For life

Even after my reconstructive surgery is complete later this year, breast cancer still will remain a huge part of my life for a variety of reasons. It's true that my fear and anxieties may fade over time, and that my scars will eventually heal, and the physical pain from surgeries and biopsies and the expander will lesson and become more distant, but it's also true that because this has become a part of my life, it will remain a part of my life.
1. Silicone implants: They need to be replaced about every 10 years. They also need to be checked to make sure they don't rupture or leak. There's also the worry that I will develop an infection from them/my body will reject them. Sure, they will become more comfortable with time, but they are foreign devices; it's not my real body.
2. Breast cancer risk: For the rest of my life I will need to be screened carefully to make sure the breast cancer does not recur, and also to make sure I don't develop another breast cancer in my other breast. Having a personal history of breast cancer raises your risk of it coming back and also getting another, different one. I'll always be on the lookout for lumps, and while this may aid in early detection, it also may create constant fear and anxiety knowing I have one "healthy" breast left and it needs to be monitored carefully.
3. Masctectomy with lymph node removal: For the rest of my life I will need to protect my right arm (where I had lymph nodes removed) so I don't get lymphadema (essentially a lifelong condition in which your arm and hand swells). This means I shouldn't have blood drawn on that side, or needles inserted on that side, or blood pressure taken on that side. That arm needs to be protected from over-exertion, cuts, scrapes and extreme heat and cold. Extra care will need to be taken during manicures (cuticles should not be cut), and I should try to avoid hot tubs/saunas or any type of deep tissue massage. I also have to be careful about tight clothing/sleeves on that side, as well as tight jewlery (watches, bracelets, rings.) Although it hasn't yet, that arm and underarm will eventually heal and I will probably have all my mobility and strength back, but I had lymph nodes removed and that is something permament, and will require constant monitoring.
4. Lifestyle: Although every person should exercise, eat right, maintain a healthy weight and limit sun exposure, alcohol and tobacco, having had two cancers now (not that I could have prevented them), I want to do literally everything in my power to keep myself healthy and strong. I feel there's more pressure to do that now. I know a healthy lifestyle couldn't have prevented the Leukemia, and we're not sure if it could have prevented breast cancer, but that's no reason to lift up my arms in despair and be unhealthy. We all know certain health conditions CAN be prevented by living a healthy lifestyle, so shouldn't we try when we can? I should try to prevent what I can. It's no coincidence I healed like the Hulk (just made that one up now!) following both of my surgeries. I believe it was not only because I am young, but because I am healthy. I have been at a healthy weight for quite some time now, and at the time of my diagnosis I was running 5Ks and lifting weights. I still lift weights and do crunches regularly, and get to the gym when I can, whether it's walking on the treadmill or riding the bike, because I believe I need to stay strong for myself. Being healthy and strong helped me recover from my surgeries. I want to be this way forever, both to help prevent whatever illnesses I can, but also to be prepared to fight another illness (G-d forbid, of course), should I need all my strength and energy.
It's overwhelming to think how my life has, and will remain, changed because of this experience. It's daunting and exhausting to think about the screening and monitoring both tomorrow and years from now. But all of those things I listed above likely will become "new normals" for me, just like screening to check for late effects of chemotherapy in the years following my Leukemia treatment did. Although those heart tests and bone scans don't come close to having foreign objects in your body, or knowing your risk for cancer is now higher, they WILL become a part of my life. And the longer they are a part of my life, the more "normal" they will feel. It will never be pleasant, and I'm sure many, many times I will feel angry or sad that as a 26-year-old I have to worry about these things, but I'm trying to look at the big picture. The big picture, that I see now, is that I have a whole life ahead of me that is hopefully healthy and happy. The breast cancer eventually will be a thing of the past, and although much of the effects and anxieties of it will linger, I should be able to move on and put those things aside. They shouldn't run or control my life, because, after all, I didn't have any control over them. Whether it makes me feel better or worse to know that this just happened, beyond my control, doesn't matter as much as what I do with that information. I will admit that it will be a constant struggle to move on from this, when I'm ready to, and to not let fears ruin my life. The truth is: things will still happen, or not happen, regardless of your fears. Right? Having a greater fear of getting breast cancer again won't actually make, or not make, me get breast cancer again. It won't affect the outcome I cannot control. But being constantly scared WILL lower my quality of life, and we all know stress and worry is unhealthy.
I am a work in progress. I'll work on accepting these new "normals" and work on not being angry at the world that this happened to me when it did. I'll find my true compassion and love, the kind I was born with, and bring it out onto the surface as much as possible. I'll try to take my own advice and focus on what is good and beautiful in my life and in the world. Breast cancer, and what it does to women, physically and emotionally, is not good and it's not beautiful. But unfortunately, right now, we can't prevent it from happening. We can only move on and live with and work with what we have been given, and to do this, we should remind ourselves, that even if it doesn't seem like it at the time, we can find at least one thing we have that is better than we originally thought:
Like the man who thought his life was so bad because he didn't have any shoes. But then he met the man with no feet.
The goal is to be grateful for every little good thing that comes our way, and soak it all in, because if we don't enjoy the good stuff, the bad stuff still will seem so much worse.

