I'm sorry to say it's Cancer

     I went back to school in August. I had been told in a preisthood blessing I would know when the time was right, and on August 15th I decided the time was right. I had ten days to complete the application process before classes began at Utah Valley University, where I will get an associate's degree to take with me wherever we (hopefully) move to.

 Due to the differences between BYU and UVU, I had to take a generic college health class. I didn't love it. I kept trying to make the questions more complicated than they were, and even my lovely husband who has been through medical school would disagree and nitpick them with me. Regardless, I came to the chapter on sexual health which included a tidbit on self breast exams. Did you know they are no longer recommending that all women do them monthly? I was shocked. But, it was a good reminder, it had been a couple months since I had done one on my left side because I had (in a moment of brilliant, dazzling klutziness) a rather large bruise. (I had somehow managed to walk into the corner of the car door. I told you, brilliant, dazzling klutziness!) So, I do the self-exam and... what is that? That is definitely a "lump"! I wait until bedtime and ask Shane to examine it. "Huh. It's feels like fibrous tissue change, or possibly a cyst. It's hard, and it's free moving, both good signs. Why don't you wait a couple of weeks and it should go away. If it doesn't, make an appointment."

     Thanksgiving, finals, the flu, Christmas, New Year's, school starts, the time flew by, and I realize "It's been a while since I've checked! Oh, great. It's still there." I call and make an appointment a week away. Our family Doc is in our ward. In the Bishopric. He's a fantastic guy, and though I know most women would feel awkward seeing someone they know personally for a breast exam, I am confident in his abilities. No kidding, he says verbatim what Shane had told me, except "since it's all ready been several weeks, let's schedule an ultrasound. It's probably a fibrous cyst, which is easy to verify on ultrasound, and it would be a good idea to check and make sure." A few days later within 2 seconds of the ultrasound wand being in place I hear "Oh. That is NOT a cyst. You definitely have a lump honey. You're going to need a biopsy. It has irregular borders and calcifications." Great. I call my 5 sisters and let them know what's going on, so that just in case it IS cancer, they've had a little bit of warning.

     At this point I start talking with my husband about possibilities. Since traumatic injury can sometimes create ossification (a little bit of tissue changing to bone) I hope that maybe, just maybe, that massive bruise that I tried to forget the moment it happened (due to my super-human ability to be a klutz) was the cause of that kind of tissue change. It's in the same spot, after all. Of course, my hubby doesn't remember me ever having a bruise. "Maybe I'm making-up running into a car door with my chest because the alternatives are scary?" I think. Then, while visiting with my mother about the biopsy she says "Well, you DID have that great big bruise there." Validation! Ha!
     Since the hospital where I will receive the biopsy has a particular policy about the way these things go I have to get a mammogram before I can have a biopsy. My appointment is on January 22nd. I take my mother-in-law with me since she's available and HAS NEVER HAD A MAMMOGRAM. She's getting close to 60. It is my moral duty to convince her to get one. We review the results, (Oh, look! There's a spot of concern on your mammogram. You think? It looks worse on the ultrasound!) and move to the ultrasound room. The surgeon comes to do the biopsy and asks "You haven't had any aspirin within the last five days, have you?" Dang it. Stupid headache on Civil Right's Day from waking up at the crack of dawn to go to the temple. I took Excedrin, which contains aspirin. I have to reschedule the biopsy for the following Tuesday, the 27th. It hurts a little. They numb with lidocaine, and I can watch the needle on the ultrasound as it shoots through the mass. I didn't feel much of the first and third samples, but for some reason the second sample makes me deeply uncomfortable. I don't experience a ton of pain, but I take a massive nap after the procedure, and skip my Zumba class the next night.

    I should have the results within 72 hours. I get them in 48. Poor Doc, giving a patient he knows suck-y news. "Your results are in. I'm sorry to say it's cancer." I take notes on what he starts saying because I know if I don't, I won't remember any of the words. Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC). Because it measures over one centimeter at its longest, it is considered stage 2. He refers me to a surgeon whom he highly recommends. She's the same one who helped our Relief Society President with her breast cancer the year before we joined the ward. My visiting teachers from church are in the room with me when I take the phone call. I take a moment to consider how I want to deal with the news. I excuse myself to tell my husband before I tell them. "Babe, that was the Doctor. It's cancer." I tell him loud enough I know they will hear. I commit to my decision. I will be upfront and honest and unashamed. I will tell people, even if it hurts. I will accept that this is a trial I have been selected to be blessed with. Yay. I have tons of work and homework to do, but I don't want my family finding out 'later rather than sooner', and definitely not through the grapevine. I spend roughly four precious homework and work-from-home-work hours on the phone explaining my results with 14 of them. The rest will have to hear from their spouses, or my mother-in-law. Heaven bless her. She's dealt with cancer in a child before, and she's prone to weeping, so I know that was not a pleasant task. Even more difficult than losing the hours of time is comforting and reassuring people who try not to cry. I decide to share my news on Facebook in bed after 11 at night. I ask them (my FB friends) to forgive me for not being ready to cry over it, and for excusing myself or laughing it off if they need to cry over it. I write some prose: 

     Diagnosis

I glimpse the edges of my mortality,

Their horizons wink at me.

My soul reflects their colors;

A spectacular juxtaposition

Of elusive hues which have no names.

My work is yet unfinished,

My journey incomplete.

The twilight beckons,

The mystery entices.

I am an agent of my crossing

And time remains my friend.

I begin fielding responses from friends online. Everyone is super supportive, and I hear how positive I am handling it over, and over, and over, and over. My family is concerned because I'm unemotional. They say "It just hasn't hit you yet," but I think about my little attempt at poetry and my self-reflection and say "No, it has. I'm just okay with it. I have a really peaceful feeling about all of this." Then I have to tell my professors. Why is it so much easier to tell the women? I can't drop classes - we've already spent some of my student loans. The amount of juggling I will be doing in the near future boggles my mind, so I decide not to think about it for now.

     My appointment with the surgeon is on Thursday at 2:30 pm. Shane started a new (old) job yesterday, and is in training for two weeks. I seriously thought they would not allow him to leave early, but he told me tonight that they have no problem with him joining me. I'm relieved he will be by my side, and both of our moms are coming too. I've heard amazing things about my surgeon, and am excited to meet her. My automatic reaction is that I want my whole breast removed. I dread chemotherapy, but understand it is likely necessary. I wanted to have another child. We have no money. We live in my parents' basement with two bedrooms and four kids. We've worked our butts off, and sacrificed nearly everything we could to get my husband through medical school. Residency has eluded him. The loans are massive. The match isn't until March, and the odds are downright scary. Forgive me for thinking this way, but the cancer seems like the easy trial right now. I keep telling people that I am grateful because at least it's a common cancer that is treatable and I live in the United States. We can't afford health insurance, but we are covered by Medicaid. I cringe at what that means for the Doctors who will be treating me, but am grateful - so profoundly grateful - for the coverage.