Today is Friday, November 15th. That means that exactly two weeks ago today, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And again, as it was two weeks ago, Monday is another big day for me. Monday is the day I will have the surgery that I hope and pray rids my body of the cancer that has been growing inside of me for probably close to 4 years. For my lifelong peace of mind, and in light of my doctors' recommendations, I have elected to have a bilateral mastectomy (that means both boobs--gone!) and reconstruction. Last week we rejoiced in the news that my PET scan was clear, and I've subsequently learned that my bone scan was clear as well. Moreover, my breast ultrasound has revealed that the cancer is localized to my right breast and there is no sign of cancer in my left. My doctors have presented the fact to me that bilateral mastectomy is not my only option; that unilateral mastectomy is an option, and according to my medical oncologist, lumpectomy (followed by radiation and possibly chemotherapy) might also be an option. However, this road is the road that I have chosen, and I am at peace with my decision.
I am going in to this surgery with the prayer that it totally eradicates my body of cancer, but know that is not a certainty. There is the possibility that the cancer has spread to some lymphnodes, there is the possibility that the surgeons may not be able to get clear margins...but I know that none of this means that I am going to die from this cancer. It only means that my treatment may involve radiation, or it may involve chemotherapy...either way, it will certainly involve the oral hormonal medication: Tamoxifen. None of these treatment paths will be easy...on me, or on my sweet family who have all vowed to do whatever they can to help me through this (even my almost 4-year old little girl). But we will do this together because all we all want is "for mommy to get better."
So, surgery Monday morning at 10 am. Check in at 8:30 am. I'll be there or be square.
On another note, Josh and I decided last Sunday to start this week on a better note than the previous two have started...so where else could we go? DISNEYLAND! That's right, we willingly tackled Disneyland (and California Adventure) on a weekend in the middle of the Holiday season celebration. You know why? Because we were pretty darn happy about finding out that my cancer hadn't spread throughout my body, and because at that time we weren't really sure how long it would be before I wouldn't be able to make a trip like that again (due to my surgery and recovery). So, we surprised the girls bright and early in the morning and headed up to the Magic Kingdom. And it was MAGIC. Harper got to meet her favorite, "Mee Mouse", we rode all of the girls' favorite rides, we all shared one giant soft serve ice cream cone,...and the best part...we learned that in the 4 months since we were last there, Mia grew the 1/2 an inch she needed to in order to ride on the REAL rides -- Splash Mountain and Space Mountain. I'm pretty sure that I was about 13 when I first got up the nerve to ride Space Mountain, but our little big girl rode it not once, but twice! According to her it was "AH-MAZING!!!" The whole day was pretty ah-mazing, and for the first time since learning of my diagnosis...Josh and I were able to spend a day feeling happy more times than we felt sad or scared. We spent a day where CANCER didn't permeate every single thought. Mickey Mouse and his gang can just do that to ya.
After Disneyland, it was back to reality. Monday started off like a regular day, which was kind of refreshing. Josh went off to work, and I took Mia to school. But by Monday afternoon we were back on our mission to "circle the wagons" and finish the compilation of the team of doctors that are going to help me get rid of this cancer and start living a normal life again. At 3pm, Josh and I met my reconstructive plastic surgeon, Dr. Glynn Bolitho. He is a tall, dark and handsome man with the loveliest South African accent. So lovely in fact, that his accent actually distracted me from all of the yucky things he was actually saying. "Oh, ok...they cut me open, remove the breast tissue, biopsy the lympnodes, shove the tissue expanders under the muscle...whatever, doc. Just keep talking." Then it went on, "So, I come back three weeks later for you to stick a needle into my numb chest and fill up each expander with saline...and we repeat this process 2 or more times over the course of a couple of months...cool...sounds great. Do you think you could read me a bedtime story when I go to sleep tonight?"
Josh and I left Dr. Bolitho's office and I called Renee, (my surgical oncologist's scheduler who facilitated all of my appointments with the other doctors). I wanted to tell her that I liked Dr. Bolitho and didn't feel the need to meet with the other reconstructive surgeon that they were referring me to as an option. In addition to just liking Dr. Bolitho, (his accent), and his bedside manner, I'd spoken with several people (other moms from Mia's preschool, one of Josh's customers who often works as Bolitho's anesthesiologist, and a radiology nurse who helped me through my MRI) who informed me that I was in the best possible hands with Dr. Bolitho. So, that was great...one less decision to make. I have found that a cancer diagnosis makes one quite decisive. Without having to schedule a different appointment, that should ensure that I get my surgery by the beginning of December. I was not necessarily prepared for what Renee had to say.
"Ok then, with Dr. Bolitho on board, the next available surgery date that I have is next Monday, November 18th."
"Oh, wow...that soon?" I asked.
Things like Thanksgiving and Mia's upcoming 4th birthday party at "Pump it Up" swirled through my brain.
