregnant with Adi, everyone and their mother, brother, and sister was convinced I was having a boy. Family, friends, neighbors, everyone. I was walking through Best Buy at 7 months pregnant and a complete stranger walked by me, looked briefly in my direction, and literally yelled, “Boy!” as he pointed at my belly. I thought it was strange but another part of me thought maybe they could see (or sense) something I couldn’t. Everyone else’s certainty was convincing after a while. Maybe I was having a boy. Then I had Adi. She was a girl. They were wrong.

Now I have cancer. Everyone thinks I’m a fighter. They tell me if anyone can kick cancer's ass it’s me. Their belief is strong, their hope immediate, their certainty intoxicating. But my inside voice wonders …what if they are wrong? They were wrong about Adi. People are wrong about a lot of things. But mostly I HOPE TO GOD they are right.

Sleeping is my favorite thing lately because I’m unconscious and unaware of anything. Mornings are the worst. I wake up and for a split second I don’t remember that there is cancer in my body. Then it comes rushing in (again). Brad has started to notice this pattern too. My eyes wide open, looking up at the ceiling, forgetting to breathe, lying still, feeling sad and terrified.

I don’t like to see him worry about me. I don’t like seeing the pain in people’s faces or the tears in their eyes when I tell them the news. It’s awful to see the people you love reflect the same sadness and fear that you feel.

Brad has always been my rock, the one who can make me laugh in any situation, and here he is showing up for me again. I’m beyond grateful. He holds my hand in the mornings and moves in closer for a cuddle. He loves me up and eases my anxiety. But as he hugs me and treats me with such kindness, it hurts a little too, because I cannot help but think…Shit, I cannot leave this world. He needs me. The kids need me. The thought is unbearable, so I get it out of my mind as quickly as humanly possible.

The other morning Brad asked how I was doing, and I finally had the words to describe it. I said, “Do you remember that feeling when you’re a kid and you’re in trouble. Maybe your mom or dad walks into the room and says something like, ‘hey, I got a call from your teacher today’…and your stomach drops and the blood rushes from your face?” That is the feeling I have about 1–3 minutes after waking up. It takes me a little while to shake it.

I’m not sure what is worse…actually having cancer or the utter terror I feel inside about having cancer. The jury is still out on that.

Of course, there have been some heartwarming moments and a few silver linings that have come out of this experience.

First off, Brad is now a softy about letting Gilly come up on our bed. Gilly-on-the-bed used to be a Sunday morning exception, but now almost every morning when Brad gets up for work, he spreads a blanket over the bed and calls Gilly up. She jumps up, smothers me with kisses, and distracts me with her irresistible cuteness.

The kids too. Geez, they are wonderful little humans. When I told Adi, she had already done extensive reading/research and knew the survival rates associated with the kind of cancer I have, and many of the nuanced biomarkers and how they correlate to prognosis. Impressive. Ben hugs me a little longer, asks matter-of-fact questions, reassures me (”Mom, even if you lose your hair you will still look amazing” heart. melt.), and mostly goes about his 11-year old boy business. They are wired for optimism & a sense of humor. I love to see that. Adi also likes to point out the irony of me being diagnosed with breast cancer during BC awareness month… “you have to admit mom, that’s pretty funny.”

Also, I found out yesterday that cancer patients get a lower bridge pass. The West Seattle bridge has been out of commission for months now, and traffic is insane. It used to take 20–30 minutes to get to Swedish downtown, now it takes nearly an hour. All these medical appointments and tests have begun to feel like a part-time job, so the lower bridge pass was uplifting news. I’d still choose traffic over cancer, but it’s a nice gesture.

But the best part of all has been the love. Going through hard times in life has a way of reminding a person how lucky they are. Lucky for the unbelievable support and kindness from our friends and family. Lucky for the perspective. Things I worried about BC (before cancer) feel small. Everyday moments of joy feel brighter. Watching Adi get a PR (personal record) in her cross-country meet. More fully appreciating my cuddles with Ben before bed. Riding on the back of Kim’s Vespa, giggling. Appreciating the beautiful colors of fall. The funny stories the kids tell at the dinner table. Girlfriends changing ‘girls night to my living room and bringing dinner to me. The kind words of encouragement in an email from a long-time client. The love I feel for my clients who are finding cures for cancer and bringing early detection tests to market. Having cancer has given me a deeper glimpse into the love that is within me, and the love that surrounds me, and there are truly no words to describe how grateful I feel.

The details:

After a routine mammogram, call-back appointment, ultrasound, more imaging, an MRI, and 3 biopsies, I have been diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma. I have black and blue boobs from all the biopsies (we call them jawbreaker boobs because they change colors daily). Sorry if that is TMI, but it’s breast cancer awareness month so I feel a responsibility to keep it real. Tumor size is just 1.5cm, which is considered small. Small is good. Really good, because when it comes to breast cancer small indicates early detection, which correlates to a much more promising prognosis. The tricky part is the HER2+ status. Because HER2+ cells are tricky little bastards (ie. more aggressive), they will likely be recommending chemo, radiation, and other endocrine drugs to ensure they zap any too-small-to-detect cells that may be floating around in my body. I’m feeling fine…strong, healthy, optimistic (mostly). I have an appointment on Monday, October 25th to discuss the surgery & treatment plan, and my surgeon has assured me that I will be in surgery within 1–2 weeks. They act fast on this stuff. Phew.

There are also a lot of unknowns, which is excruciating. For example, we won’t know if it has traveled anywhere else (like lymph nodes) until they remove one during surgery and biopsy it. It takes a week to get all the analysis/pathology done. That will be a long week of waiting. Waiting is the hardest part. I am picturing healthy lymph nodes & healthy me. If there is no cancer in the lymph nodes, we will have a dance party and you are all invited 😉

I learned I had breast cancer on the same day that I was supposed to be facilitating a 2-hour leadership session with one of my all-time favorite clients — A biotech company that, ironically enough, just launched a test to screen for 50 types of cancers. I met the CEO of this company some 7-years ago and was immediately invested in his and his company’s success when, before our first meeting, we dropped by the kitchen to grab a coffee and drank it out of big mugs that read “Fuck Cancer”. He had me at hello.

My biotech clients who are finding new cures, tests, and immunotherapies have become my absolute favorite clients to work with. Mission-driven. Work that matters. It’s kind of surreal to now be invested on a deeply personal level. I know that I am in good hands. I know that it will be ok. One way or another, it will be ok. To all of you who have reached out and been loving me through this — thank you. For those of you who have survived and been fighters, thank you for the inspiration and hope you give me. And for those of you who are hearing this news for the first time and feeling the feels- I’m sorry.

Please picture me and all my healthy cells murdering all the little cancers, k?

Off with their heads!