Breast Cancer Awareness Month. My story.

I’m a mom, you know the kind that can juggle school pick-up and drop-offs, sick days, kids’ lunch and sports like a pro. I fit my routine mammogram in between school drop-off and pick up. It’s a miracle any of us make an appointment to go, especially with all the other things that fill our schedules. 

So, here I am, topless, chilly and being fondled. I always overshoot the small talk at this moment, to fill the air with something other than thick awkwardness. The young technician asks, “What are you making for Thanksgiving?”, which is happening two days from now. I give the technician some tips about gravy. I tell her to start her stock the day before and use butter and wine in the gravy! 

“Oh, I haven’t done that yet”   

She then mutters something about ‘dense tissue’ and a need for an ultrasound. No problem. I have 30 minutes before I need to grab my kids and start the afternoon craziness. The room is sterile, with bland white walls perked up with a flower painting. The ultra-sound is the highlight of the room. I grab my phone to make notes for Thanksgiving. I need to remember to grab rosemary, butter, corn meal, and buttermilk. The young technician is warm and chatty. I like chatty. I can’t tell anything looking at the monitor, so I stop looking and pepper her with questions about what wine she is serving for Thanksgiving. While mid- sentence, the doctor breezes in.

 “I see a small issue and need to do a biopsy”

She has been watching the screen from a small room.  “I can do it now if you can stay?” The concern on her face is worrying but I’m still not anxious because lots of my friends have needed biopsies. I text a few friends and hubby quickly, “At Montclair Breast Center for Mammogram. They found a cyst, doing a biopsy now. Be praying.” 

My husband, Jeff, texts back first “Oh. Wow. Love you. Call me.” He is my rock and I know I’ve just rattled him. Traci, texts “Oh my Lord. Praying for you right now. Need anything (Kids, Whatever)?”  Traci, my creative friend with hair always on point,  has never met a stranger and is the type of friend who makes you a wine bottle costume from scratch!  I ask her to grab a kid.  Mary, my blond comrade, is a kind, fun friend who will seek out the perfect gift, combing through antique stores to find you a sommelier cup.  “I literally woke up thinking about you and your mammogram. I know that sounds weird. I’m glad you’re in good hands. I had a cyst a few years ago and it was nothing, praying for you. Can I grab Max for you.?” Mary says. 

Jen, who I’ve dubbed, ‘late night Jen’ is not only intelligent and kind but always up for a party, texts, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Totally here for you. I’ll grab Taylor”, punctuated with emojis. 

MT, a friend who has been on Jersey soil for two days. A recent transplant from Nashville, coordinates with all my friends to get kids from everyone and bring them to dance, skateboarding and tennis. 

I am surrounded by a community of friends that jump in to help - no questions asked! 

The doctor explains the fine needle biopsy doesn’t require anesthesia.  It doesn’t hurt but I will feel the needle going in. I wonder if she is guessing about the pain or if she has ever had this done. I don’t ask. The chatty technician is now holding my hand, and telling me it’s going to be O.K. She must see the fear that is creeping across my face. I turn my face away from the needle, as she cleans the right side, watches the screen and guides the needle in. I feel like I am being stapled or unstapled. Click, click, click. The needle pulls out. The sound is un-nerving in its oddity.  The doctor tells me to get dressed and meet her in the office. The sternness in her voice rattles me. My hands shake while I am getting dressed. I keep reminding myself, this is nothing, this is nothing. 

I’m still feeling good at this point. I sit down in what seems to be a technology room where all I see is monitors. It is small and uncomfortable. The room screams, Cancer!

The doctor doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m pretty sure this is cancer”. 

 WAIT. WHAT? 

My eyes widen. She continues, “We won’t know for sure until a few days when the biopsy comes back, but you need an MRI. STAT.” 

“Prepare yourself to be diagnosed with breast cancer.”  My body goes limp, my ears are ringing. I can’t hear anymore.  Her mouth is moving but I hear nothing. She hands me some pamphlets which I just stare at.

