I Will Still be Me

Greetings! This post is brought to you by my plastic surgeon. Ha ha. No, I didn't ask him to sponsor me, but I should have! One of the surreal parts of this journey is navigating through crazy decisions I thought I'd never have to make, and one of those decisions involves reconstruction. As I inch forward to my surgery on Tuesday, the realization hits me over and over again like a wave: I am never going to look the same way again. I probably will not feel like the same person I was either, and that is going to have to be okay. So what did I do this week? Thanks to a heads up from my co-worker who is finishing her treatment for cancer, I made an appointment with a plastic surgeon who I might employ to Barbify me back to normal when I get clear of this disease. It was just a consultation, but wow, who knew there were so many different options for various parts? In case you have never been  to see a plastic surgeon (or to California), I'm telling you, there is a whole other world out there, people.

 This week, I also went into work to  help prepare my classes for my co-worker, who will be taking over for me in September when school starts on the 4th. It was so wonderful to see everyone, feel normal, and forget about cancer for awhile! On Thursday, almost everyone in the district came in wearing pink to support all the people who have been affected by this disease. What a great show of support! I have never missed the first day of school since I started Kindergarten, but I came away from our district days feeling much better and ready to focus on getting the cancer out next week and getting well, even if that means missing school. Sam will just have to go and tell me all about it, which you know all sixteen-year-old boys love to do.

Speaking of the boys, lots of people have asked how they are doing, and I would say that so far, they are doing well. It helps that Sam has soccer and Luke has school already, but honestly I would say they take their cue from me, and I've tried to be as even-keeled as possible (crying in the shower and the car doesn't count!). They are worried though, and this comes out in various ways like these conversations I've had with Luke (13 years old):

Conversation #1 
Me: Tell me what you're worried about.
Luke: Are you going to have to be in a wheelchair?
Me: No, but after surgery, I won't be able to lift more than a gallon of milk.
Luke: Why? Because your arm will fall off?
Me: No, I get to keep my arms and legs. :)

Conversation #2 
Luke: (nervous look on his face but remains quiet)
Me: What's going on in your head - what are you thinking?
Luke: Well, if you aren't going to have boobs and you're going to be bald, then aren't you going to look like a man?
Me: (had never thought of it this way before, but now I am...gah!) I will take all the necessary steps to make sure I look like my old self, but just remember, those are just parts of me I'm losing, I will still be ME!

Game On!

2! 4! 6! 8! Who do we appreciate? My oncologist! He had great news for me today after looking over my PET scan and blood work. It appears that the cancer birds have not been making any nests in my system according to the scan, plus all my blood work came back normal, PLUS I got the green light for surgery next week. It is ridiculous to think that I was practically cheering about the fact that I have double mastectomy coming up next week (Tuesday), but I was. Facing this challenge and seeing some close friends go through it as well paints life in a brand new perspective. You definitely start thinking about what is the most important, what you can live without, what you can't...

I couldn't do without all my friends and family and coworkers who have shown me so much support these past few weeks. Today was my first day back to work, and even though we are reeling from having three department members dealing with cancer right now, being together made me feel stronger in the face of this adversity. I never feel alone even when I am waiting in a doctor's office by myself or being scanned through a machine because I know I've got a team of people backing me up.
I'm ready for the next step: game on!

Help! I think I'm radioactive!

So, if you've never had to undergo an MRI or a PET scan or biopsies, consider yourself lucky. In the past two months, I've had more medical tests and procedures than I've ever had in my life. Here is a quick timeline of what each one has been like and what the doctors found out using them...

June - Mammogram - got one at the end of June like I do every year. This year, it caught sight of calcifications in a milk duct that got biopsied as stage 0 pre-cancer. Scary, but doable. I was supposed to treat it with a lumpectomy and radiation. No problem.

July - Ultrasound before lumpectomy surgery - Feels like a small, slimy rolling pin going over your skin to see below the surface. This was supposed to help them mark the surgery sight, but surprise! There was another mass hiding out in there. Sayyyyyy Whatttttt? No surgery for you. Go home. We need to do an MRI to see how much is in there.

Early August - MRI -

If a dolphin and robot had a baby, it would sound like the MRI machine. Imagine a movie in which you are going to Mars in a tube that makes these sounds, and you will have some idea of what being inside an MRI machine feels like. I had headphones on so the techs could talk to me, and I had a panic button. Just having a panic button made me feel panicked! Also, there is a reason they ask if you are claustrophobic before you get into the machine. I made the mistake of opening my eyes once I was in there and discovered that my face was only 1-2 inches from the top of the tube. Too close! I had to start saying the rosary on speed dial, but I did not press the panic button because I did not want to ruin the test and start over for another 30 minutes. This test showed that I had a 5.9cm long mass on one side and an enlarged lymph node. Gah!

2nd week of August - Two biopsies - The radiologist numbed my side and shot a needle into the mass 6 times plus another 5 times into the lymph node. The lymph node sample came back benign, but the mass came back as invasive ductal carcinoma. Stage II, ...No longer a cakewalk, folks, but the doctor says it is curable for sure. I'm ashamed to admit that before this experience, I didn't know there were so many types of breast cancers and treatments suited for each one...I thought there was just "breast cancer."

3rd week of August - PET Scan & blood tests -

My oncologist suggests that I do these before surgery to see if there is any more cancer "making nests" inside my body because if there is, I cannot do the surgery and have to start with chemo. For the PET scan, I was led to a small room with a recliner. Would you like a warm blanket? Can I dim the lights for you? These are the questions the nurse asked me, and it felt like a spa day until I saw her walk across the hall into the radioactive pharmacy. She came back carrying what looked like a white metal lunch box with a radioactive sign on it. Three shots of that stuff, and I was left to marinate for an hour before the scan. The shots have a glucose dye in them that attaches more quickly to cancer cells, and the radioactivity helps them light up on the scan, so that they can see where the cancer is. In my mind, I'm hoping the cancer birds are not making nests anywhere else.

