Fucking Cancer

What’s Treatment Like: Radiation

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

Dude, radiation oncology has got to be the weirdest experience of my life. And that includes any crazy shit I did in college. Now, again with stage IV, radiation isn’t always part of your treatment plan, because when you’re stage IV, that means cancer cells are floating around your body and latching onto other body parts than where they started, and making tumors all sorts of random places. Like, mine wound up on my sternum and the top of my femur, by my hip, so, really far from my breast. So, typically, you use chemo to treat stage IV because it’s a systemic disease and you need systemic solutions.

That said, if your tumors are causing you pain, or are likely to weaken a weight-bearing bone, then yeah, they’ll do radiation on there for you. But only as pain management, not as as part of a systemic treatment of your cancer, because radiation only zaps the spot where the tumor is, not your whole body. In my case, my femur is a weight bearing bone, and both it and my sternum hurt, so, zap zap!

Now, the first step in preparing for radiation is what the nice radiation techs called the Arts and Crafts portion of my care. First, I put on a gown and lay on the table of a CT machine, and they exposed the areas to be zapped, in my case, my sternum and my hip. The two techs stood there and stared at me thoughtfully, then they made little marks on me with sharpies. Then they thought and stared some more, and then more sharpie. Then they ran me in and out if the CT machine a few times, and then, more staring and more sharpie. Eventually when they had figured out exactly where they wanted to line up the radiation fields, they gave me the saddest tattoos ever. Just a blue dot. I have like 8 or 10 of them. The good news is, they didn’t really hurt much. I’ve had IV’s worse.

Oh, I almost forgot: at the start of arts and crafts time, they stuck a blue plastic bag under my legs, and they filled it with this weird warm goo, which rose up around my legs and then hardened to form a mold. They used that mold to hold me still for the zapping, so my legs and hips were all aligned just right. Precision is definitely the key here–you want to zap the tumor, not, say, your large intestine.

After all that, I came back the next day to start the treatments. And I shit you not, when I walked into the radiation room, the Bee Gees were playing on their CD player. Apparently when they built the room, they didn’t pipe in any kind of pandora or anything, so all they have is a CD player, and I happened to be there on a day that the 70’s CD was playing. Like the whole experience with the sharpies and the tattoos and the blue bag of goo wasn’t surreal enough, let’s add How Deep Is Your Love, shall we? It was all I could do not to giggle through the whole thing.

Oh, and if I felt like I hadn’t had enough sharpie during Arts and Crafts time, no worries, there was plenty more sharpie during the actual treatment days. The techs and I had nice chats about our plans for the weekend while they drew all over me. Once they had me marked up and lined up and shifted 7 millimeters this way or that, then everyone left the room and I listened as Earth Wind and Fire came on the CD player and the machine did its thing.

So, I had 10 zaps each on my sternum and my hip, for a total of 10 days of treatment, and I’ll be darned if the pain didn’t go away! Those weirdos in radiation oncology sure know what they’re doing. My hip is still a little sore, but more like when you need to stretch, not when I walk and put pressure on it like it did before. And the sternum doesn’t hurt at all.

And, they sure are nice, because at the end of my treatments, they gave me a very nice radiation graduation certificate that they all signed.

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See? Weird, but nice.

What’s Treatment Like: Chemo

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

I have gotten lots of questions about the treatment I’m getting for The Cancer. So, let me explain how it’s working.

First off, I’ve gotten chemotherapy. Lots of women with breast cancer have a mastectomy or lumpectomy first, and then chemo, and then radiation. Not so when you’re stage IV–we gotta treat the tumors everywhere in my body, not just the breast. So, I get chemo first, and other treatment later. Because my flavor of cancer has neuroendocrine features (I have no idea what that means except it’s rare, especially in the breast), I’m not getting the most common breast regimen. Instead, they have me on cisplatin and etoposide, which my doctor says is an extremely tough regimen.