Where I am

Much of this breast-cancer-while-planning-a-wedding journey has been about ups and downs. I've focused on both finding and creating the "ups" - looking for the good in each situation, doing things I enjoy and making fun plans. I've also had the "downs" by default: anxiety, bad news, physical recovery, waiting, and being sad or angry or confused. I wrote in a recent post that sometimes it's hard for me to have one actual feeling or direction throughout this whole thing, and more than that, to actually name what it is; a lot of this has been about me trying to overcompensate, or that's what I think, anyway. What I mean is that I can't actually tell if when I'm excited about something I'm really excited about it, or trying to make myself more excited to overshadow whatever negative feelings I'm having. It's probably a little of both. And it's probably also because everything seems magnified right now. However, it is my natural personality to be excited (and over-excited) about little things, such as fall shopping, parties, etc. It doesn't take much for me to be in a good mood, or get in a good mood. A little coffee, some friends, some nice perfume, whatever. I can brighten myself up, and that's something I've always valued about myself. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But I'm trying to figure out, almost like a brand new path to self-discovery, if there's more to me brightening myself up than meets the (my) eye. It's wonderful, especially during difficult times, to see the good and to enjoy life. I manage to do that as much as possible. And for that I am proud of myself. And I do this all the while trying to maintain my confidence, faith and compassion in the world.This is a hard topic to write about, mostly because I don't know where I'm digging, but I do love a writing and mental challenge, so I'll keep going and see where it takes me.
Here's what I have acknowledged: I have a fear of the cancer returning or getting a new cancer. But, I can't let that fear run my life. I accept that fear and have chosen to work with it. I understand it won't go away overnight, but I do have faith in myself that I can get past it. I also allow myself to have the fear magnified currently because all of this isn't over it.
I also acknowledge that my life is wonderful. I have everything I could ever want and need, and more. And I'm happy because of that.
I'm slowly learning, through this recent journey, that I can't waste my time and upset myself by focusing on the bad things that I cannot control. I can only accept them and move on, and focus on what I CAN control, which is my outlook and how I live my life. You do the best you can with what you have and know, and try not to have regrets. Holding onto pain, especially pain you couldn't control, will hold you back in life.
The "temporary blah" I wrote about last week was just that: temporary. That "blah" was a combination of me recovering from surgery, fighting a cold, and also anticipating the pathology results of the surgery. That "blah" is no more. My recovery is over, cold is gone, and I have the results. So that's something else I've realized: the sadness or pain of one day is not the sadness or pain of every day. Your "blahs" will be temporary. That's not to say you won't have more "blahs"; that's just to say that you, and life, moves on.
So far these past few paragraphs have turned into a culmination of previous posts, which is OK because what I feel and wrote about last week still very much stands. And those past posts act as pillars that hold all of this together. They are staples in this book of my journey. They are feelings and emotions I have recorded to help guide me. Maybe one day they will help guide me to a conclusion, but more than that they do something much more valuable: they just help guide me. There really is no "conclusion" because I believe we are always learning and discovering new things about ourselves and about life. At the end of most of my posts there is some sort of feeling or discovery that I have landed on; something new I learned about myself and my situation. But that is merely a guide. Each little piece will help me along the way.
So maybe it's OK that today I still don't have a feeling or direction about all this. Things are still sinking in. I still know I have more road ahead of my: more saline fills followed by a period of waiting followed by surgery followed by recovery. And then, all of that is followed by lifelong tests and scans and possibly more fear and anxiety. I think the hardest thing about all this is knowing about the road I have ahead of me, but also living life the best, and most fulfilling way possible. It's hard to be happy when this is going on, yet at the same time, I think I'm doing it because my life is so good otherwise and it doesn't take much to make me happy. Maybe that's why this is all so confusing. The path I once described as having many thorns now has less of them, and the treadmill I once described as stuck now is moving a little more. I AM moving forward, physically, mentally and emotionally. But I'm having trouble finding my "place" within myself. Who am I right now, and where am I? Am I mostly OK or mostly not OK? Because I'm having a hard time "naming" my feelings or direction, I am having a hard time "naming" myself.
Sure, I'm still me, and I am who I've always been, but am I now a little stronger or a little weaker? Am I wiser from all this, or just more confused?
As part of this journey, I understand that I don't need to have the answers to those questions right now, and they don't need a deadline either. They'll come when they come. Here's what I think: I THINK I am a little bit stronger in that I've fought cancer twice now and believe in myself even more today than I used to. I THINK I'm a little bit wiser because I know more about breast cancer and want to raise awareness, and actually do something with my knowledge and experiences.
All of these thoughts and feelings just feel overwhelming: I've still got this long road ahead of me, yet I'm also living life every day and still doing all the things I have planned: football games, weddings, parties, traveling, and planning my wedding. It's all moving along and happening, despite what and how I feel on the inside, which is sometimes strong and wise, but it's also sometimes scared and in pain.
I'm not sure if, like the others, this post will build a pillar to help guide me on this journey. It's OK if it doesn't. It's still a place where I get out my feelings and concerns which, even if it can't be a pillar, can be a small stepping stone. Sure, today I'll cross, with this post, a pond. But tomorrow I may cross a river.

