Happy Sunday!

We try to keep Sundays as a sort of secular sabbath:  a day of rest and reflection, a time for relaxation and reconnection.  I love Sunday mornings especially, with our coffee on the sofa in the early morning light.  It feels like the we are waiting to greet the day.  And if we're lucky, we can find reruns of "90210" on SoapNet - an old early-dating-days favorite.  It's a chance to regroup and reset, and get ready for the next six days.

If the weather is nice we run outside; when it gets colder, like it is now, I prefer to run at the Y on the oval track.  I like it.  There's a peace in the pace, in the routine of the run around in a circle.  I count my laps and find that my mind focuses on the numbers, instead of the pain in my arch or the inability to catch my breath.  I miss the sun and blue sky, but I get more work done on the oval track.

The first time I ever ran, I was 46.  Before that fateful day, the farthest I had ever run was the 50 yard dash - when I was 10.  So I'm getting older and feeling the need for more activity, and running seemed natural and relatively inexpensive.  The first time out called for me to walk for 5 minutes, then run for 1, then walk for 3.  I walked for 5, feeling strong and confident and determined!  Adrenaline pumping, I take my first step of my very first ever run.  My lungs start to explode, my legs shake; I want to vomit, and then just fall over and die.  I look at my watch, and I still have 30 seconds left to go.  I cursed every runner I've ever known (including my husband) and vowed that if I survived the next 30 seconds, I would never run again.

I ran three 5ks that summer/fall - then I stopped running.  Winter came, and I just didn't want to go outside.  I was consumed with writing a thesis and getting ready for graduation.  I was never good at it anyway, and I was not losing the weight I hoped to.  I had hated running from the first step I took, and it was easy to give up.

I started running again this spring, when the weather turned warm.  I paced myself training this time - didn't overdo it so I hated it, was gentle and patient with myself, had a more positive outlook and realistic expectation.  Even Ken noticed the difference; I wasn't an angry runner, this time I was a happy runner.  I think I even fell in love - just a little! - with the freedom of the movement.   I ran a 5k in October, but wasn't happy with my time.  I had plenty of reasons for my shitty time - I'm too fat, I'm too slow, I don't care enough, I'm too old, I don't have enough determination, I really just can't do it, why don't I just give up?  As I sat on the sidelines watching runners cross the half-marathon finish line, complaining and whining in my head, I saw every one of my "excuses" at that moment - a woman in her 70's, another woman twice my size, someone crying, another person moving barely faster than a slow walk.  I realized that I am my own worst enemy - I am the reason I cannot run.

I know I will survive this fight, and I will do it in style.  And all the while I will be training for a half marathon - because if I can do that, I can do anything.

Today's blog brought to you by the letter "C"

Sometimes, I forget.

Like today, I was cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the sink.  I remembered something to add to the grocery list and ran downstairs, and there's my husband so I tell him I love him and kiss his cheek, and I run back upstairs and finishing scrubbing, then decide to wash the bathroom rugs and throw them down the laundry chute, and I'm standing there and I know I've forgotten something but I can't remember what it is...

I forgot about it.  For a moment, it was gone.

Right now it's easy to forget.  My left breast is tender, not just from the excisional biopsy, but over the top and down towards my armpit.  Once in a while I feel a really sharp, stabbing pain near the top.  I suppose that could mean something.  Most likely what it means is that my breast was cut open and my little lump was removed and there is healing happening.  That makes sense.

But when my breast doesn't hurt, I sometimes forget.  I know as I move further into treatment it will be harder to forget, because it will become so much a part of my everyday life.  But it - this cancer - won't define me.  It is not me.  It is simply a part of me, for right now - but I'll be damned if it's going to hang around for very long.

Two nights ago, I had a dream.  My friend Kirsta and I were visiting friends, many of our favorite child welfare buddies (Cheryl and Jean and Veda and Jeanne were there!)  They all wore these beautiful royal and light blue flowing robes - almost choir-like - and were warm and welcoming and loving (as always!)  I had to go outside and let the dog out of the trunk of my car (don't ask me why I had a dog in the trunk of my car).  As I opened the lid the dog - a medium-sized brown mutt with a jet-black muzzle - leapt at me and bit my left forearm.  I'm looking down at this dog and I see his razor-like teeth, which sink deeper into my arm.  It hurts - I swear I can feel it in my dream!  His eyes are so dark and he smiles as he bites me even harder.  I'm flailing and screaming and this dog just keeps sinking his teeth even further into my arm, and I keep looking him in the eyes and he just isn't going to let go.  Suddenly another dog appears - huge and soft and round and friendly and sweet, and he grabs the dog on my arm and shakes him and magically, the smaller dog lets go of my arm!  The big dog literally trots off like a puppy with this howling, wrenching cur in his teeth, and I'm left looking at my mangled, bloody arm.  I hurt, I am in pain, I am scarred for life, but I am alive.  And I hear my friends behind me, singing like a host of heavenly angels, and I realize that nothing else matters but the fact that I'm standing in that very spot, having survived a possibly deadly attack.  I woke feeling so happy and peaceful and beautiful and loved.

I do not need a copy of Freud's Interpretation of Dreams to figure that one out.

