Let's Start Here

(Disclaimer: This blog is about MY story. I'm not a doctor, I don't pretend to be one. Any advice I may offer is just that: my own personal advice. Not everything on here will be happy-go-lucky. There's a lot about cancer I hate. There's a lot about my treatments that I hate more. Most of the time I try to stay positive. I succeed most days, some I don't. If you're okay with that, read on...)

Hi, I'm Kristin. I'm two months into treatment for Invasive Ductal Breast Cancer. You're probably asking why would I start a blog now? Why not document my journey (Blech, I kinda hate that word. Anyone got anything better?) from the get-go?

Sigh. I thought about it off and on. I just... I don't know. Wasn't there yet, I guess. I couldn't. But I decided I'm ready and now's as good of a time as any. So, let's go. 

Before I go back and fill you all in on this fantastic experience of mine, let me tell you a little bit about myself. First off, I'm a wife and a mom. I have an amazing husband and three great kids. They're older now (the kids, not the husband. Well, wait. Maybe he is too. Hell, so am I, come to think of it.), ages 23, 20 and almost 18. This coming May, I'll be married for 25 years. I can't tell you how pissed off I am that I'll be celebrating such a huge milestone in my life while being on chemo. It sucks, big, fat...

Anyway. I digress...

Aside from being a wife and mom, I'm also a writer. I write hot and steamy romance. Erotic romance. Yep, the kind that gets you all worked up while leaving you feeling all ooey-gooey, lovey-dovey inside. It's just what I do. Well, it's what I was doing. Which brings us to my story...

I think it was early November, maybe mid-November. I was lying in bed and watching a little TV, listening to my husband snore softly. I was getting all comfy, and my hand just slid to rest underneath my breast. You ladies, you can relate to this position, right? I liken it to men sitting with their hands stuffed in their pants. You know what I'm talking about... I have no idea what got me to thinking that it had been a while since I did any sort of self breast exam. I admit, I was one of the worst at doing this. I was always scared I'd find something, you know? So I start to tentatively feel around. And...there was something there. Or was there? It felt... It was like this little ridge at the edge of my breast. I remember having a huge moment of what the hell before reaching for my phone on my nightstand. One smartphone internet search led to two or three. Oh, and hey, lookee there. Turns out ridges in breast tissue are NORMAL. What a relief! Still, I got up out of bed and snuck into the bathroom, because you're supposed to do a visual check of your breasts whenever you do an exam, right? And oh my god, they looked normal, too. I went to sleep that night knowing that, yes, I was late for my yearly mammogram (only by a few months) and that I would call in the morning to set that up, but I was okay. Phew. And zonk.

When I called for the mammo the next morning, I found out I couldn't get in until the end of December. Well, that was okay, because everything I looked up the night before and that morning on my computer said that I didn't have anything to worry about (I never mentioned anything to the scheduling department about feeling something inside my breast. Stupid, I know. Been kicking myself for this since then.).

Thanksgiving comes and goes, and then December rolls around. I'm working diligently on a book, bound and determined to get it finished by the first of the year, if not then really soon afterward (I'm not the world's fastest writer, you know.). I'm loving it. Words are flowing. Then Christmas break hits for all three of my kids. And I was fine with that, really. I'd worked hard for a while now, and I deserved a few weeks off to enjoy the holiday with my kids, my husband, my family. Taking time off was a conscious decision.

I joined a gym. I decorated. I shopped. It had been years since I'd been in the Christmas spirit. But damn it, I was feeling it this year. It was going to be a GREAT Christmas. And it really was.

Two days after Christmas, I came home from the gym and showered. Afterward, looking in my closet for something to wear, I bent forward and... Ow. I felt a twinge in my breast. A zing. Huh. That was weird. I hadn't done another self breast exam since THAT one. So... Okay, here we go again.

My small "ridge" had grown. And changed shape. There was a hard, round lump at the end of it, toward the center of my breast. I FREAKED OUT. First call was to my doctor. Yes, I had the mammo scheduled. And yes, they'd want to see that first before I could get in to see him. But, for the love of... They had to change the order for the hospital. Turns out a diagnostic mammogram is done differently than a yearly mammogram where I go. There has to be a radiologist in attendance to read it. And of course, there wasn't going to be one when I had mine scheduled.

Fuck. (People who know me, should be able to picture me saying exactly this.)

They couldn't get me in for the diagnostic mammo until January 16th. SIXTEENTH. WTF, seriously. I called my doctor's office back, and they weren't happy with that time frame either. They had a little pull, and got the appointment moved up to the 9th (which is my middle daughter's birthday, mind you. I always get a little wiggy when bad things could potentially happen on good days, but I took the appointment anyway). The next day, I went to back to the gym, and just like the day before, I came home and showered. Only this time, when I was getting dressed, it was in front of the mirror. I looked at my reflection. Looked again. My stomach literally dropped to my toes. Right there, on my breast, was a dimple. Ladies, you and I both know this is not a good sign.