Getting back to my version of normal

My saline fills have officially begun ... again! I met with my plastic surgeon this morning and because of how well I had healed from the surgery, he was able to put in 60 cc's, meaning I only have 40 left to go until I'll be "fully expanded," or where I was before the skin-removing surgery. That means my appointment next week will be the last saline fill, and will be the last for a while. Then, a month from that I will have a consultation-type appointment with my plastic surgeon where (and this is the fun part ...) I get to choose my implant size. And then a month from there (so, essentially two months after the last fill), I can have my implant surgery. We'd like to get it scheduled in the end of October or beginning of November so it doesn't dip into any wedding/wedding-related plans.
So that is that. We're moving along again with the expansion process, and although today's fill was painful, it wasn't that bad compared to other fills before the surgery, probably because I have a little more skin now than I did the first time around. I'll feel really good once the surgery date is scheduled, but even though it isn't yet, I can really start to see the end of this whole thing. Surgery is over, recovery pretty much done since I can resume normal physical activity as of today, and expansion has begun again. Yes, moving along.
I feel pretty good about all of this right now. It's amazing to know how fast your body can recover from things. I'll begin my post-mastectomy stretches again (important to do every day since I had lymph nodes removed), get back to the gym and back to my weight-lifting. It will just be the "regular" discomfort of the expander; essentially the healing is over from the surgery. So back to "normal," or what is "normal" in my life right now. And ya know what? That's not half bad.

Spotlight on: fall fashion

Each season I wear different styles and trends, and not just because of altering weather, but because my fashion taste changes. I like to take current trends and put my own, unique twist on them to make what I wear more personal, and more expressive of my personality.
Two summers ago I focused on turquoise, gold and brown, gladiator sandals and scarves. The following fall and winter I was all about mixing black and reds (think dresses, skirts and tights) and wearing midnight blues and purple nailpolish. Tweed pencil skirts and nude heels also are always something I appreciate for fall and winter weather. This past spring and summer I bought and wore mostly yellows and oranges and floral patterns. This coming fall I see a lot of tribal prints growing in popularity, but what I'm most excited about is cardigans and brooches.
I've never been a cardigan person until recently. I had one black one (which I still own, actually), that I wore with everything. I bought it sometime in college and never got sick of it. I also had a light green one, which I've owned since high school, that surprisingly still looks good on me and accents many different outfits. And then I had a change of heart: I wanted cardigans and I wanted many. My collection still is relatively small in comparison to my shoes, but now I own a white one, a red one, and a lilac one with white polka dots. I also found an orange one in my closet at my mom's house that I wore when I was 15 years old. And now, I'm proud to say it fits me again, thanks to Weight Watchers. Anyway, that's besides the point. Having different color cardigans allows you to create many different outfits, and in my opinion, this fall, there's no better way to accent them than a brooch. It's stylish, feminine and classy, and it's appropriate for work.
Also this coming fall, I can't wait to break out my tan loafers, navy blue Bass boat shoes, wedged boots, black blazer and lace tights. As much as I love summer and hate the cold, it is refreshing when the air turns crisp and it all of a sudden becomes appropriate to wear boots instead of flip flops.
In this post I'll spotlight my take on colorful cardigans, elegant brooches, fun purses (I have used these for both weddings and New Years) and fall nail colors.

