What does that look like when we say ” an extremely tough regimen”? Well, here is how a 21-day chemo cycle looks for me. Day 1, a Wednesday: I go to my doctor’s office and plop down in a recliner. They access my portacath (or port for short) with a IV thingy, and start pumping me up with fluids, because cisplatin will ruin your kidneys if you don’t flush them before and after treatment. So, after the fluids, they give me some killer antinausea meds, including a steroid called dexamethasone that can cause perianal burning unless they give it to me slowly. I also get a nausea med called Emend, and finally, my good buddy lorazepam. Then they give me the cisplatin.

By this time it’s about lunch time, so The Hubs (who comes to all my treatments) runs out to grab us lunch. I usually am only hungry for half of it, because round about that time, by body says “Aaaaannnnnd I’m spent” and I fall asleep in the recliner with my nice handmade quilt and my comfy neck pillow that smells like Christmas. (Yay for cancer gifts!) I wake up when they switch me to the etoposide, and usually I get up to go pee sometime in there a time or two, wheeling my IV stand along with me. Then it’s back to snoozeville until the next bag change, an IV of fluids again (must flush those kidneys!), and then eventually they unplug me and send me home, where I sleep some more. By this point, I’ve been there all day.

That’s day 1. Day 2 and 3 are just etoposide, so no kidney-flushing fluids, and no emend. Just the anal burning steroids (that thankfully have not yet caused any anal burning) and the lorazepam. So, it’s a much shorter day, just a couple of hours, but I usually nap anyway, because dude, living with chemo drugs in your body is EXHAUSTING. Like, I thought I was tired when I was pregnant, ha! Hahaha! This is way more so. I never slept 18 hours a day when pregnant.

As for the nausea, man, I am on so many nausea drugs, it really isn’t that bad, as long as I take them. One day this cycle, I waited to take one because I knew I’d be getting that one at chemo time that afternoon, and that was stupid. I will not make that mistake again. I haven’t puked yet but my appetite is definitely off. Like, when I was pregnant, the smell of certain foods would make me queasy, and that’s happening now too. I also get halfway through a meal and just don’t want any more.

I said it’s a 21 day cycle, right, and I described days 1-3. Then what? Well, day 4 and 5 (the weekend) I’m still pretty tired and still really need the nausea meds. Day 6 and 7 I start to have a teeny bit more energy and usually by day 8 or 9 or 10 I feel mostly human again. Tired, but not, like, can’t get out of bed tired, can’t concentrate tired. Just worn out, like after having the flu.

So, usually by day 12, I’m back at work, trying to catch up on everything I missed while I was away. Although, I end up with so many doctor appointments, it can be hard to actually have time to go to work. Having cancer is like having a second job, frankly.

Now, in terms of longer term treatment, my doctor plans 4 cycles of this chemo regimen, and then we see what happens. I’ve been through 3 so far. After the fourth one, we see what the tumors look like, and come up with a next step. Because I am young, and otherwise healthy, and the chemo seems to be shrinking the primary tumor quite nicely, I may end up being a candidate for surgery, or I may have more chemo first, or I may have hormone therapy, or all of the above. To say the plans are up in the air at this point would be a gross understatement, but my doctor is talking to other doctors and we hope to have a more solid plan sometime soon…ish.

Stay tuned for my next installment: radiation therapy!

On Aging

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

You want to know what’s most ironic about me having Stage IV cancer? For years, I have been dreaming about how awesome it’d be to be an old lady. No, seriously, old age kicks ass. Let me explain why.

The Hubs and I have been on a lot of cruises, and one of the things I like best about a cruise is that the age of passengers tends to skew pretty old. Old people have the BEST stories, so they make the most interesting dinner companions. One cruise, The Hubs and I sat with a couple of old ladies from England, and man were they a trip. It was so interesting to listen to them talk about their lives, but my favorite thing about them was that one of them would always order an extra side of ice cream with her dessert. Because she’s already lived this long, what’s it gonna do, kill her? Make her fat? Who gives a shit, she’s old.

Old is being a badass. Old is not having to care what anyone thinks of how you look or what you wear. Old is being able to tell it like it is. Old is freedom.