"Do you need more time to think about it? We can just schedule your follow-up appointment with Dr. Wilde for now if you like. But I need you to know that Dr. Wilde is already so booked that the next available surgery date after Monday would probably not be until the middle of December"
"Um...can I let you know? Do you need to know right now?"
"That's fine, Lindsay. Take your time."
Before she even said the word, "time." I'd made my mind up. What was the first thing I started praying for the moment I was told I had breast cancer?
I just want it out as soon as possible. Please Lord, make them get it out as fast as they can. I can't wait one extra day with this cancer inside of me.
Once again, my prayers were being answered.
"Renee, I'll take Monday. Sign me up."
Tuesday was another big day. First up was meeting with the Radiation Oncologist, Dr. Kenneth Shimizu. This meeting took place at the Scripps Radiation Center which is an absolutely gorgeous building overlooking the ocean, just a stone's throw from the Scripps Institute of Oceanography. The appointment was off to a good start when the front desk receptionist let out a huge laugh upon reading the completed forms and paperwork that I had just given her. Apparently she found my response to the question, "What is your occupation?" quite hilarious. My answer:
Homemaker/Reformed Attorney.
I actually didn't mean for it to be funny, it was just an honest answer...but I liked the fact that it brought some levity to the situation.
Dr. Shimizu is also fabulous. He was calm, methodical, and informative, told us anything and everything we could possibly want to know about radiation. The best part was that he prefaced everything with the fact that he was optimistic that due to the nature and location of my tumors, it was a distinct possibility that I wouldn't need radiation. However, there were two scenarios in which it would be required...first, if my surgeon isn't able to get clear margins upon removal of the tumors, and second, if there are more than three lymphnodes found with cancer in them. But, I loved Dr. Shimizu for saying that he probably wouldn't be seeing me again, but even if he didn't, that I could call him anytime with any question.
Next up, the scary guy that I really didn't want to meet: The Chemo Doctor...otherwise known as the Medical Oncologist. Since finding out I had cancer, having to go through chemotherapy has probably been my second biggest fear, second only to dying of course. I watched my Dad go through agonizing rounds of chemo...experiencing debilitating fatigue, round the clock nausea and vomiting, depression, dry mouth, loss of appetite and of course... hair loss. Though, we always marveled at how long it actually took my Dad to lose his hair. It was kind of ironic, because he didn't have all that much hair to begin with. (I'm allowed to say that because I know my Dad took his sense of humor to heaven with him.)
Turns out-- my Chemo Doctor...not so scary. Dr. Pushpendu Bannerjee is a man with a kind face and a very warm smile. My sister, Amy, actually worked with him a couple of years ago when she worked on the Medical Oncology floor at Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla. Dr. Bannerjee went over all of my scans and test results in detail...showing me my PET scan for the first time...slice by slice by slice. He pointed out how even the cancer that we knew that I had was hard to detect on the PET scan...he pointed out how there was absolutely no sign of cancer anywhere else in my body or my bone. And then he delivered some news that I didn't expect to be so jarring...
"You know, there is no medical reason that says you need to have a mastectomy."
What??? Of course I need to have a mastectomy! I have breast cancer, remember? Yes, I know, I know, they say that breast cancer used to be a surgical disease and now it doesn't have to be, but I'm 32 years old and I have at least 2 tumors in my breast that have been growing for years! Angelina Jolie didn't even HAVE breast cancer and she had a mastectomy! My head began to spin.
My Mom interjected the fear that we all had about cancer recurrence, about how after watching my Dad fight his battle so bravely, I didn't want to take any chances that this cancer could return later, even worse than before. Dr. Bannerjee understood all of this. He assured me that my decision to have a bilateral mastectomy was certainly a reasonable one. He just felt that it was his duty to inform me that it wasn't a medically necessary decision. He explained that since I would certainly be going on hormonal therapy with Tamoxifen that my risk of getting breast cancer would be reduced by at least 50%, that because of my diagnosis I would continue to be monitored so closely for the rest of my life, that the chances that I would develop any other disease or life-threatening cancer were infinitesimal.
I left Bannerjee's office feeling quite thrown. I was encouraged by what he had to say later in the appointment...that he was optomistic that I would not need chemotherapy, that not all patients lose their hair with chemotherapy, and that Tamoxifen would not likely throw me into an early menopausal state. But my assurance in my almost immediate decision to have a double mastectomy had begun to waver. Was this the right decision? Certainly removing only one breast would make for an easier recovery. Maybe I would be able to lift and carry my girls sooner if I just did the unilateral mastectomy. I could probably go to Mia's party if I just did one...Maybe I wouldn't be out of commission for so long...