 “Why Me?” I want to scream.

What about my kids? My husband. I’m not ready to die yet!  The technician gives me a hug, and I feel the staff staring at me as I take my exit. I exit through the waiting room, which is a sea of woman waiting to hear their fate. 

I text the core group again, “They are pretty sure it’s first stage cancer. The doctor said, the mammogram saved my life. It’s early and it’s small. Biopsy will come back after the holiday.” 

My fingers go to call, but I stop, afraid of the bucket of tears that will flow. 

Jeff writes back first, “Love you, my darling. We are all in this together, you are amazing and so strong, God has you in his hands and has such amazing plans for you.” 

I read this while sitting in my car. I haven’t started the ignition yet. I’m sitting in the driver’s seat weeping. His words, “My darling” play over and over in my head.  I have a husband who calls me darling and means it. I don’t want to leave my life.

Traci is shaken, “Oh my gosh, it’s been on your mind to do the mammogram for months. I’m glad you did it. ‘Early stages’ I’m hanging on that word.” 

I’m too afraid to call anyone yet, especially my sister. This will hit her hard. I don’t know how to tell her. I chicken out with a text. She calls relentlessly, to no answer. I can’t utter a word. 

 My kids start filtering back home from the various places. They're unaware of my diagnosis. I put on a brave face and tell them I am fine while hugging them tighter than I ever have. 

My friends start showing up. Mary first. She reminds me of all I have been through. She brings with her a calming presence.  We need wine I tell her!  

“Let’s have a Burgundy?”. 

She grabs the glasses. It’s a wine that brings me comfort and reminds me of my time working harvest in France. The best thing about my collection of wines is they are all attached to memories. They evoke joy, and comfort with the whiff of the bottle and a sip of the juice. This is a Burgundy kind of night.  Mary leaves as Jen arrives. 

Jen cannot believe the news and also needs me to know that I am going to survive this. She needs me to look her in the eyes, because she knows I am going to be O.K. She also makes a few jokes trying to lighten the heavy air. We move onto a Pinot Noir we got in Oregon on a trip together. It reminds me of the carefree life I was leading. 

Neli is next, a journalist, neighbor and friend who needs the statistics. She is dumbfounded the doctor informed me of cancer without the test results. I assure her that I loved the frankness of the doctor. It’s dark now, she tells me it’s going to be O.K.

 I don’t remember sleeping that night. 

I keep Traci and Heather at bay until the morning because I will break down if I see them.  I utter the words, “Why me?” multiple times as I sit sobbing about this massive speed bump that has showed up in my world. I just spent the last 6 years studying and finally received my diploma with Wine Spirits Education Trust (WSET). I have a trip to London scheduled for January to receive it!  Do you know how hard it is to pass these tests while caring for three kids? It doesn’t matter what I have accomplished because cancer doesn’t care. 

I made it to my graduation in London, and the amazing Steven Spurrier handed me my diploma!

I pow-wow with Heather. I need her to call our family and tell them the news. I tell her I need her to get a mammogram, so I can breathe. I don’t know if she has heard me, because she is crying at hello. 

My virtue is not patience. Thankfully, it is the week of Thanksgiving, so not many MRIs are being scheduled. I get a call first thing in the morning telling me I can come in for an MRI. My husband comes home from work to take me. It’s not the first time in my life when my faith in God holds me together. I pray. Mary texts me, “this is your song.”  Tears flow when the song belts, “You make me brave; you call me out beyond the shore onto the waves. No fear can hinder now, your love has made the way.”

The MRI is another one of those bizarre medical chambers. Everyone whispers. 

I suffer with quiet. 

We walk into the basement facing another young couple, waiting. I haven't felt nervous until I meet the face of the other woman. We hold a stare and with a nod we acknowledge the anguish. I hold back tears.  It is bad enough that I have bad news, but now it is clear that I am not the only one. Her MRI takes longer than expected. 