I went to Vegas last December with some girlfriends and we sat for a while in a bar at the Paris casino, and listened to one of the most awesomely bad lounge singers I have ever heard. Guy had a guitar and a karaoke machine and you just KNEW it was gonna be good when he started playing Margaritaville. And I turned to my girlfriends and I said, “When I retire, I am totally gonna be a lounge singer in Vegas. If this guy can get a gig, I sure as hell can.”

You know what else I want to do when I retire? Live in a senior community. It’s just like a college dorm except with Hoverounds. All your friends are in one place, and there’s a cafeteria so you don’t even have to cook, and you can hang out all day in your PJ’s, and when you feel like it, there are enrichment classes to go to and movie nights and shit. See? Just like college, plus HOVEROUNDS.

Now that I have The Cancer, I don’t get to dream about my old age so happily. I can’t just think about the future in a breezy way anymore like I used to. Old age has become my deepest desire, one I am almost afraid to hope for, because there is a good chance it won’t happen for me.

Actually, I already have the shitty parts of old age. I’m tired a lot, my hair fell out, and I spend all my free time at doctor appointments. It would be really nice to get some of the perks too. Like a Hoveround. And getting to be a lounge singer in Vegas.

So, now when I hear people complain about aging, about their wrinkles and the hair growing from their ears and whatever, I dunno. I try to keep in mind that my perspective now is all fucked up, and most people can’t see their wrinkles and their aches and pains the way I do. But mostly I just want to tell people to shut. the. fuck. up. Because there is a lot of awesomeness that happens when you’re old. Old is fucking beautiful.

I have always relied on the kindness of friends

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

I always knew that my friends and family were awesome people, but I had no idea just how awesome until The Cancer. Here is a list of just SOME of the awesome things that people have done to support my family lately:

1. My east coast friends and some of The Hubs’ former coworkers collected money to pay for a housekeeping service to come and clean our house every few weeks. They raised enough to pay for the service through the end of the year.

2. Some mom friends I met online, most of whom I have never met in person, made me a quilt. They each picked a different fabric (including one that’s got strips of bacon, and another with martini glasses) and then one of them sewed it together. It’s gorgeous.

3. A couple of my friends set up a website where people can sign up to bring us dinner or pick up the kids from school if we have doctor appointments. We haven’t had to cook a weeknight dinner in weeks because we’ve had people bringing us food every night.

4. Several of the parents of The Boy’s friends have offered to take him for play dates, which makes him feel loved and special.

5. My college BFF flew out to visit and spent the entire time she was here cleaning our house and reorganizing the disaster area that is my desk in our home office.

6. My work colleagues donated hundreds of hours of leave for me, so I don’t have to take unpaid leave when I’m getting chemo and going to doctor appointments and just feeling too tired to come to work.

7. Our awesome daycare provider said “I’ll keep The Girl late anytime you need me to, for no charge.” This after she’d given us a bunch of prepared meals so we had food for lunches.

8. My big sister came up to stay with us a couple of weekends and spent the whole time doing our dishes and folding our laundry and taking care of our kids when I was a chemo zombie.

9. People who follow this blog have been sending me messages of support and offering to send meals and CDs and anything I need. One of them who I have become friends with sent me a really awesome pillow thingy that smells like Christmas and you can warm it in the microwave.

10. I’ve gotten SO MANY beautiful scarves and hats, some of them hand knit, from friends all over the country, and even a couple that came from Turkey that I can’t figure out who sent them to me. (I don’t know anyone in Turkey…but perhaps someone I know knows someone in Turkey?)

11. A bunch of people who don’t live close have sent gift cards to help us pay for groceries or take-out.

12. One of my coworkers gave me a bottle of organic locally made vodka. I can’t wait to be feeling well enough to drink it.

13. I can’t tell you how many people have baked us cookies.

14. A blogger friend found a pair of pink high-heeled shoes at her local thrift/vintage store and wrote “FUCK CANCER” across the front of them and mailed them to me.

15. SO MANY KIND WORDS. Just, so much support and love coming my way, in emails and Facebook messages and cards, and so many hugs. Even people at work, where we don’t hug that much, are hugging me these days. (But not in a creepy way.)