An hour later: walking into the PET scan room was like being on the set of a space movie. The scanner can best be described as an enormous white mechanical donut that your radioactive body gets loaded in and passed through. Compared to the MRI, this one was silent and more open. It was actually really peaceful if I didn't think about why I was there. Now I am just waiting on the results of this test.

Thanks for all your thoughts and prayers! Keep them coming!
Love and light,
Jennifer

The Charlie's Angels have some bad news...

Hello again! This is part two of my cancer diagnosis, and I wrote this humorous version to share with my English teacher friends but thought other folks might enjoy it as well. I basically tried to capture what happened to me on the day I went in for my initial lumpectomy surgery on July 30, which did not go as planned...

Going in for surgery was a surreal experience, but the cancer center team made it all very smooth, and Hans was the best supportive spouse (Offering to carry my frilly purse + Not checking his cell phone every 2 minutes so he can give me his undivided attention = True Love).  After donning the "gown" and what looked like a pair of Airmaxx trampoline jump socks, I was ready to roll. Luckily, Pam and Linda had warned me about the pre-op  biopsy procedure that could be a bit uncomfortable and in which I might encounter a "creepy guy". I was on the lookout for the creepy guy and was not disappointed. When "Lester" showed up, he smiled with a mouth that had a few too many teeth, which I'm sure served him well in his role as an Addams' Family movie extra. His job was to take me to the biopsy room in the Breast Center in a wheelchair via a basement tunnel so that I didn't have to walk around the public upstairs area in my hospital gown. While being covertly ferried through the underground tunnels past the laundry services and kitchen, I thought, "This must be what Beyonce feels like before a concert!" (...If Beyonce had broken both her legs and had to attend her own concert in a wheelchair.) :)

Eventually, Les got me to the biopsy ultrasound room, and I met Nikki, my tech, who went over what to expect from the procedure. I could tell something was up, however, when she said "hmmm" amidst her clicking and typing on the machine. Then, when she left and came back with both my surgeon and the radiologist, I knew the "hmmm" piece was not good.  The surgeon, radiologist, and ultrasound tech are all pretty women about my age, so it felt like I was being addressed by a team of Charlie's Angels who were basically telling me: "We thought we were only up against one bad guy, but there could be a gang of them in there, so we'll have to use another weapon to find out for sure before we start karate-chopping our way through the hideout." Cue the dramatic music. I didn't start crying, but I felt a huge letdown -- like way worse than a "Let's Make a Deal" contestant who gives up $200 to pick door #1 only to find out that there's a goat behind it.


The Charlie's Angels did their best to help me see that this discovery was really a win, but at the time, it did not feel like one. I was all geared up for a surgery that wasn't going to happen, and even though Nikki did her best to re-orient me, it was still a shock to find out that there could be more cancer. Also, don't forget that I still had to get back to Hans the way I had come, and so who was the next person I saw? You guessed it..... Lester. Ugh. I know people use cliches like: "He was the last person I wanted to see," but in this case, that statement is truly accurate. I thought about asking if I could just walk back, but I didn't. There had been enough exposure for one day.

In the end, I had to try and tell Hans everything the Angels had told me, and as we got packed up to leave, we debated about what to do next--which was a ridiculous mixture of topics: Should we... Go home right away? Keep the jump socks? Call my mom and dad with the news now? Grab some lunch at Perkins? Tell the boys? As it turns out, we landed in what I like to think of is the purgatory of our society -- a Starbucks. We grabbed some high-priced drinks and pastries, sat in faux leather chairs, and mused about life and death and what to do about it all.

We're still not sure of what to do until we get MRI results later this week, but we did eventually go home and tell the boys and my parents. We did not keep the jump socks. We did not go to Perkins. When we picked Luke up from Art camp that afternoon, he was surprised to see me up and about so soon, and yelled, "Mom, you're alive!" and I thought, "Yes, I am."  It was the best part of my day.

---

Cancer Diagnosis- Part 1

Hello.If this is the first time visiting my blog, welcome! I am using this space to document my journey with cancer and its aftermath. Writing has always been a comfort to me, and I hope that what I say here will help you somehow. It is also my way of keeping in touch with the many loving friends and family that are supporting me on this path. Thank you!

Honestly, I am writing these beginning details in the past tense because I was diagnosed with a stage zero cancer (DCIS) back in the middle of the summer during the second week of July 2018. After the initial shock, I felt some relief when doctors said I could get a lumpectomy with radiation and stop the cancer in its tracks. My radiologist mentioned that I had a "dumb" cancer that hadn't learned to spread anywhere. Whew! What great news that seemed at the time! However, that news quickly turned worse when I went in to do the surgery on July 30. During a pre-operative ultra-sound, the tech discovered a mass hiding out behind the DCIS area. Turns out my cancer wasn't so dumb after all.

At that point, my doctors decided to hold off on surgery and do more tests to see if there was cancer anywhere else. Once I knew where the mass was, it felt like a stone near my heart - hence the title of my blog. No one can really prepare you for what cancer feels like - physically or emotionally. I try to forget it's there, but it weighs heavy on me at times, and it feels like a small, misshapen stone...a stone that is approximately 1.5 x  1.7 x 5.9 cm in size. It is no longer stage zero, it is an invasive ductal carcinoma closer to stage II.

I am now one month past the initial diagnosis, and am still waiting to skip this stone outta here! Please pray for me and my family as we continue on this journey. Thank you!

Love and light,
Jennifer