The I.V. comes first. To capture the best image of the breast, they need a contrast, Iodine. They ask if I have an allergy to Iodine? I don’t know, which makes me nervous. She leads me to a big, cold room. The coldness intensifies the reality. My husband waits outside fielding texts from friends and relatives. The nurse, a fabulous looking woman whose kind manner calms me. Her red lips are accentuated by her dark bob framing her brown eyes. She is comforting. “It will be loud,” she repeats over and over. She places me face down in a mold which hold my breasts. I’m angry at them for the moment, so I don’t care. My hands are placed above my head. It’s not pleasant. “What is your request for music?” “Christian contemporary station on Spotify” I say. The table I’m on slides into orbit but the machine is louder than any toddler tantrum.  The headphones are currently playing Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’ and my anxiety gives way to a laugh. No wonder the lady before me was terrified.  I look around, the machine, the coldness, the lady staring at me through the glass window like a corpse on display and yell out “Change the music!”  For all you classical musical lovers out there, I’m sorry. The process takes almost an hour. It’s uncomfortable, loud, and did I say, uncomfortable?

The nurse tells me to get dressed and head upstairs to see the doctor. Jeff gives me a kiss. We are led to the doctor’s office. The office is empty, given it is the day before Thanksgiving. The silence echo’s through the office. I haven’t met this doctor yet, but she a woman my age. I think, we would be friends in different circumstances. I love a gregarious doctor. I feel better. 

 “I just saw your MRI. It looks like cancer, but we can’t confirm it until the biopsy results come back. I just called, and they don’t have them yet. The good news, if it’s cancer, it is small, 0.5mm and doesn’t look like it’s spread.” 

The technician from the ultrasound comes in to check on me. She grabs my hand and tells me “You will be O.K. I am here for you.”  They seem elated about the ‘smallness’. I wait for them to break out in song and dance.  Instead, they hug me, and I am reassured.  

Although, I still have fucking cancer.

A few hours later the biopsy results come back. 

The doctor calls me from her home. “I don’t want you to have to wait. It’s ductal carcinoma, you have cancer.”  I mutter a few words of thanks for the news and hang up. I sit on my couch looking outside. It’s cold, and the wind blows around the leaves on the front lawn. I move over to the door glaring at the sky and cry. I have cancer. I wipe the tears away, stand up and decide to handle this after I host Thanksgiving. I’m not going to let cancer take away my favorite holiday. 

A few days later, I show up to my doctor appointment with my friends. I'm not going to walk this alone. I have an amazing community of friends. They are intelligent, compassionate, loving, fun and gorgeous humans. I will take their hands and walk arm in arm through this terrible disease. They are my strength, alongside my husband, my sisters and my faith. 

Walking in, we resemble a cheerleading squad, OK!  An older cheerleading squad.  My husband and sister had offered to take me, but I needed Jen to ask questions, Mary to calm me, and Traci to be my nervous comfort. I would never be able to hold it together with my twin by my side. The sight of her brings instant tears. I don’t know why. I love her too much, I think. 

I realize that a routine mammogram saved my life. I had this pestering voice for the past few months in my head telling me to go. I’m a Christian. Not a crazy Christian, I clarify now due to the political climate. I am someone who believes in God, in honesty, love, peace. I believe I can pray and talk to God. I kept saying to Traci, “I need to make an appointment for a mammogram”. It felt urgent, even though I have no markers, genetics or family history of breast cancer. 

The mammogram found very early stage 1 breast cancer, Ductal Carcinoma to be exact. According to the doctor, I would not have “felt” the tumor for at least a year. She pulled out a bracelet of beads to demonstrate how small this tumor was. The bracelet resembled a friendship bracelet, it was red with black beads in varying sizes. The beads started small, like rice and grew to look like a big circle. The doctor takes the second bead and separates it from the others to demonstrate just how small my tumor is. Jen peppered questions as needed. First up on the treatment plan was to remove the actual tumor. Chemo was not recommended given my type of cancer, just radiation and a cancer drug that inhibits estrogen. 