There’s more, but I’m getting all verklempt thinking about it. A few people have said that it’s a testament to what a great person I am that so many people love me and want to support me. And, I am pretty awesome…but I also think it’s that I’ve surrounded myself with awesome people. And that seems to be the key to getting through a bad time–to have awesome people around you. If you don’t have awesome people around you, dude, now’s the time to find some, because you never know when you’re going to have a crisis and need a pair of pink high heeled shoes and a quilt and some dinner and a housekeeping service and OMG are people really doing all this for us? And I’m in shock for a minute, until I remember how awesome the people are that I’ve got in my life.

How are the kids?

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

I have no idea what is the “right” way to talk to your kids about cancer. I’m sure there are a lot of people who think I’m doing it wrong. I really don’t give a shit, though. One thing about The Cancer is I really can’t bother giving a shit what anyone thinks about the way I’m parenting. I mean, I didn’t care much before, but now? I really don’t have the energy to spend on that crap anymore.

So, the kids. Lots of folks have asked me how they’re doing with this whole cancer thing, and how we talk to them about it. And what I say is that we’re oversharers, so we just talk about it. That’s how our family rolls with everything, so it would be weird NOT to talk about The Cancer. And that’s why we told The Boy the day I got the first biopsy results. We picked him up from school, and as we drove home, I said, “I have something important to talk to you about. Have you heard of cancer? Do you know what it is?” He had heard of it but didn’t really understand what it is, so I explained to him that it’s a sickness, that it’s not catching but that it’s kind of a big-deal sickness, and that I just found out I have it, and that it’s in my breast. He asked if I was going to die, and I told him no, that I’m going to beat up that cancer, and he said, “I’m going to punch it in its private parts. Does it have private parts?” And then he said, “I’m hungry, can we get something to eat?”

The next morning before school started, we had our evaluation meeting (he qualified for special ed for his ADHD–they’re doing all his services in the regular classroom and he’s making AMAZING progress already) so we told his teacher and the school psych about The Cancer. So, when he went to class that morning, he told his teacher about The Cancer, and she asked if he wanted to tell the class about it. And we’re oversharers, so of course he did. The Boy got up in front of the class and said “My mom has cancer” and his teacher explained to them what cancer is, and then he took questions. When he came home, he told us about it and said “I wish they had asked more questions.” And now everywhere he goes, The Boy introduces me by saying “That’s my mom, she has cancer.”

What I’m saying is, The Boy is not bottling anything. He talks about The Cancer whenever he feels like. In fact, we’ve had to explain that other people might feel uncomfortable talking about The Cancer, even though we talk about everything in our family. He’s confused by that, like, he just doesn’t understand why people wouldn’t want to talk about whatever is on their mind, even if it’s scary or whatever.

As for The Girl, she’s small enough still to not really understand what cancer is. We’ve explained that I’ve got a sickness and that the medicine makes me tired and makes my hair fall out, which is why Daddy shaved my head. (We made sure both the kids were there for the shaving, because I knew they’d be less weirded out than if I just came home one day without hair.) But, she doesn’t seem upset by any of this. Both The Girl and The Boy seem to give more hugs lately, and enjoy a cuddle more, but otherwise? They seem about the same as they always are.

I guess what I’m saying is, kids bounce. It’s not easy for them anymore than it’s easy for me, but they’re tougher than we think they are.

Why?

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

Since The Cancer, a lot of friends have said things to me like “This seems so unfair. You’ve been through so much trauma already, and now this? Why does this have to happen to you?” But strangely, I haven’t asked that question myself. I haven’t wondered why I had to be the one who got cancer. Which made me wonder, why haven’t I wondered why?

At first, I thought it might be because I am not religious. I don’t believe in a divine plan, and even if there WAS one, I don’t think God would be such a dick that he would give someone cancer.As I’ve said before, if it brings you comfort to think that God did this and it’s for some important reason, well, OK, but that doesn’t bring me any comfort, and if you say it to me, I will probably tell you that I think your god is an asshole. (Freedom of religion: it cuts both ways, doesn’t it?) Because, I think illnesses happen because they just happen, and it’s not fair or unfair, it just is. This is also why I think health care should be a right and not a commodity, but we’ll save that for another post.