...but then, as I discussed these thoughts out loud in the car on the way home to Josh and my Mom, I saw the looks in their eyes. They were like two mirrors staring back at me, reminding me of the way I felt when I first learned that I had breast cancer. Why would I take any chance? If I can reduce my risk of recurrence by eliminating one of the places that the cancer could return back to...why wouldn't I? Because I might recover a little sooner? Because I might be able to reach for the water glass on the higher shelf with my left hand? Because I want to attend one of my daughter's birthday parties, when she has a lifetime of them ahead of her? No. Go with your gut, Lindsay. It may not be scientific, it may not make sense to everyone, but it makes sense to you. Do this and live a life without feeling like you're living pressed under the thumb of cancer...breathe easier. Sleep easier. Stick around for all of BOTH of your daughter's birthday parties.
Decision made. I told you, leave it to cancer to make you decisive.
Wednesday was another dose of reality. First, reality came in the form of being able to finally take Harper back to her "Parent/Toddler Exploration Program" a.k.a. "Mommy and Me" at The Gillispie School (Mia's Preschool). I'd missed the class two weeks prior because I was busy having a biopsy done of the "probably benign" tumor, and I missed the previous week's class because I was having my MRI. So, it felt great to be able to take her to the class that she loves and watch her fun personality run wild...through the sandbox, the play kitchen, finger-painting...she does and loves it all! I also got the chance to connect with some of the other moms and catch them up on what the latest was regarding my diagnosis. Some of them knew, others didn't. One of my friends that was aware of what was going on, wanted me to connect with another mom she knew. This woman was now cancer free after a diagnosis, during pregnancy mind you, of Stage 3D breast cancer that had metastasized to her ovaries and uterus. Her survival story was one of surgical intervention (bilateral mastectomy), medical intervention (8 months of intense chemotherapy), and alternative medicine (integrative medicine, strict anti-cancer diet regime, and acupuncture). I told my friend that I would love to connect with this woman-survivor and glean any knowledge and experience from her that I could. On the spot, my friend sent an email to both of us introducing one another.
Later that day was my follow-up appointment with Dr. Wilde. Now that surgery was scheduled, I was sure that it would be a fairly straight forward appointment. She would go over all of my bloodwork and scans (couldn't be too scary...normal and "no suspicious findings"), and maybe discuss the fact that I didn't need a bilateral mastectomy. To which I planned to reply, "No thank you...I'll take a double." Discuss the actual surgery a little more perhaps, and give more detail about recovery. She would hopefully concur with the optomistic Dr. Shimizu and Dr. Bannerjee and tell me that after my bilateral mastectomy I would most surely be cancer-free. Easy as that. I was wrong.
I've learned from watching Grey's Anatomy that part of being a surgeon is being matter of fact. To cut or not to cut. Dr. Wilde herself told me that surgeons are neither optimists nor pessimists--they are realists. And she was. She brought me down from the cloud that I'd been living on for the previous day and half and told me that she did feel that a BILATERAL mastectomy was in my best interest and gave me my greatest chance of preventing cancer recurrence in my breasts. She told me that she did not consider lumpectomy an option in my case because of my "multi-focal" disease (that means I have more than one tumor), and did not feel that unilateral mastectomy was a viable option in the absence of results for my genetic testing. Moreover, even if I did not test positive for the breast cancer gene mutation, whatever chemistry in my body that gave me cancer in my right breast could rear its ugly head again and attack the left as well. Welp, okey doke. Bilateral mastectomy. Glad we are on the same page.
But, that's not all folks! She also thought that it was very likely that I might need chemotherapy, even after my mastectomy. Again, she was talking about multi-focal disease and how the lymphovascular invasion that was present in my pathology meant that there was a possibility that it would be difficult to get clear margins. This also meant that it was still likely that the cancer has spread to my lymphnodes. So, nope...don't count on it Lindsay. Chemo could be in the cards.
I was now beginning to understand why my blood pressure rose at the mere arrival in Dr. Wilde's office. This lady is serious about cancer. She knows her stuff, and she wants to do the best thing to get rid of it. After my clear bloodwork and scans I may have convinced myself that I had "fake" cancer. Sure, I had "cancer", but it wasn't the type that spread and caused all sorts of problems. It was just happily growing in my boob...cut them both off and I'd be done...with a brand new pair to boot!
The hits just kept on coming. The informed consent. More details about my bloodwork. Yes, it was normal. But, she had run a panel called a D-Dimer which could indicate if one is at risk for DVT, or deep vein thrombosis, also known as a blood clot. The normal value is under 450 and mine was 477. She explained that I already had two risk factors for blood clots: 1) people with cancer are more likely to form clots (I am now a person with cancer), and 2) I was about to undergo a lengthy surgery where I would be lying flat on my back for approximately 5 and a half hours. If I did have a clot, it could travel to my brain or lungs during surgery and I would die. These risk factors indicate a risk of fatality. Um, yeah...you've got my attention lady. Oh, hello racing heart and stomach rising in my chest. I thought I was rid of you.
With that, I was set up for a consultation with a vascular surgeon for Friday. He would further evaluate my risks for clots and order any tests he felt necessary to perform before my surgery on Monday.