Fall fashion to wear THIS fall:
Tribal/Aztec prints
Quilted bags
Leather bomber jackets
Jewlery with birds or feathers
Roses
Burnt orange
Stripes (yes, they're back in)
Oxfords (flats or booties)

Fall staples to wear EVERY fall:
Black suede or leather boots
Pencils skirts (any color)
Black blazer
Silver "Boyfriend" watch
Red, black or grey knit, silk or pashmina scarf
White button-down shirt
Argyle anything
Chunky "chain" jewlery

Pictures of today

PRETTY things of today ...


{best.bathrobe.ever}

{roses from friends}

{pink is perfect}

Results from the 2nd surgery

Picking up the pace on the treadmill ...

I got the pathology results today from my second surgery and I'm happy to report everything came back benign, meaning they didnt find any further cancer cells in the skin specimen they removed. My doctor said because of this she's not forseeing any need for radiation, but will bring my case to the board of about 10 oncologists, surgeons and pathologists just to make sure nobody has a differing opinion.
It's part of the process at Hershey so that each decision made isn't the one of just one individual, but a collective decision of about 10 doctors. This will be the third time my case will be brought above the board.)
But the good news, that we can focus on NOW, is that they didn't find anything else/a clear margin was achieved!!!! Good good good!
Am I relieved? Yes. Ahhhh. (That's the sound of my breathing normally again).
I never know how relieved I'll actually be after getting results. I always think I will be, and then it ends up there's another question, test, anxiety. Like there's never really been a straight "yes" or "no" answer. There's always "I think so" or "I don't think so" and that takes a lot of getting used to. Actually, I don't think I'll ever get used to that. Breast cancer treatment, like I've mentioned before, varies and changes and changes and varies. Decisions are made from test results, and tests are done because certain decisions are made, and the cycle goes on and on. One thing depends on another which depends on another. Chemotherapy treatment would depend on if the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes, which it didn't. Radiation treatment would depend on if more cancer was found in the margin, which it wasn't.
We know this is good news. We know the goal was to get a good and clean margin around where the tumor was. My doctor believed she could achieve this through surgery rather than radiation. And she was right. She did. My tumor was removed in May, and just last week the margin was removed, with no cancer cells in sight.
I am officially cancer-free. And I am relieved, and really, just about as relieved as I thought I would be, which is about a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the highest level of relief.
It's not the highest level of relief because I'm not done with this yet. This probably is the end of my treatment, yes. But I still have weeks ahead of painful expansion, followed by a month or two of just having the expander in (which is hell), and then another surgery, followed by more recovery. It's overwhelming, but compared to other, more difficult treatment, it seems like a piece of cake. The truth is, my case has been "lucky" since day one. We really only got good news, besides the results from the core biopsy that showed some invasive cancer cells. But it turned out that no invasive cancer was found, the cancer was limited to one spot, it was small, it hadn't spread, and now recently, that the margin was clean. It's all been good news. It was found early and treated early. I did well with both surgeries.
I don't believe I'll ever be fully relieved (at a 10) until years have gone by being cancer-free. There's still checkups every 3 months in which I worry about the cancer coming back, or appearing in the other breast. There's still that worry. There's still the 0.00001 percent chance the board will review my case and recommend radiation. What I realize is that while getting good news from surgery results is amazing and relieving, I won't be "free" of all this physical pain and mental anxiety for a while. Yes, I'm blessed that all this worked out the way it did. But I'm still "in" this. I'm still waiting for more things to happen. But that's OK. It's part of the process.
There have been many times when I imagined myself completely relieved, or "free" of whatever I was holding onto upon hearing certain test results. But it's never that way. That's because there's always been something more.
Example: When I met with my doctor following my surgery, and when we found out my lymph nodes were clean AND no invasive cancer was found (both extremely good things!), there was still the margin she was worried about. Sure, it's small compared to other things she could have said. But it's still something.
And this time around, with these results, we know a third crucial piece of the puzzle:
1. Lymph nodes clean
2. No invasive cancer
3. New: clean margin free of cancer cells