So, yeah, I thought, maybe it’s just my world view that makes me not ask why. But, then I thought back to how I reacted to The Boy’s early birth, and remembered: I did a LOT of asking why, but from a medical perspective. Not at first, but as time went on, I desperately needed a reason for why my water broke, how this all got started, what went wrong. And none of the doctors could tell me. They had hypotheses, sure, but no way to prove them.

For a while, I blamed myself. I must be the reason, if only I had done something differently, if only I had been more in tune with my body. Looking for a reason for the shitty things that happen can be a dangerous thing. It can lead you to blame people who aren’t really at fault. Including yourself.

It took a long time and plenty of therapy to come to accept that I would never know for sure why The Boy came early, but eventually I did. Doctors just don’t know all there is to know about the human body yet. They are researching as fast as they can, and they know a hell of a lot more now than they did even 10 years ago, let alone 100 or 1000 years ago. But they don’t know everything. And sometimes, they just don’t have the answers. Doctors know a lot more about cancer now than they used to–they know enough to tell people not to smoke, and to wear sunscreen–but they don’t have all the answers about why cancer happens. Especially when it’s a rare form, like mine.

We did ask my oncologist, who is extremely kind as well as extremely smart, how this could be stage IV already, when I just found the lump, and I do self exams regularly. (My paternal grandmother had breast cancer in her 70’s, lived 10 more years and died of non-cancer old people diseases, but her cancer was enough to get me doing regular exams.) He said that my type of cancer is really aggressive, and that there was nothing I could have done differently to prevent this from becoming stage IV.

See? Shit just happens. That was a totally adequate answer for me.

More About My Cancer

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

When I last explained my cancer, I left you hanging about treatment and the extent of the cancer. Let me update you, because a lot has happened since that appointment with the surgeon.

So, I have had lots of tests run, and they almost all came with bad news. The cancer is a rare type called neuroendocrine, and isn’t just in my breast. It’s also on the top of my femur, on my sternum, and in a lymph gland near my heart, in addition to the main tumor, which is pretty huge, and the stuff in the lymph glands by my breast. That means it’s Stage IV cancer, which is the worst stage. The only way it could be worse is if I had tumors on major organs, like my lungs or liver.

Basically, what that means is, I am almost certainly going to die of cancer  someday. We hope that someday will be a looooong way down the road. But, it may not be. My incredibly kind oncologist, a delightful man in his 30’s who doesn’t mind my inappropriate sense of humor, is hopeful that because I am young for having cancer, and otherwise healthy, I have a good shot at the “down the road” prognosis.

Treatment plan is this: I am having chemo, and I also am having radiation on the femur and sternum tumors, because those two are causing pain. If I wasn’t having pain, they wouldn’t bother with radiation, they would just let the chemo do its thing. Surgery on the primary tumor would be a “maybe, later” thing, if the chemo works, which, it has so far–first check after the chemo showed the primary tumor had shrunk, so we appear to be on the right track. The chemo is 3 days in a row of treatment every 21 days. The first round, I was suuuuper tired during those 3 days and the 2 following, then progressively less tired each day after that. I’m working when I can (my office has been super about flexible schedule and telework) and resting when I need to. After chemo is done, I’ll move onto hormone therapy. My cancer is a type that should be receptive to hormone treatment, which is another good thing–some cancers aren’t.

Lots of folks have asked me about nausea, but the drugs for that kick ass. I haven’t puked at all. When I start to feel nausea, I pop a pill. I‘m eating normally and haven’t lost any weight. The other side effect, of course, is hair loss. It started falling out in clumps about 2 weeks after I started chemo, just like you see in the movies, like handfuls of it in the shower one morning. I bought a wig. Some folks have asked why I don’t just rock the bald look or wear scarves, but having hair, even fake hair, helps me feel more normal. I think it’ll be easier on the kids too. The Girl likes to brush my hair, and this way she still can.