I left Dr. Wilde's office and cried as we piled into the elevator. The fear was back. Now I didn't just have to worry about dying from cancer, but I had to worry about dying just from having the surgery? I mean, I know that death is always a risk during surgery...but come on, these doctors know what they're doing. I have a "dream team!" They wouldn't let me die on their watch. But now I have 3 different risk factors for a condition that is FATAL?
Thursday was not a good day. I spent the day doing mindless things like buying and wrapping Mia's remaining birthday presents, updating my iPhone, cancelling and rescheduling various appointments I would now miss because of my surgery. I went to the nail salon to have my nails "undone." No finger nail polish for surgery, and I follow the rules. Off with the shellac manicure! I tried to keep my mind occupied and busy with things like writing a pre-surgery grocery list, cleaning the house, doing laundry, beginning to pack for surgery--all the while the choking hands were back on my neck. I would have to stop in my tracks and hold my heart in from beating out of my chest. Pause to take deep breaths that didn't seem to help my racing heart, or pulsating pain in my chest. That feeling of sickening heat rising up in me like the mercury in a thermometer. By the time dinner time rolled around and Josh and the girls were happily playing "monsters" in the kitchen, I had to confide in him how I was feeling. He reminded me that I didn't have to white-knuckle this...Dr. Guru had prescribed me some Xanax. Take one...relax. You're going to be fine, Lindsay. You're not going to die. You don't have a blood clot. You're going to have this surgery and recover. Radiation or Chemo, you will get through it. We will get through it together.
Josh sweetly took the girls upstairs and did all of their bathtime routine by himself...let's be honest, he is usually the one that does the baths. It gives me the chance to clean up downstairs after dinner, and usually sit down and catch the latest of whatever horrible reality show that I'm not ashamed to love has aired that day. I took my Xanax and tried to catch my breath. Josh texted me a Michael W. Smith video of his performance of "Healing Rain." Healing rain is falling down, healing rain is falling down...I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid! Josh called me up when it was time to tuck the girls in. Before Mia got into bed, the 4 of us rolled around on the ground and all of them hugged me...first Josh, then Mia, and then Harper jumped on top and sat on my face before laying down and hugging me too. Yeah, that helped. Then, Mia wanted to share another video with me. The song began to play, "Pink fluffly unicorns dancing on rainbows...pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!" And that's what the video was...amateurish animation of pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows. But this silly, mindless video was exactly what I needed to end that day. I kept singing the song in my head long after the girls had gone to bed...I want to hang on to it and remember to sing it to myself when I walk into surgery.
PINK FLUFFY UNICORNS, DANCING ON RAINBOWS!
and also
HEALING RAIN IS FALLING DOWN...HEALING RAIN IS FALLING DOWN...I'M NOT AFRAID!
Nothing scary can happen if those are the thoughts in your mind, right? Please Lord, let those be the thoughts in my mind.
**Prayer requests for those that are so inclined: Please pray that my surgery is successful and that the doctors are able to get all of the cancer out of my body. Pray that the cancer has not spread to my lymphnodes. Please pray that the surgery itself is successful, that I don't develop any blood clots, and that the anesthesiologist and other doctors are able to monitor me safely. Please pray that all goes smoothly with the initial stages of reconstruction. Pray for me as I come out of anesthesia and make my way into a smooth recovery. Please, continue to pray for my family as they wait for me during surgery, and throughout this process. Help them to be strong and give them comfort. Finally, thank the Lord for the wonderful people He has placed in my life and brought into my life throughout this journey. I have encountered several angels along the way and I feel so blessed to know and have each and every one of you in my life, supporting me along the way.
Today is officially the best day after the worst day of my life.
D-Day was one week ago exactly. It was the day I learned the news that changed my life forever...and made me question if that life would last long enough for my youngest daughter to even remember who her mother was. For 7 days straight I have lived through a fog of sheer panic, shivering and strangling anxiety, forcing myself to eat with no appetite, trying to sleep through nightmares of being told that the cancer had spread to my bone (clavicles specifically), to my kidneys, to my heart even. Each day I woke up to find I had lost another pound...is that because I can't will myself to be hungry, or because the cancer is eating me from the inside out? That sharp pain I feel in my kidney...is that because of the gallons of water I have had to drink, along with the radioactive contrast I've had injected into my body for one diagnostic test after another, or is that the cancer trying to tell me that it's decided to spread throughout my lymphatic system? The mind-numbing headaches...are they because I've given up my daily coffee for fear of thinning my blood for surgery, or is that a tumor growing in my brain?
Wednesday was the day when things began to change...the thoughts were still there...the fear still there, but I began to get a handle on it. When the panic grabbed a hold of my throat, I could swallow...take a deep breath and tell myself that I wasn't going to choke. I could still breathe. That was because of the FAITH. From the day I was diagnosed, I had the hope that I would survive, and a certain amount of faith that I would survive...but the faith was small and timid. It was just a flicker of glowing light in a night that seemed so dark and uncertain. In sharing my diagnosis with family and close friends, their encouragement fueled the flame of faith even more. The glow helped me to walk through those first few days...guided me to start journaling my feelings, to come to an understanding of exactly what I was feeling. Then by Wednesday, the light of faith glowed bright enough that I felt that I could have an honest conversation with God...to talk to Him and figure out what His plan was in all of this. I started praying the minute I learned of my diagnosis--pleading prayers of desperation...but this was different.