Each piece brings us a little closer to the end, but we're not there yet. I see the end of all this more today than I did yesterday, and certainly more than I did two months ago. It makes me feel good to know not just one, but about 10 doctors look at my case each time, but it's incredibly difficult to accept that until the board reviews my case, there isn't a clear answer. What my doctor said today was pretty straightforward, and that was she doesn't see a need for radiation. So what that means to me is that I probably won't have radiation. But will I ever be able to say: "I WON'T need radiation" rather than "I PROBABLY won't need radiation"? Well, yes, but I'm never able to say things with certainly right away, which is what I crave and expect. I have learned, though, through all of this, is that test results are clear (either the lymph nodes have cancer or they don't, or either the margin was clean or it wasn't), but what comes next isn't always. And that drives me crazy. But that's how it is. Every other breast cancer patient or survivor I talked to has had similar experiences. Lots of tests and waiting and more tests and waiting. Even if a specific treatment or surgery was decided upon and scheduled, what would happen after may not be certain.
And I know that's partly due to my specific case. Had my cancer been invasive or advanced (G-d forbid) chemotherapy would have been given right away. But because it was small, early and non-invasive, the doctors wanted to take time to make the right decisions and take precautions to make sure they could get rid of the cancer while doing the least amount of damage- treatment or surgery I didn't need. Being 26 also comes into play. I believe doctors are more hesitant about doing certain things to a young person who's already had cancer before. Everything needs to be considered carefully, and I get that, but for a person who wants black and white answer now, it's hard.
If I look at the whole picture, I feel lucky and blessed from these results. I'm not done yet, but we just got good news, and things ARE moving along.
I think I'll be at a 10 when my treatment is officially over, my implant surgery is done and my recovery is complete, when I'm back to "normal" (regular physical activity, and no pain driving, opening doors or breathing), and have been cancer-free for many years. Or maybe I'll be at a 10 sooner than that. Or never. Only time will tell.
It took many, many years following my treatment for Leukemia for me to feel that it was gone and it wasn't coming back. Like many other cancer patients/survivors, I worry that the cancer isn't completely gone (though now I know it is), or that it will come back in the same or different place, either one month from now or ten years from now. It's normal to have these fears and I'm working on them and talking about them. It's also important to awknowledge that this anxiety is not going to go away overnight, and I've been through a lot emotionally these past few months which might make it easier to have second thoughts or doubts. It's hard to accept that that's all OK and it won't be like that forever. It sucks and it hurts that I'm going through this, but if I have to go through it, at least I'm doing so, with what I now believe, is flying colors.
Since my diagnosis life seems more magnified. Little things become big things. True, things like driving, sleeping comfortably and going to work take more effort. They're harder and more painful. They're more exhausting. But at the same time, fun things like spending time with friends (ladies nights and coffee dates are my favorite!) are more of an accomplishment. It's true that when you have something scary happen in life you appreciate life more. I think that statement is broad enough to be applied to really any situation or circumstance. But it's not just that: for me, even the little celebrations in life become much bigger not just because it takes effort on my part physically and mentally, but because I am actually proud of myself for having fun through all of this.
The wedding and planning turned from the wedding and planning into something bigger and more monumental: not just a celebration, but a CELEBRATION. When we look to the wedding 7 months from now we see this all behind us, and me a healthy person. We see an accomplishment. We see and will be celebrating a new love and relationship that Sean and I have formed. We've always loved and cared for each other, but now, having gone (and going through) this together, our commitment and future life together takes on more meaning. Our "in sickness and in health" came early. (it's a joke so you can laugh).
I don't think things in life will be magnified forever. I think they are now because what I'm going through is so big and each day takes a new form. I range from excited to scared to nervous to depressed millions of times a day, every day. Things just seem bigger. But I guess that's how it is when your life is temporarily turned upside down. I try, every day, to grasp what I can, do what I can, understand what I can, move forward when I can. But I also let myself feel sad. It's incredibly hard to find a balance and to actually put a description on what I feel day to day, since it changes so much, and literally millions of thoughts are going through my head at any given moment. And it makes me even more anxious to not have one single thought at once, but like a million. I feel very zig-zaggy at times. But it won't be that way forever. I'll eventually be able to see, and think, clearer.
It's a constant battle to keep moving, in any direction, really. I feel as though I'm on a treadmill where I'm walking really hard but not physically going any place. But today, for maybe the first time, the belt on the treadmill became a little looser and a little faster, and I believe I'll be moving on in a different way very soon.
So I guess it's not so bad if I'm at a 7 today. Just three months ago I was at a 1.

