Dear Chemo,

Dear Chemo,

You are going to suck. But you are going to help save my life, so thank you. See you on May 21.

Cancer: An Emotional Rollercoaster

Last week that rollercoaster was sitting at the very top of the first steep incline, but as of today, I feel that coaster car creepy down . . . albeit slowly.

Tell me something. Why do doctors get our hopes up only to have another doctor snap us right back down to reality? Looks like chemotherapy for me. Not what I expected, but I can roll with it. See, it wasn't even that which slapped me across the face so hard, but it was when the doctor examining me today felt a lump in my other breast that sent the coaster heading full speed into a brick wall. What?! Now, he told me not to worry, the MRI I had two weeks ago would have picked this up if it were something to be concerned about. Really, Doctor?! Don't worry? I will know more tomorrow.

The up side is, now I know a little more about the seriousness of the word "aggressive". It means if there is even one cell that broke off my tumor when they removed it, it could metastasize somewhere else quickly. My tumor is also not a candidate for hormone therapy. Hence, chemo. I will know more in a week. So many appointments, so much confusion. But it's all good. Don't get me wrong, it'll suck for a while, but I have to believe the end results will be "all good".

Stage 1, Baby!!

Who would have thought one could get excited about cancer? Today I found out I am Stage 1; therefore, I must unleash the excitement! Yes, I am aware that treatment is no cake-walk, but I am prepared. My plan will be to undergo radiation for what will most likely be five days a week for about six weeks. Chemo has yet to be determined, but there is a chance I may not have to go that route. I will cross that bridge if and when I get to it. Until then (and even then) I actually feel blessed and elated!

Dear hair, I owe you an apology.

Countless times I have left the salon thinking my hair didn't quite come out as I expected. It's been too blond, too dark, too short, too layer-y, too poofy, too "something". In fact, on Friday, one day after my lumpectomy, I found myself sitting in the chair getting my roots done because I figured if I was going to have cancer, I sure better look my best. Let's be honest, even though it never looks quite right, it's a fabulous accessory and I'd like to keep it around. But as I sat in that chair, it dawned on me that I might be losing the hair I have so easily cursed some mornings when I am desperately trying to do "something" with it. No question I have even uttered these words: "I hate my hair!"

Dear hair, I owe you an apology.

Even though I will not know for a few days whether or not I will undergo chemotherapy, I know the side effects. I will miss this hair and our love/hate relationship, but hair grows back. If it increases my chance that cancer will not, then so long hair.

God Rocks!

Let me tell you a little bit about God in a non-preachy, straight forward way. He knew this would happen. He never said we weren't going to have struggles. But he prepares us in ways we could not imagine. One of the things I have noticed in the past two weeks is that for 39 years he has engineered the placement of the most loving, supportive, and genuine people in my life. Close friends of mine will tell you I can't let people go. I feel strongly that once I build a relationship with someone, he/she is in my life forever. Facebook has been a remarkable outlet to be back in touch with so many people who have impacted me throughout my life. Even though I am not "friends", in the true sense of the word "friendship", with everyone on my friend list, I can tell you a story about each person without hesitation. I can tell you how giddy I was to see them join my list. It's not about numbers for me, it's about connections. To see people re-enter my life at a time when I need them the most is God's work. You are all continuing to impact me with your touching concern and your huge hearts!

It's True: Never, Never, Never Check The Internet!

Within a few days, life became a whirlwind of emotional phone calls and emails. At times I felt positive and strong. At times I felt cheated and scared. But what would terrify me most was the appointment with the surgeon who used one word, one word that plagued me for days, one word that put me in the darkest place, one word I thought would completely change the course of my life. The word: AGGRESSIVE. Now, I'm an English teacher, folks. I know what the word "aggressive" means, but I felt the need to look up what it meant in "cancer speak". Big mistake. It was defined as "growing and spreading rapidly". Then I continued to read about stories of women with aggressive breast cancer. I think I lost ten pounds that weekend.

My advice:

1. Never, never, never check the Internet.

2. Always call your doctor with questions.

Cancer Goody Bag

On March 29, 2010 I was told on my lunch break that the lump I found in a self exam was, in fact, positive for breast cancer. I was in complete shock, as I was certain, based on the radiologist's reaction to my biopsy, that this appointment was simply going to be an inconvenience in my day. I could not believe I had to leave work to get my results, especially since I was convinced it was merely a cyst or, at most, a benign tumor. I saw my biopsy. I saw the tissue floating in the test tubes. She said, "Cancer sinks to the bottom. I am sure you do not have cancer." So, when we sat there in her dark office surrounded my breast films, I did not expect her response to mine. She said, "Are you alone?" And I got nervous. When she told me, I felt like I had been hit in the stomach with a fast moving ball I didn't see flying at me from across the gym during a dodgeball game in elementary school. I could barely hear the other words coming out of her mouth as they were all being drowned out by the word "cancer" screaming in my head. Then she did something that left me even more speechless: she handed me a goody bag. That is the best way I can describe it. This woman just told me I have breast cancer and then handed me a bag complete with: Cup of Comfort book, a journal, a candle, a piece of chocolate, and tissues. Seriously.