I know one thing: If I had waited, ignored the nagging voice, the cancer would have progressed. This is treatable and a ‘good’ cancer- if there can be one? 

I looked at my trio of friends, relief spread across their faces. My surgery, a lumpectomy, was scheduled for a week later. It was surgery. There is something fulfilling about knowing the tumor or the Cancer is gone. Removed. Cut out. Bye-Bye! I return to my house and all I see are flowers. I love flowers. Beautiful bouquets of white roses, hydrangeas, lots of pink roses and evergreen plants. 

The hardest part is telling the kids. They know something is wrong, probably the crying in between basting the turkey during Thanksgiving gave it away.  They are still young, 14, 10, and 9. Jeff and I decided early on, that we would always communicate with our kids. Jeff tells them we have to talk to them. Max, 9, thinks he is in trouble. He scans his memory for what he might have done. Taylor, 10, starts crying, even though we haven’t said anything.  Sienna is worried.

I say,  “I have cancer, but I am going to be O.K.”

Taylor throws herself on the bed sobbing. 

Max asks, “Will you lose your hair?”, Sienna wants reassurance that I am going to be OK.   We all hug a little tighter. Jeff is crying. My rock is showing his humanity. 

Word starts to get out about my cancer. I join the “Cancer club”.

Friends pass me numbers of friends who had cancer or have cancer. I am given more numbers than I can call. I meet strangers in the corner of coffee shops, and we whisper about cancer. Some are angry, many are weathered, and a few are positive. Each person struggles in her own way. I get lots of tips, and encouragement and I hear over and over again, “I am so sorry!”

Jen and I head to an Irish pub after meeting with the Radiologist. Don’t judge, it was the only lunch place open on a Monday. We run into an acquaintance. I joke about the mid-day drink, and my acquaintance whispers, “You have cancer, right?”. My eyes swell, and I nod. She lifts her shirt to show me a scar on her stomach. “I was diagnosed with colon cancer, the same week as you.” I stand in silence. She promises to call me tomorrow and tell me her PET scan results. We begin to exchange reports, prognosis and encourage each other. I ask questions. We become text buddies over the next months. I recommend wines, send her memes, a t-shirt that says, “Fuck Cancer.” We never talk about what we are both thinking, death.  Her texts become less requent, her last text says, “It’s not looking good”.  She dies within the year, leaving three children motherless. 

This isn’t fair, I scream at God. I think about my own kids. I can’t imagine a life without them or their life without me. I’m reminded that God never guarantees a life without suffering, but this doesn’t seem fair.  I cry, again. I’m angry at the loss. 

Cancer slowed me. 

Some days, I want to shut it off, and go back to when life was carefree. It’s a lie, of course, because I have cancer.  Life was on auto pilot with a loving husband, a community of friends, and three kids. Life was fast and chaotic. 

Cancer slows you down. I ask myself, IF (and it’s the big IF), IF I only have a few years to live, am I living the life I want to live? 

Life has a way of moving forward while we watch from a distance. I vow to be more present. To sit with kids while they tell me funny stories, to say yes to going out and seeing friends, to travel more, and to be more invested with my friends and my community. I decide to challenge myself, take a writing class, read my bible more, take ballet classes again and hug my family a little tighter and tell them, I love them.  It’s so simple, but the simpleness is what I needed. 

Every day I see news reports, most recently Kelly Preston who died of breast cancer or Chadwick Boswick or Facebook posts of friends, or friends of friends who get diagnosed or die from cancer. 

This is a reminder that I have cancer, that and the constant pain in my right breast from the scar. 

Cancer.

I am blessed. I look at my life now and know that. No matter what circumstance or situation, I have my family, friends and my faith. 

I smile. 

I laugh.

I drink good wine.

I try hard not to hug everyone I see in Covid times.

My favorite bible verse says, Psalm 30:5 “Weeping endures for a night, but JOY comes in the morning.” JOY! I am more aware of this than ever. 

Now go get your mammogram!