Changing seasons

There's no doubt about it. Fall is already in the air in Pennsylvania. As much as I don't mind fall weather (I actually find it quite refreshing), what I do mind is how short fall is here. In Pennsylvania, which has been home to me since 2008, the seasons that I love are short, and the ones I hate are long. Spring is about two weeks. Now when I talk about spring I am thinking of sunny days in the 70s, birds chirping, flowers blooming. The beginning of spring is clearly marked by those first few days of flip-flop weather, or when just a light cardigan will do. Then it's summer all of a sudden. It's 80 degrees and your flowers are all dried up. Yes, the flowers you just bought two weeks ago. Summer, the real summer, which I classify as so hot you can't breathe, is really only two months or so. When I think of summer I think of lazy days at the pool followed by thunder storms and ice cream sundaes in styrofoam bowls. Summer comes up fast, and then it's over. Then it's fall. Fall is about two weeks. The real fall. Fall is that crisp breeze that actually feels good, apple cider, cinnamon candles and trips to the farmer's markets for pumpkins. When thick socks don't feel bulky anymore and sounds on the TV of football games travel through the house. And then there's winter. Long, long winter, which starts sometime in October and lasts through March or, in some cases, April. Endless nights of darkness, days of bitter wind. Long mornings digging my car out of the snow. Breaking two or three ice scrapers. Fingers numb. Boots and socks always wet. Can you tell I hate winter? Yes, snow is pretty. But only for like a day. Sure, winter means it's my birthday and Hanukkah, two of my favorite holidays, but it also means constant effort to stay warm, waking up when it's still dark outside, and always, always worrying about getting to work and back.
So while I don't mind fall starting, it does mean that winter is not too far behind, and that, I mind.
I enjoy each change in season because it's new and refreshing, and marks life moving on and new and exciting things. It also means some things - like holidays and birthdays - come around again. Familiar events I find comfort in because they are consistent year after year. And then there are events that only happen once. They each have their very own year. Like weddings, or babies being born, or moving to a new place. I don't usually classify years of my life by big things that happen, but I know as soon as 2011 is over I will remember it mostly as the year I got engaged, but also the year I got breast cancer. And 2012 ... well that will be the year I get married!
2008 was when I graduated college and moved to Lewistown.
1997 I got Leukemia.
Those are the years that stick out in my mind the most, because they were monumental.
Although since my breast cancer diagnosis in April I have felt like I'm a constant whirpool with no way out and no clear path ahead, knowing that fall is on the way is an actual reminder, and sign, that life IS moving forward.
Yes, I've felt at a standstill. I know progress has been made in my treatment. I've had two surgeries now, and we know more about my case than we did three months ago. But the truth is, we're still waiting. We may be waiting for something different than we were in May, but we're still waiting. Any day now I should know the pathology results of this recent surgery, which means any day now this "path" could take a completely different direction.
Waiting is the worst because you imagine different scenarios playing out in your head over and over again, as hard as you try not to. Something that's weird to admit is that even though on the day of my diagnosis I was distraught, confused, shocked, angry and terrified, there was 0.1 percent of me that felt a bit of relief. Why? Because I had been WAITING 17 days to find out if the lump I had found was cancerous. True, the news was bad. But it was news and it was something to work with. From the day I found the lump until the day the doctor called me at 8:30 a.m. on the Monday following my fine needle aspiration, I was constantly picturing in my mind different ways the situation could play out: The doctor calling me and telling me the lump was just a cyst and to follow up in 6 months and me saying "Thank G-d!" and jumping up and down in relief, to the doctor telling me it was cancer. When I tried to imagine the latter scenario I couldn't imagine what I would say or do. I always cut off my thoughts before I got to my reaction. Because I couldn't picture it. I couldn't fathom it. I told myself that latter scenario didn't make any sense, but I knew it was a possibility because of the mere reality that the lump could either be something or nothing. I just couldn't, for the life of me, imagine it being something.