On Wednesday I had my MRI. It was a test that I really feared because I have the tendency to get quite claustrophobic. An MRI involves being slid into a narrow dark tube for up to an hour, while a large magnet takes digital pictures of your body...all the while hearing loud banging and snapping noises while the machine does its job. Basically, the scariest environment imaginable...or so I feared. However, Wednesday was also the day after I shared this online journal with my entire world. That was what really fanned the faith flame. Early Wednesday morning, while gearing up for this terrifying test, the love, support, and prayers started coming in...I have to say that it is the most overwhelming and humbling thing I have ever experienced. Knowing that my family and I are being wrapped in the prayers and encouragement of so many people, even some that I've never met, is a comfort that is beyond description. So for that, I thank all of you from the bottom of my heart. You gave me the courage to keep my faith burning...and to have this conversation with God...
As I slid into the tube, I closed my eyes. And prayed. I prayed that God would take me by the hand and lead me through all that I had to face. I prayed that He would help me to understand His purpose in placing this challenge before my family and I. I prayed that He would use this experience to draw me closer to Him and to see Him in a more real way. As the magnet rattled and crashed all around me, I drowned out the noise by singing songs of praise and thanking my Creator for showing me His love in the form of family, friends, acquaintances and strangers reaching out to me and offering their hands to hold. Then, in a sound louder than the deafening MRI, I began to hear it. I began to hear the message that I was meant to hear...
And then PEACE came. The MRI was over and I could move onto the next. Only, now my flame of faith burned brighter than the flame of fear. Thursday came, and with it came the PET Scan. An angel of a man wrapped me in a warm blanket while he injected me with a radioactive substance that would cause any cancers within my body to glow and show up in images for my doctors to interpret. While I waited for the radiotracer to be absorbed, I read a People magazine from September and tried to quiet the voices in my head that told me that "this was the BIG test...you remember, the one that showed Dad that his cancer was in his lungs, his liver, and his brain." "Shhhhhh...don't think about that. Look--Bethenny Frankel is struggling to start over. Will her talk show make it? will she love again? THAT, Lindsay, is the important question."
After the PET scan came a meeting with a genetic counselor to be tested for the breast cancer gene 1 and 2 mutations. Results in two weeks. And then today...Friday. Friday was my last diagnostic test...the bone scan.
Friday was also the day that I expected to get my bloodwork and MRI results. At 9:00am on the dot I called Dr. Wilde's office and left a message for her nurse, Pam, to call me back with any results she had. I was told she would call me with the results as soon as she became available. GULP. Then, off to the hospital with Josh and my mom to receive my next "incredible hulk" injection. This time, we had to wait two hours for it to be absorbed. So, we went to the mall, to the Apple store, to lunch. Should I try calling for results again? No...she will call me when she has them.
The bone scan was about 15 minutes underway. Again, I was lying flat on my back while a large square camera twisted and turned all around me, taking slow pictures of my bones and drawing a picture of my skeleton on a monitor. Josh was in the room with me. He was holding my phone when I heard it rang. I heard him step out of the room...it was the call I was waiting for. When he came back he told me that Pam had the results of my PET scan. Wait, my PET scan? I thought I wouldn't get those until Monday. Oh my Lord. She didn't tell my husband the results? Surely if the results were good, she would have told him, would have offered some hint of assurance. The next 15 minutes of the scan ticked slowly by...each minute the beating in my heart got faster and faster. So fast that I worried that my chest was literally thumping and the camera wouldn't get accurate pictures...
Finally, it was over. Josh and I walked to the waiting room where we met my mom. Josh had already texted her that the results were in. The choking hands were on my neck. I couldn't make the call...I was too scared. My mom shook me..."DON'T BE SCARED, LINDSAY." Call.
And here is where the good news comes in...
"Lindsay, your blood work is all normal. And the PET scan revealed no suspicious findings."
THANK YOU, JESUS.
This is what I know for today...sometimes hysterical crying comes from nothing but pure relief and joy...not just from devastation and sadness. I don't know exactly what my test results mean yet; only meeting with my doctors will tell me exactly, but I do know that they mean that they couldn't find cancer anywhere else in my body. Not in my bones, not in my kidneys, not in my brain. I also know that it means that no matter what else lies before me--surgery, reconstruction, chemo, radiation, hair loss--the flame of my faith will not be extinguished. I now have FAITH that I will live to remember this diagnosis as a difficult trial in the long journey of my life. My daughters will know who I am. They won't have to "remember" me, because I will be with them. My husband and I will watch them grow up together. He won't have to do it alone.
