My presentation for upcoming BC Research event. Thoughts?

lanagraves

RISING FROM THE SHADOWS

 

My journey to this moment has been a tumultuous one. It began in late 2011. My life had changed dramatically, and for the better. After ten wonderful years of being a full-time mother to my children, I returned to the profession I loved - same firm, same bosses, same coworkers. It was almost as if I'd never left. This new chapter in my life held exciting prospects. The firm was successful and growing. For the first time in ten years, I would have a steady income. There would be more money to do things with our boys while they were still young - more specifically, our favorite leisure activity, travel. This was my year. I was on top of the world.

Fast forward to February, 2012, when during a routine examination, I informed my doctor that I had noticed a change in my left breast - not a lump exactly, just something different. Upon examination, he pronounced it probably just fibrocystic lumpiness, a common benign condition that plagues many women, but, for my peace of mind and out of precaution, he would send me for a baseline mammogram. Routine mammogram screening was not scheduled to begin for me for another two years. Walking from the examination room to radiology, he assured me again that this was just a precaution. Suddenly, however, something felt very wrong to me. I had noticed the change at least a year prior to this, but convinced myself it was simply cysts or perimenopausal density changes. As the mammogram began, the radiology technologist began asking questions for which I wasn't prepared. Had my nipple always been slightly inverted? Had my left breast always been smaller than the right? I didn't have answers. Neither of those things was visible enough to be noticeable, but I knew the implications of both. When I attempted to convince myself by repeating my doctor's reassuring words to her, she became quiet. As I left, an instinctive gnawing told me that nothing would ever be the same.

I floundered through the rest of the day at work, frantically beseeching Dr. Google for some sort of hope. Weren't there numerous things that could cause those symptoms? Couldn't it be something besides the "c" word? This should not be happening. This was supposed to be my year, remember. The few people I told assured me that all would be well - I was young; I had no risk factors; these things are almost always benign. But that night, sleep eluded me. There was no quenching the overwhelming dread that gripped me.

Driving to work the next morning, my phone rang. Fear and dread began to rise as I answered it. It was the radiology tech. They were scheduling me for more imaging, immediately. Did I have any questions? Only those that she probably couldn't answer at this point, I responded. Then came the words I feared most - she could tell me that the radiologist was almost certain it was cancer. Click. I'm sure there was more to the conversation, but I don't remember another word.  Panic set in. I called my mother, who was at work an hour away, "I need you. Please hurry."

Within the hour, I was in the diagnostic center with my mother and sister. My dad was on his way. I told my husband to stay at work. Somehow keeping his normal schedule made this less real. After more imaging and an ultrasound, I found myself listening to the radiology nurses mapping out the next few days. A biopsy was ordered, but it was clear from the conversation that they knew what they were looking at. The next days were a fog. I went back to work that afternoon and tried to pretend none of it was happening. I don't even remember the biopsy the next morning. I just remember the look of terror on my parents' faces as we sat there waiting. The examination room was full - me, my husband, my parents, my sister, my mother-in-law. I sat surrounded by my loved ones, yet they were powerless to help me. The surgeon was encouraging, even optimistic. The biopsy was over. It was Friday. He would call me on Saturday with the results if I didn't want to wait until Monday. I didn't.

On Saturday, I sat and I stared at the phone and the wall. I quickly discovered that the most terrifying place in the world was alone with my own thoughts. My mind was in overdrive.I thought of my children - my beautiful boys. They were nine and sixteen. Would I see them graduate? Would I be at their wedding? Would I ever meet my grandchildren? How could I possibly relate this news to them? My oldest went out with his girlfriend that day as usual, unaware how drastically our world would change with a phone call before he got home. My little guy hovered beside me, sensing that something was wrong. I thought of my oldest and his friends. His four closest friends had all lost their fathers to cancer at an early age. Was that some sort of sign? Was it to prepare him to deal with the loss of his mother? I imagined their lives without me. I imagined college graduations with an empty seat where I should be. I saw their faces as their friends were taking photos with their proud parents. My heartached for those motherless boys. And I cried more than I ever believed possible.

The call came, and ended. Had I thought about treatment? Had I thought about surgery? Yes. When? Immediately. He would work me into his Monday schedule. And that was that. In the span of six days, I went from the top of the world to the darkest realms of despair. I went from seemingly perfect health to diagnosis to surgery and back home by Wednesday of the next week. My world had changed in an instant, and life would never be the same.

When the final pathology report came in, a new panic gripped me. My cancer was in Stage III. It had spread beyond my breast tissue into the lymph nodes under my arm and into my lymphatic vascular system. It was out of the gate, so to speak. There would be no simple treatment options for me. It was time to fight with all the strength I could find. Fortunately, after five weeks of waiting in terror, a PET scan determined that the cancer had not spread to any distant parts of my body. I was still curable, by scientific standards. Four months of chemo began, to be followed by seven weeks of radiation, more surgery, and at least ten years of anti-hormonal medication, to prevent my estrogen-fed cancer from returning.

It felt like a nightmare from which it was impossible to awake. My breasts were gone; chemo had taken my hair; my body felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. It had betrayed me. The essence of what made me a woman - the hormones - had almost taken my life. A dark cloud hovered over me. The statistics rang in my ears. "It's good that the cancer is hormone fed; it gives you more treatment options. Oh, but, by the way, that also means the cancer is more likely to return after the five year all-clear mark - ten, fifteen, even twenty years later." Waiting for the other shoe to drop suddenly took on a very personal meaning. Could I never again live without looking over my shoulder in constant fear? Would every ache and pain re-ignite the terror?

In retrospect, I don't remember when the transition began. One day, I began to smile in spite of my fear. Tomorrow once again became something to look forward to, rather than one day closer to the end. I began to make plans- first for dinner out for the weekend, then longer term plans. I went to work, and found myself able to focus on the job I loved, rather than my cancer. Memorial Day came, and we made a quick trip to a nearby city for the weekend, just to get away. We played, and we laughed. I began to make plans for another trip, further out, for Thanksgiving. It began to seem possible that the graduations and weddings wouldn't happen without me, and that I might just meet those grandchildren I was anticipating. I was finding a new normal.

Of course, there are bumps in the road. The first round of chemo, with its agonizing nausea and unrelenting fatigue, has passed, and the second round is much less debilitating. I still go to work, but I'm much slower than I used to be. Memory and focus issues from the chemo coupled with exhaustion make me feel far less competent at the job about which I used to be so confident and excited. But soon chemo will be a memory, and radiation will come and go. The dark cloud is still there, but I find there are breaks in the cloud allowing the sun to shine through. I see the future as possible, even probable on most days. Sometimes an ache or a pain rekindles the all-too-familiar dread, but those moments are less frequent than they once were. For the first time since diagnosis, it feels as though I might learn to spend my days living rather than dying. Instead, I have made an uncompromising vow to myself tospend each of those days not in dread and fear of death, but grasping firmly and holding tightly to the joy and beauty of living with every ounce of strength I never knew I had.

crystalred7

Your incredible beyond words.