17 days is a long, long time to wait to see if your life is going to dramatically change, or if it will continue on the path you believe it should.
I remember that day (April 18) very clearly, though when I try to remember my reaction things seem muddled.
I don't remember much of what the doctor said that day, but the words I do remember are: "Do you have a few moments?" when I first answered the phone, and then "there were some cancer cells there" referring to the needle aspiration. The conversation was probably 15 minutes, but that's all I remember. Those two sentences.
My heart was pounding when I first picked up the phone because it was 8:30 in the morning, and I knew doctors didn't call that early for good news. My mouth was dry, and as soon as those words "cancer cells" came out, I felt like my head had lifted above my body; that it wasn't attached anymore.
The doctor was kind and sweet and patient. And I had many follow-up calls that day from other doctors to make sure I had everything I needed in terms of support, and that I knew what was to come next.
Sean was there when I got the news. He sat with me and I just cried and kept saying, over and over again "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
I literally felt paralyzed, like the world had stopped short and I was on the edge of a cliff and had to make a move.
The first people I called were my mom and my brother and telling them was surreal, because I knew as as surreal as it all seemed to me, it was more surreal to them.
There's no way to tell the people you love most, and who love you most, you have cancer ... again. You just have to come out and say it. My mom and my brother saw me fight Leukemia for three years, and now I was telling them I had to do it all again, in a different way.
Later that day we walked in the park by his parents' house, where we were for the first night of Passover. It was a beautiful day out: sunny and warm, yet I was freezing and wearing a coat. The sky was clear and the air was crisp. We saw people pass us, either jogging or walking, on the path, and I looked at them and wondered if they had ever dealt with something as scary as I was dealing with that very day.
It was like the day I found out I had Leukemia. I don't remember much of that day either, and I don't actually remember the doctor saying the word "cancer" or "Leukemia," but I do remember sitting in the doctor's office looking down at the highway outside the window, where rows and rows of cars were whizzing by. I wanted to be in all those cars down there instead of where I was. I wanted to be where the "healthy" people were. I imagined them driving home from school or work, like they do every day, not touched by this terrible disease, which I just found out I had.
I believe it was G-d's plan to have Sean in my life during this chapter in my life, and for all the other, and numerous, chapters to come. On that April day, I knew instantly he would take care of me and make sure I got the treatment I needed. I never had to worry about that. I knew he was my cushion to lean on for support and comfort. Since that day he has never left my side. I can't imagine my life now (or even before my breast cancer) without him. He literally is my soul mate. There is no one else on this planet I feel so connected to, so destined to be with. He literally is G-d's plan for me.
I may have veered off course a little since I started this post talking about the change in seasons and then I got into the day of my diagnosis. But, I guarantee this post will come full circle, since I know exactly where I'm taking it.
I'm unsure about a lot of things. I don't know what these results will be, if I'll need radiation or not. I don't know if I'll get breast cancer again, or another cancer. And I'm scared about a lot of things, too. I'm scared for the people I love, and want nothing other than for them to be protected.
Out of all this uncertainty, one thing is certain, though, and that's that seasons will always come and go, despite life events. The world keeps turning whether or not the people living in it are ready. Today, as I write this, changing seasons is a good thing. It means that despite everything that's going on, life does move on. Of course none of us know what each season, or year, will bring. But we do know that each season, and year, will come and go, and during this time we'll all grow. Sure, time brings new things, whether it be pain or joy, but it also brings healing. Things do heal with time. Hearts heal, scars fade. That doesn't mean that we don't get hurt, or cut again. It just means we can find comfort knowing that whatever pain, or sadness, or anxiety, we're feeling at this very moment is not eternal.