Last Friday a storm hit my life. It has rained for 7 days. There have been moments of sunshine and beautiful rainbows...but still it rained. But today, Friday, November 8th 2013, my storm ran out of rain.
Well...Tuesday was our Monday. My appointment with Dr. Wilde was rescheduled for 9am today, Tuesday. Josh, my mom, sister, and I met with her, and though hearing what she had to say was terrifying, it was also encouraging as well. What a relief to hear her say emphatically to me, "You are NOT going to die of Breast Cancer."
My sister summed up the visit best, and since I'm pretty emotionally spent for the day...I'm just gonna pull a copy/paste...(thanks, Aim!)
Here is what we found out today from her surgeon Dr. Wilde, who is the director for the Scripps Polster Breast Care Center.
She has 3 spots in her right breast. Two of them were biopsied and are
very close together (so they may actually be only one spot) measuring
1.4 cm and 1 cm. The third nodule was not biopsied. The diagnosis is
Invasive mammary carcinoma. the invasive means that it has expanded
outside of the ductal and lobular walls. It is Grade I. this is
different than staging which is determined by size and if it has spread
or not. Grade I means that the cancer cells are less abnormal than the
higher grades...meaning they can behave and have some similar qualities
to normal breast tissue. This is a positive. She is also ER and PR
positive which means that the cancer cells have estrogen and
progesterone receptors. This is also a positive. This means that these
cells can be targeted with medications (like tamoxifin) that will bind
to these receptors and kill the cells.
She has many imaging studies to be done this week and next and then we
will be able to make a more definitive plan on how to proceed. She will
have an MRI tomorrow and a PET/CT scan (which shows where cancer cells
are in the whole body) and a bone scan (to make sure it isn't in the
bone). She will also potentially be having a breast MRI and another
mammogram and ultrasound of the other breast.
She will have a team of doctors surrounding her...her surgical
oncologist (Dr. Wilde who we met today), a medical oncologist (who will
manage the medical side of her treatment, ie chemo if needed), a
Radiation oncologist (for radiation treatment if needed), a Pathologist
for a second opinion on her biopsies, a Reconstructive doctor, a genetic
specialist (to test for the breast cancer mutation in her genes) and
also a psychologist if she wishes to see one. In addition there are
numerous support groups and counselors related to the breast care center
she can utilize.
She will be having surgery at some point. Lindsay is clear that she
just wants it gone and is ready to have a mastectomy. She may have a
double mastectomy if she has the gene, or just to be safe depending on
her imaging. Having a lumpectomy may also be an option, but she is
ready to be aggressive. She may also need systemic treatment with
chemo therapy and radiation.
The time like looks like she will meet with Dr. Wilde again in two weeks
and could be having surgery as early as the first week of December. If
she needs chemo and radiation she will start chemo 3 weeks after
surgery and radiation another 3 weeks after that.
Now that I have gotten all the technical stuff out I will tell you what
stuck with me...Dr. Wilde, a very no nonsense surgeon said multiple
times "you are not going to die from this". In 2013, as she kept
telling us, this is a very curable disease and one that Lindsay's kids
won't even have to think about.
I think she is in great hands and I know she is strong enough to handle
this with grace and through her battle be a beacon of light for others
who may have to battle this or any other disease. She is my big sister,
she will conquer this. I love you all and appreciate your prayers and
good wishes.
I'll keep you in the loop as much as I can.
Amy
*One more note from me, Lindsay...If you are reading this, and are a person who prays...here are my immediate prayer requests: Pray for me to stay strong and calm during my MRI tomorrow and upcoming tests.
Please pray that the cancer is localized to my breast and has not spread
to bone or lymphatic system. Also, please pray that I do not test
positive for the breast cancer gene. Finally, keep
my sweet husband, precious girls, and family in your prayers as I think
it is possible that this is going to be even harder on them than it will
be on me.
The love and support I have felt in the 5 days since my diagnosis has been totally overwhelming and is such a blessing and comfort...thank you to ALL of my friends and family...I love you.
It's 8:27 on Sunday night which means that tomorrow...Monday, is almost finally here. Monday is the day that I have been waiting for since D-Day. Monday is the day that couldn't come fast enough, especially with the lovely extra hour that the end of daylight savings time forced upon me. Monday is the day that I learn what Grade 1 Mammary Ductal Carcinoma actually means...besides what I already know it to mean:
Breast Cancer.
It is totally surreal to even type those two words and feel that now I have to take ownership of them. But I do. I have BREAST CANCER. D-Day, or diagnosis day, was three days ago on November 1, 2013...ironically, the day after the last day of "Pinktober." I was really hoping that I would get the results from Wednesday's biopsy before the weekend came, so when I saw that it was my doctor calling at 2:50p.m. on Friday afternoon, I was so relieved! She would tell me that the two lumps I found in my right breast were what everyone expected them to be: benign fibroadenomas; and that I could go ahead and enjoy the rest of the weekend. I KNEW that was what she would say. It was what she suspected, what the radiologist suspected, what I KNEW would be true.