Looking back, I think I knew right then that I had breast cancer. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, had been telling me that it wasn't. It was a cyst. It was a fibroid. It was... whatever. Breast cancer doesn't hurt, and this hurt. So, therefore, this wasn't cancer. It just wasn't cancer.

After I saw the dimple, I called the doctor's office back. Once again, they used their pull and got me in for the mammo on January 2nd (and this whole time I'm thinking why couldn't I have just had that appointment to begin with?). New Year's Eve was spent low-key. January 1st was spent with me in private freak-out mode (I either do it private where I turn really quiet, or more openly where I can't stop my hysterical tears and near-hyperventilation breathing. The latter is more common now. Fun, huh?).

My husband went with me for the mammogram. He had to wait in the "outer" waiting room, while I changed and waited in the "inner" waiting room. Time dragged. And dragged. Waiting is so, so hard. My mind wandered, hopping back and forth from "they'll find a fibroid" to, "this is gonna be bad". Finally, the technician came and took me back to her little room. The mammogram hurt more than usual. She took eight shots of my left breast alone. Then it was back to sitting alone in the waiting room.

How these women school their features as they talk to patients, I'll never know. The technician came back to me again. Sorry, but they're going to need three more views. That "this is gonna be bad" feeling grew. I made it through the extra views without freaking out too much, and went back to the waiting room. After more waiting, I'm not sure how long, she comes back once again. This time, they want to do an ultrasound. I knew that having one might be part of all this, but shit. I really wanted that "it's a fibroid, see you next year" answer.

The ultrasound tech was quiet the entire time. Too quiet. She never said a word as she did the exam, and as she finished, all she said was for me to wait right there, she was going to show the ultrasound to the radiologist. My nerves were pulling double duty as she rushed, yes rushed, out the door. And the second the radiologist walked in to tell me she wanted to do an ultrasound herself, I lost it. I cried. A lot. In between tears, I told her "You're supposed to tell me this is nothing. NOTHING."

Well, it wasn't "nothing".

They had me get dressed, then took me into room with a computer monitor set up and brought my husband in. I'm still crying, and the look on his face as he walked in was one of WTF. "It's not good," I told him. The radiologist shows us the areas on the mammogram and the ultrasound that they were "concerned" with. Two different masses (where, when I felt it, I thought the one had just grown). Her recommendation was for me to see a breast surgeon for a biopsy. I, of course, couldn't get in to see the surgeon until the 9th. Another week of waiting, of wondering. Of pure hell.

The 9th finally arrived (remember what I said before about the 9th being my middle daughter's birthday, and how I get wiggy about receiving potentially bad news on what is supposed to be a happy day. Yeah. That.) I won't go into details about the biopsy other to say HOLY HELL. I was given the max numbing medication allowed for an in-office procedure, and it didn't come close to being enough. My husband wasn't allowed in during the procedure, which bothered me to no end. After the biopsy was done, I asked the surgeon what she thought.

"I don't like how the samples look," she told me. 

"You think it's cancer?" I asked her point-blank.

"I do," was her just-as-point-blank answer.

Well.

Again, looking back, I can't say I was surprised. Two days later, we got the pathology confirmation. Invasive Ductal Breast Cancer. Two tumors, each 5 cm apart. A week after that, we got the news that each tumor has a different makeup. Tumors can be hormone-fueled or not, and within that, they can be either estrogen or progesterone receptive. The make up of my tumors is that one tumor is ER+/PR+/HER2- (I'll tell you about HER2 in a second), and the other is ER+/PR-/HER2+.

Ah, that bitch HER2. She's an aggressive little witch. Most breast cancers, when it metastasizes, finds its way into the lymphatic system (through nodes) and spreads that way. Well, little Ms. HER2 figured out a way to bypass the lymphatic system. She can go right into the blood stream and settle in to grow pretty much anywhere she wants. The GOOD thing about HER2? There's a chemo drug that can foil her plans and kill her wherever she is. It's targeted just for her. An A-Bomb with her name all over it.

Because of my HER2 status, my doctors decided to go the chemotherapy route first (zap it, and zap it NOW) and do surgery after (I'll be having a single mastectomy). My first treatment was exactly 2 months ago today. 1/31/12. I was terrified. Still am, a lot of the time. Chemo sucks, quite frankly, but I'll talk more about that some other time. Right now, I just wanted to get the ball (or blog) rolling and tell you a little (or a lot as it turns out) about my story.

I want to sum up my introduction by saying (and hopefully not sounding preachy): Don't ignore your breasts, ladies (and gents). Don't ignore you gut feelings. PLEASE ignore most of what's on the internet. Talk to your doctor. Find only reputable websites, if you have to do searches at all. Cling to those close to you. Lean on them. Make them lean back on you. Love them, listen to them and most importantly, hug and kiss them everyday.

I'm going to scoot and get rested up to go out to dinner with friends tonight. I get while the gettin' is good, but I can tire pretty quickly now. I"ll keep posting about my... journey, experience, anyone? Bueller?... and I'd love to hear any comments.

Til next time,

Kristin