CANCERVERSARY NO. 2

Some things never change.

A year ago, I was dreading my first "cancerversary" and so relieved to find my feelings surrounding the date did not reach epic proportion (as I feared they would).

It's now been two years since I got "the call." And I've spent even less time thinking about my "cancerversary" this year than I did last year. Turns out December 8th — the day after the day that will live in infamy — still holds no charge for me. 

Yes, it's been two years since I learned I had cancer. But it's also been five years since I lost my father to mesothelioma, the asbestos cancer he likely acquired while serving in the U.S. Navy during WWII. Rather than rewrite history, I'll save a few minutes (OK, hours) and repost what I typed in this space one year ago. 

Instead of spending time blogging, I'll be spending the day with my mom, doing Christmasy type things, like decorating the tree. (Well, I'll be decorating the tree. She'll watch. So will my husband. Some things never change — and for that I am grateful.)

Here's my post from December 8th, 2011...

NEW YEAR

I began this blog several months into my journey with breast cancer. Didn't feel like talking about it (much less writing about it) back then. And as I've mentioned in posts prior, my husband and I kept the news to ourselves until January. We hurried through the Christmas holidays in a hushed haze, then squeaked past New Year's by the skin of our teeth. Here's what happened.

A few weeks before the holidays, we go out to dinner with our core group of friends — five couples who spend every New Year's Eve together. The discussion quickly turns to what we are going to do for the big night. My husband and I have already decided we are going to sit this one out. There is no way I can pretend to be happy, in front of friends, about a new year that is ushering in a dirty little secret — we hadn't let the cancer cat out of the bag yet. 

Our friends don't understand our sudden desire to spend New Year's alone. My husband takes the curmudgeon hit, saying he can't bear to sit in a noisy, over-crowded restaurant for hours on end and would rather just stay home. They think he is getting old and crotchety (who isn't?). And of course they try to convince us (as all good friends will) to come along, or do something other than dinner. They promise we'll have a blast and say we're silly for sitting at home when we can do that any night of the week. After all, man, it's a new year!

Exactly.

The pressure is daunting. Everyone wants us to hang out with them but I feel like I'm drowning. (Can I get a life jacket over here? Please?) But we stick to our guns, and though our friends think we've gone a little bonkers, they ultimately respect our desire for a "romantic evening" alone. (Ha.)

New Year's Eve goes out the way it came in — quietly. We watch the ball drop, try not to think about the ball of anxiety that's been dropped in our laps, and go to bed.

Our friends post pictures on Facebook of what looks like a fab New Year's Eve, with dancing and drinking and goofy noisemakers. It really does look like fun. (And it really doesn't look like they miss us.) 

In hindsight, our little white lie has left a pretty bad taste in my mouth. If I had it to do it over again, I would:

1) Tell my friends and family sooner rather than later. 

2) Gladly put my poker face on

3) Toss back a flight of champagne 

4) Toast to a Healthy New Year

5) Be happy I am able to do any and all of the above.

... because soon enough, I'll have more days and nights sitting at home than I care to count.

(For more, see Finding Support.)

FINDING SUPPORT

On December 20th, 2010, I sit down at the computer and begin my real journey: The one where I take off my goggles, put on my glasses and start Googling. (This is otherwise known as the "information-hunting-and-gathering" phase of life after a breast cancer diagnosis.)

The process of medical fact finding forever alters — in fact, downright bursts — the protective bubble we build around ourselves upon initially hearing the C word in the same sentence as our own name. But let me warn you: You better be ready. Because once you open the door to that world of info, the winds of change WILL come rushing in. And after that happens, the hands of time can never be turned back.

My fact-finding mission on this day shortly before the Christmas holidays uncovers a support group that I never knew existed. A community comprised of women of all ages and stages that congregates online to share their battles with breast cancer. It's a safe haven of sorts, a place where we can dump the most gruesome details of our cancer battle and find not only relief, but others who have been there, done that. It's a 24/7 sanctuary free from judgement, full of support and rampant with humor. Mothers representing daughters fighting the disease can be found here, as can daughters gathering strength for their moms. Even husbands have been known to join forces on behalf of their wives. Everyone is welcomed; you just need an introduction to The Big C.

There is safety in numbers, and that certainly is the case with the women fighting alongside me — they number in the tens of thousands on this group alone. We stand together, tall in our struggles, our hopes, our fears. We are united in our desire for a long life, a cancer-free future, and unlimited fun time with family and friends.

And I don't know how I could have gotten through it all without them. (See Ditching Control  and Curtain of Dead for more of my story.)

ISLE OF DENIAL

Immediately after my breast cancer diagnosis in December 2010, I become stuck in the “Making-Medical-Appointments-Around-the-Holidays” mire. Unable to get in to see any physicians until early January, I have no choice but to get back on the train to nowhere. And so my husband and I decide not to tell anyone (aside from my two girlfriends) about my diagnosis. Friends and family will just ask lots of questions and we won’t have any answers. Better to wait until we know more. Besides, we don’t want to wreck everyone’s Christmas. Bad enough we have to wreck our own. We'll just keep it all a secret.

I had never spent a holiday on the Isle of Denial before. It wasn’t so bad; kind of like a honeymoon phase. I tell myself there will be plenty of time to deal with everything cancer-related soon enough. So I wrap presents and bake cookies and decorate the Christmas tree just like every year. But I’m not sleeping well. I get up at 3AM, listen for the rain and make Peppermint Pinwheels. Then I study the biomarkers in my pathology report, looking to make molehills out of mountains.

But what I oddly don’t do is any further research, which is not like me. My head seems firmly stuck in the sand. I don’t investigate the findings on my pathology report beyond what I already know to be true: I have IDC (invasive ductal carcinoma); it’s ER/PR+ 95% (estrogen and progesterone receptor positive, meaning the cancer is being fed by my hormones, so taking the premenopausal drug Tamoxifen will suppress this estrogen and interfere with it's ability to stimulate the growth of breast cancer cells); I am HER-2 negative (good because HER-2 positive cancers tend to be more aggressive). And my Nottingham Score — a common tumor grading system — is 5 out of 9. These stats simply confirm what my Dr. S. has already told me: that my cancer is likely slow growing. So I really don’t think about “it” that much. I try to continue to forget “it.” 

And I try to find some semblance of peace on the merry 'ole Isle of Denial.

(See New Year and Ditching Control for what happens next.)