"Hi Lindsay, it's Dr. Gurushanthaiah, how are you?"
(Cheerfully) "Hi Dr. Guru! I'm fine, how are you?"
Josh and
I were actually in the middle of loading up our car to head to his
parents' home in Temecula for the weekend to celebrate all of our family's October birthdays, so I was in the garage, on my
cell phone, putting my diaper bag in the car. Josh was carrying Harper with one arm and loading our suitcases into the trunk with the other, before we were off to pick Mia up from school and get on the road.
"I'm well. We got the results of your biopsy. So, do you have a few minutes to talk about the results?"
HEART STOP.
"Yes."
I walked to the back of the car and looked at my husband.
"The pathology report came back and it did actually come back positive for breast cancer."
"WHAT????"
I looked Josh in the eye and he knew. Oh my God. My hand went to my mouth as I tried to decipher the other words that she was speaking to me...appointments, breast surgeon, MRI...she just kept talking and I was trying to remember to breathe. The tears came. The adrenaline started rushing through me as I tried to keep my head about me. My hands and then entire body began to shake.
Ok, she is trying to tell me important information. Listen, Lindsay. You need to hear this.
By the end of our 8 minute conversation, I came away with this information: At 32 years and nine days old, I have been diagnosed with mammary ductal carcinoma. The cancer cells that they took from the 12 samples biopsied have been determined to be Grade 1. I have an appointment with Dr. Mary Wilde, Breast Surgeon and Director of Scripps Polster Breast Care Center on Monday, November 4th at 1:45p.m. I also should call to see if I can schedule an MRI, so I can get in as soon as possible.
OK. Now I had to go pick up my daughter from school. Coincidentally, this was the latest that my oldest daughter Mia had ever even stayed at school. For weeks she had been asking if she could stay for "rest time," and Friday, November 1st was the day. The day...and D-Day. As Josh and I drive the 6 minutes to her school, I quickly try to relay the information that Dr. Guru told me, to my husband. The look on his face makes the breaking of his heart seem almost audible.
Then, oh my gosh. I ask him, "How am I going to tell my Mom?" I call her.
"Hi Mom, what are you doing?"
She sounds slightly out of breath, "Well, I'm down here at the condo..."
She starts telling me about the various subcontractors she has just met with at her new downtown condo that she recently purchased and has begun renovating. Apparently, the floors are in, but things are a real mess. She sounds fairly pissed off and frustrated.
"Why, what are you doing? Oh, did you get your results yet?"
"Yes."
"You did? Well?"
Gasp. Breathe. And, as much as I try not to...cry. "I have breast cancer."
Her response was exactly the same as mine when I heard the news.
"What???"
I tell my mom what I know. I cry with her. She is frantic, and then composes herself as she tells me that I will be okay, that we will get through this. I tell her that I have to pull myself together because we are picking Mia up from school. She says she loves me, that she's leaving the condo now. Do we have to go to Temecula this weekend? I tell her no. We plan to meet back at her house. We arrive at Mia's school and Josh runs out of the car to go in to get her. Harper sits happily oblivious in her car seat behind me, watching "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" on her iPad while I sit in the passenger seat and try to wrap my head around the earthquake that just hit my life. Dr. Guru had told me to call Dr. Wilde's office for more information about my appointment. I do and am on hold. I text Josh to make sure he gets all of the extra "nap stuff" that I packed for Mia that day, because she is going to need her pillow back, and certainly can't leave her stuffed ladybug, "Bugsy" at school over the weekend.
I'm still on hold waiting for Dr. Wilde's office to pick up. I Google her name to see if there is another number to call. I call that number. I switch back and forth between the two calls and two different recorded hold time medleys that taut the excellence of the Scripps Family of Hospitals and remind me that I can sign up to access my medical records online. Keep checking the sideview mirror to see if Josh is walking up with Mia yet. Finally I see them. I hang up the phone. Take a deep breath.
My little "big" girl looks sleepy. Looks kind of dazed. Josh straps her into her car seat.
"How did it go?" I ask.
His smile is a relief. "It went great. She slept for over an hour and Mr. Royer had to shake her to wake her up. She's still waking up I think."
Weird. I feel the same way.
I rub Mia's leg, and ask her if she wants to go to Gaga's house. She blinks a couple of times and nods yes.
We pull in to my mom's garage and Josh gets the girls out of the car and leads them in the house. I stay in the car and try to make my phone calls again. I call the number Dr. Guru gave me to get my MRI scheduled. More recorded options, more holding. Finally, an operator picks up. My voice shakes as I tell her that I just found out that I have breast cancer, that I have an appointment on Monday with Dr. Wilde, and that my OBGYN told me that I needed to call this number to schedule an MRI.
"So, are you wanting to get in before your appointment with Dr. Wilde on Monday?"