So sometimes I will forget, and I'm happy when I do.  But it's okay when I remember, too, and it doesn't make me sad.  It just makes it real - for now.  Because one day, that fucking dog, determined to bite my arm off, is going to be carried away by the treatments that will save my life.  I may be bruised and bloody and scarred when it's over, but I'll be alive.

And in the end, that's all that really matters.

A new path in my journey

I have breast cancer.

Once upon a time, I found a lump on my chest.  I didn't think much of it; it was small and innocent, and laying quietly on the outer edge of my left breast near my breastbone.  I rubbed it and thought, "Hmm...I don't remember that being there before.  Wonder where it came from?"  I went about my business and, quite honestly, I forgot about it.

In mid-September I went in for my annual check-up.  My practitioner is a nurse-midwife who spends lots of time talking with me (pre-physical, while I still have my clothes on).  We talked about hot flashes and natural remedies.  I forgot to mention my little lump, and when she did my breast exam she didn't feel it, either.  But she scheduled a routine mammogram, and I went on my merry way feeling examined and happy.

I mentioned my little lump when I arrived for my routine mammogram.  I pointed to the spot and the nurse felt it, saying, "I never would have noticed that if you hadn't mentioned it."  She then told me I would have to go to the hospital radiography department for a mammogram and ultrasound.  Oh joy!  Another two-week wait.

Two weeks later I had the mammogram - only to discover that my little lump was too far outside of the region that they could mamm.   Trying to fit my little lump, near the middle of my chest, into the squeezy machine was very difficult and not less than really painful.  But I smiled as the nurse told me that sometimes, they use the mammography machine to check for testicular cancer, and so I figured my pain wasn't nearly as bad as it might be for some others.

The ultrasound was much more pleasant.  The tech was very nice and allowed me to watch as she rolled the gadget over my chest area.  She checked my entire left breast and after 20 minutes suggested it "looked like a lymph node."  I nodded and smiled and said, "Well, that's good!"  She had the doctor check the scan and apparently he concurred with her.  So off I went, happy that my lymph nodes were catching nasty bugs and doing their job.

My friendly midwife called a week later and asked to see me.  She had the results of the radiologist's report which confirmed the likelihood of a lymph node.  I could see my primary care physician and sort of "keep an eye" on it, or she could send me to the general surgeon who could remove it.  I opted for the general surgeon because, frankly, I didn't want to spend the $35 copay to visit my PCP who would, undoubtedly, refer me to the general surgeon.  Let's just cut out the middle man and get on with it, okay?

Two weeks later, Ken and I are sitting in the general surgeon's office.  He has reviewed my reports, he says, and thinks my little lump is a fibroadenoma – basically a lump of fibrous tissue.  He does a manual exam, pokes my little lump (which now, many weeks later, seems bigger, but that's probably just in my mind), and says it's best if it comes out - how about next week?  Sure, why not - let's get this over with, I say.   Since it's small and should be easy, he suggests local anesthesia, and we make our appointment for the following Thursday.

When I arrive for my surgery - removing this fibrous little lump near the middle of my chest - the nurse informs me that I'm actually scheduled for a breast biopsy.  I frown; no one mentioned a biopsy.  She says they'll want to send whatever they remove to pathology, just in case, so it's a biopsy.  Okay, I think - piece of cake, let's do this!

An hour later (and after learning that my body does not tolerate local anesthetic), my little lump is removed.  The doctor leans over the drape above my head and says, "I got most of it; the edges were sticky and it was hard to get out.  I have some concerns."  And then *poof* he's gone.

On the ride home Ken tells me he was surprised at the gravity with which the doctor delivered the post-op news.  "I am concerned," he says, "but I think I got it all."  We instinctively know this is not a fibrous growth or a benign lesion; it is no longer a simple little lump near the middle of my chest.

We spend a long weekend talking, researching, reading, talking some more.  On Monday, we celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary, staring at the fish tank in Daryl's over a candlelight dinner of - what did I have?  I can't really remember.

On Tuesday morning I call the doctor's office, and he says the words I was prepared to hear - but not really.

I have breast cancer.

Specifically, I have invasive ductal carcinoma, or IDC, Stage 1, Grade 2.  He throws out words like, "oncotyping" and "HER2" and "radiation" and "lumpectomy."  He also is quick to tell me that this is "typical" breast cancer.

On November 22, 2011 at 9:45 am.  My life changes.  Our life changes.

Cancer is such a scary word, but in this diagnosis there is good news.  Stage 1 means the lesion is small - about 1/2 an inch, or just over 1 cm.  This is good news, because it is small.  Grade 2 means it is moderate.  That is also good, because it is not Grade 3 or Grade 4.   My cancer is not self-contained, rather it has spread to the surrounding tissue.  It is still good, though, because it the area is small.

I am scheduled for a lumpectomy on Monday, December 5th.  At that time the surgeon will remove more tissue from the area were my little lump was originally located, leaving clean "margins", hopefully without cancer cells.  At the same time my surgeon will perform a sentinal lymph node biopsy, or SNB, where he will check the lymph nodes under my left arm.  If they are clear, that is really good; if they are not, he will remove whatever he needs to at that time.

I will likely have radiation; I may or may not have chemotherapy.  Right now, the doctor says a mastectomy is "not likely" - but that can change, I know that, and I am prepared for that.  It's hard to make plans when I don't know what's coming, so living in the moment is more than a mantra, it's quickly becoming a way of life.



I have cancer, but it does not have me.