So that’s it, that’s the story. I promise to keep you all updated as treatment progresses, and stay tuned for my take on what radiation is like.

I am a fraud

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

I can’t begin to tell you how many people lately have called me their hero, or said how strong I am. All because of the cancer, and how I am keeping my chin up most days. I am keeping my chin up most days, but dude, what choice do I have? I can lay down and die, or I can get up and keep fighting. I mean, maybe if I was alone and didn’t have a family that needed me, maybe I could just lay down and die. Probably not, though. I’m too mad at the cancer to let it win.

Also, yeah, there are days where I just sit and cry a lot. Where I can’t be useful to my family who needs me, not just because I am physically a wreck from the chemo, but also because I can’t stop crying. On those days, The Hubs tells the kids I am sleeping and I lay in bed and mourn the life I had just a few weeks ago. A life that didn’t involve doctor appointments and medications I can’t pronounce. A life where I didn’t have to figure out what happens to my life insurance through work if I have to stop working.

I don’t show that face to the world much. I did the same when The Boy was in the NICU–although, I think I also didn’t show that face to myself when he was in the NICU. I was in total denial that anything was wrong then. Now? I know. I know my best case scenario is chemo that works, radiation, a radical mastectomy, hormone therapy, and pills for the rest of my life, however long that is. Or, maybe the chemo won’t work. Maybe I feel exhausted and queasy for no good reason and I won’t make it to Christmas. Either way, my future is not what I thought it would be a month ago.

But I get up every morning and I hope, as scary as it is to do. I hope to see my kids graduate and go to college. I hope the medicine works. I guess that’s what makes me brave–it’s being scared, and sad, and going forward anyway. But I still feel like a fraud when someone calls me their hero.

Talking About The Cancer

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

No, this will not be the dreaded foot-in-mouth post with the long list of “don’t say this to someone with cancer” things that people say to you when they find out you have cancer. You can relax, big sis. (She was really worried I would write about her, and wanted a warning before being publicly embarrassed. Honestly, big sis, you’re awesome.)

Look, who puts their foot in their mouth more than I do? Nobody, that’s who. And, what DO you say to someone who has cancer? Like, I’m sorry, that’s awful…and then? Like, how do you finish that conversation when you’re done with it? We’ll be praying for you, if you do that sort of thing, which most people in Seattle do not…good luck? I mean, the whole fucking thing is completely awkward.

Which is why I’m going to say this. I give everyone I speak to about my cancer a free pass to react however they’re gonna react and say whatever they’re gonna say. Nothing they can say will make me angry. Mildly bemused, perhaps. But not angry. Because, in the end, is it their fault I have cancer? No, it’s the cancer’ fault. I am angry at the cancer, and I will destroy the cancer with my rage. I can’t be wasting my energy on well-meaning people who say the wrong thing when faced with a completely awkward conversation.

I’m probably selling out my fellow cancer peeps with this attitude, because I have read some humdingers of articles by cancer survivors calling out all the dumb shit people have said that hurt their feelings. And hey, if it helps them direct their anger in a way they find productive, then rock on, the world could always use less awkwardness. I just don’t feel that way. I did about having a preemie and the stupid shit people would say, but I don’t now.

The other thing I keep in mind is that, although I am indeed the one with the cancer, this shit impacts a lot of people. Obviously my family, but also my friends, my coworkers, my neighbors, just so many people, who care about me and want me to get well. All of that love and caring is so incredibly powerful. It makes the feet in mouths seem so trivial in comparison.

You guys know that I am not a religious person at all, but I once heard a rabbi say that he believes that what God is, that ALL that God is, is our connections with each other. That when we feel those connections, that is how we experience God. That idea has stuck with me over the years, and in fact, it’s the only explanation for the supernatural that has ever made any damn sense to me. A god who is all-powerful and decides to smite little children with cancer? What a douche, why would you worship an asshole like that? But our connections with each other, when we aren’t alone? THAT is something I can get behind, and something I have experienced throughout this cancer journey, which I am only just beginning. I am more grateful than I can even begin to express for those connections, because they give me so much strength. They make me cry happy tears instead of scared ones.