"Uh, sure, yeah...if I can?"
"Well, it's 3:27 on Friday, and your appointment is at 1:45 on Monday. I don't really see that happening. Hold on."
Lovely.
"Ok, I can get you in on Friday, November 8th."
I remember this part from trying to get my Dad all of his appointments after his diagnosis with Stage 4 Melanoma.
"There isn't anything sooner?"
"Well, no. Actually, this slot I have open is actually reserved for Dr. Wilde's office only...they normally are the ones that call. So this is the soonest time available."
"Ok."
"Are you claustrophobic?"
"Yes. Kinda. I mean, it doesn't matter, I'll be fine if that's the soonest time, I'll be fine."
"Ok, good. I need to ask you some screening questions and get some information from you."
I spell my first and last name for her. Tell her that no, I don't have a pacemaker, or any other metal in my body. Oh wait, except for those metal wire markers that they implanted in my two tumors at the time of my biopsy. They told me that they wouldn't be a problem for anything down the road. She tells me the address of the imaging center and where I need to go...I need to check in 20 minutes early. Do I have any other questions?
"Uh, no."
"Ok, well...have a nice weekend."
Ha. "Yeah. Right." End call.
Attempt #2 to call Dr. Wilde's office. Now someone picks right up. I confirm the details of my appointment with Dr. Wilde's scheduler, Renee. She tells me that they will take care of scheduling all of my other appointments and any other tests I will need. She tells me not to worry; they've "got me." Dr. Wilde is the absolute best. People from all over the country come to see her. I'm in excellent hands.
Well, that's good.
I go inside my Mom's house and sit down on the floor with my girls as they play with the toys that my mom keeps set up for them in her living room. Harper climbs on top of my lap and I hug her.
Eventually my mom walks through the door with my sister who she has already told and has left work to meet us. I stand up, we hug. Extra long hugs.
After discussing what we know so far, I tell my mom and sister what Josh and I had already discussed before we got these results. Funny that we even discussed it, because neither one of us had the slightest worry that we would even need to entertain the thought later. I have no problem losing my breasts. I will tell them to cut them off. They can have them. They have served me well, they fed my babies, and now they can have them. More talk about what we are going to do, that I'm going to be fine. We will get through this together.
After all of us catch our breath a bit, Josh and I decide that we are going to go to Temecula. The car is already packed, the cleaning lady is at our house now anyway. And, what are we going to do here at home this weekend? Let's just stick with the plan. I ask my Mom if she will be okay. She tells me that she will be, and I kind of believe her. I can see now that she is going to be strong for me. She will force herself to be strong for me. My sister is going to be strong for me...she was solid as a rock. That is of course until I broke down and she wrapped her arms around me and cried on my shoulder. But, the second I stopped crying, she did too.
Josh and I get the girls into the car, and we drive. We drive and hold hands...something we haven't done in a pretty long while. It's usually pretty important for our hands to be free. We need them to pass snacks into the back seat. To start a new show on the iPad. To check email on our phones, to text, to check facebook, or Pinterest. But now things are different because we are both scared. I can see that my husband is in shock and he is scared. I don't want to think about what HE is actually scared of...that thought is too scary for me to entertain right now. Eventually he starts to cry. He's so sorry that I have to go through this. Why does this always happen to good people? I laugh. I wipe his tears. This sucks. We agree. This sucks.
This first journal entry could be a novel in itself, as I can see now that although it feels like the past three days have been a blur, I actually remember every second of every minute of every hour of every day. Let me abbreviate by saying that we made it through the weekend with the help of my husbands' parents, his Mom's friend, Bev, our girls, and each other. I also made it through with several phone calls to my mom during the quiet moments. Phone calls and texts to and from friends, although difficult, helped also. I am so thankful that we had the opportunity to slow down and break out of our normal routine, as we were wrapped in the love and support of family and friends. Josh and I found the time to stop and hug each other. To grab a hand or rub a shoulder when we needed. To sneak off into a corner and ask each other "How is this happening? Is this for real?" After a totally sleepless night on D-Day, I am thankful for Tylenol PM that helped me sleep soundly through the second night. I am thankful that today, Sunday, was better than Saturday. My heart didn't race quite as much...there weren't as many silent panic attacks that snuck up on me, choking me and leaving my throat dry and my body shivering. A few fewer heart palpitations and queasy spells today. Mostly, Sunday was better than Saturday because it is one day closer to Monday, and Monday is the day that we learn more. The day that we go into "battle mode" as my mom called it.
I will be positive. I am grateful for what I know right now...that the cancer cells they found are the least aggressive and slowest growing type. I am eager to learn more. I am prayerful and hopeful that I have caught this early, that the cancer is not ANYWHERE else. But I know that regardless, this is NOT going to get me. I will beat this. Cancer can't have me. I will be here for my girls, and will see them grow up. NO OTHER OPTION.
And now, goodnight. My Tylenol PM is waiting for me. When I wake up, it will be Monday.