So, don’t worry about saying the wrong thing to me. Don’t worry about conversations being awkward. I’m just glad you are here with me.

My Cancer

Posted on by Beth Caldwell

So, the cancer. Let me give you the rundown of how this has all gone down so far.

On March 18, during a breast self exam in the shower, I found a lump in my left breast. I’d say my immediate reaction was disbelief. It was like 5:30 in the morning, and The Hubs was still sleeping, and waking him up with “Honey can you feel that lump in my breast” was not something I wanted to do, so I went to work and tried not to think about it. I had case meetings and was super productive.

When I left work, I couldn’t distract myself with complex projects anymore, so I went to our car in the parking garage in The Hubs’ building to wait for him, and while I waited, I felt for the lump again. And there it was, right where I had found it the morning before, at the bottom of my left breast, right where the band of my bra sits. And then I started crying.

When The Hubs got in the car, I told him. And he hugged me and said, “Have you been carrying this around all day?” And I said yes. And he said “It’s OK, we got this. We got this.” Have I ever mentioned that he’s a fucking saint? Because he is. I don’t even have words to express what he means to me.

That night, I told my best friends, including my college BFF, whose awesome mother-in-law died of breast cancer. (SO UNFAIR, practically nobody has an awesome mother-in-law and hers has to die?!?! You see why I think cancer is such an asshole?) Everyone was supportive, because I have awesome people in my life.

The next day, right when they opened, I called my doctor’s office to make an appointment. Of course, my doc was booked up that whole day, so I saw her the following afternoon–that brings us up to Thursday. I also woke up that morning with an insanely sore hip, like, it hurt to put pressure on it. The Hubs came with me to the appointment, and we told the doctor about the lump and the hip. She sent me for a hip X-Ray, which came back negative and so she said “if it’s not better in a few days, see about starting PT.” She also wrote me a referral to a local breast clinic that does mammograms and ultrasounds and all that.

So, I call the breast clinic, and the only time I could get in that week was on Friday at 8AM, which conflicted with our first medication review appointment for The Boy’s ADHD meds. So, I schedule for 8AM on Monday instead. This would be the first of many weekends I would spend trying not to worry about what a test on Monday would show.

I’m going to now share a pro-tip I learned while on bed rest in the hospital after my water broke before The Boy was born. When you have a ultrasound, and the tech says, “I’m going to bring in the radiologist,” that’s a sign you’re about to hear bad news. It’s even worse if the radiologist spends a long time using the ultrasound wand. Both of those things happened that Monday. And I knew. I knew right then that I had cancer. I didn’t need a biopsy report. I didn’t even need the radiologist, a very kind woman, to say “It looks extremely suspicious and we need to do a needle biopsy right away. Do you have time right now?” I cried, quietly at first but with more force when they took me into the wig room (THE FUCKING WIG ROOM) so I would have a quiet place to call my husband while they set up for the needle biopsy. And after the biopsy, she walked me across the hall to make an appointment with a surgeon for Wednesday, when the biopsy results would be back.

After that, I cried some more, and called a bunch of people. My college BFF, even though it was her dead mother-in-law’s birthday. My dear friend and cruise buddy who survived breast cancer in her 40’s. And then I went to work. I mostly sat at my desk and stared into space, or cried. I talked to my sister too. I went home that night and cried some more, and barely slept, and took Tuesday off from work.

And then came the big day, Wednesday, March 26. When the kind radiologist called that morning, she didn’t surprise me with the news that it was cancer, and that it was in a lymph gland. What surprised me was that it was a form of cancer that is extremely rare in the breast. It’s called neuroendocrine cancer, and if you google it and “breast” you’ll find that there’s practically no research on it because it’s so uncommon, let alone in women as young as me. They aren’t even sure the best way to treat it.

I met that afternoon with the surgeon, another very kind woman, who talked to me about the cancer, how big it was, where it was, and how treatment can work. While we talked, her staff were busy setting up zillions of tests for me, so when I walked out of her office, we had a plan for next steps.