July 4, 2023 

These last 75 days have felt like the longest of my life, and yet have somehow been a complete blur that I can’t remember or make sense of. I’ve been poked and prodded and had more tests done on me than I ever thought I’d have in a lifetime. “You have breast cancer. At this time, we think it’s stage 2.” 

That was the scariest sentence I’d ever heard, to that point. The first half of that sentence I heard when I was in a biopsy surgical room, from the doctor who would be performing my biopsy. Me: “Will we need to wait for the biopsy results to confirm the diagnosis?” Her: “Sometimes we need the biopsy, sometimes we can tell from the ultrasound. In this case, we know it’s cancer. The biopsy will tell us what type of cancer you have, and if your lymph node is impacted”.

I immediately started shaking uncontrollably. My entire body was not my own - it was under attack and it was reacting, I had no say in the matter. I didn’t want it to, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be brave, I wanted to be stronger than my body was letting me be. I didn’t want to be scared. And practically speaking, this woman was about to insert a long needle into me, and I needed to be still. They told me that they would be taking 2 biopsies - one of my breast tumor, and one of the lymph node. They would want to drop clips into my breast and lymph node for future scanning, and I would need to sign a consent form. They put a clipboard in front of me, and I scribbled what probably resembled my signature. The surgical nurse asked if I was alone, and I told her that my boyfriend was in the waiting room. She rubbed my arm and my leg to comfort me, and I pulled it together for the procedure. First the freezing, then the lymph node biopsy. It wasn’t so bad, but the freezing could have been a little stronger. More freezing for part 2, thank God. Then the biopsy of the tumor in my breast. “You’re going to hear a loud clicking sound like the sound of a stapler, so don’t be alarmed”. The freezing was in full effect this time. They took both biopsies and dropped metal clips. I would go back to the imaging room to have a mammogram done now that the clips were in, and these scans would make up my baseline scans for future progress referencing.

On my way back to imaging, I pulled out my cell phone, opened up WhatsApp and messaged Bill; “Ok here is the thing. They are pretty certain it’s cancer. They have done the biopsy. I have to get one more mammogram done and then I can go see Dr. Escallon again. I need you to think of questions. Because I can’t think. I will see you soon.” Bill: “How can they already see that? Well main question here is what is the next step”.    He was already in practical fix-it mode. Me: “I will tell you when I see you. You are going to come in with me so ask all the questions because I think I may be in shock” (I was). Bill: “Am I allowed to be with you. I am here. I will be here and will ask the necessary questions”. Me “They said yes when I go see him. I love you”. Bill: “Ok. I’m here. Everything will be OK. I love you.”

In the days and weeks that followed, I would continue to go through more tests, and keep getting results while they fully diagnosed me. My lymph node biopsy was first, and it was positive. Ok, not good, but it had looked questionable and not too bad under ultrasound, so maybe it’s not so bad. Next would be my cancer markers. When I was 31 I was diagnosed with POI, Premature Ovarian Insufficiency. That meant my ovaries had decided they were done doing their job. Essentially I was in early menopause, and as a result, I chose to go on hormone replacement therapy to manage my menopause symptoms and, honestly, to feel like myself again. Now, as I waited for my cancer markers, I wondered if those same hormones had caused my cancer. While I waited for my cancer markers to come back, I stopped taking my hormones - I didn’t know if I was feeding my cancer with each estrogen patch I changed out. When the markers came back, they were hormone receptor negative for both estrogen and progesterone. My HRT was not the cause. I was HER2 positive. Dr. Escallon had previously told us that HER2 positive cancers were aggressive - not good. But that they were also highly receptive to treatment and that there were effective targeted therapies for this exact cancer - ok, so maybe good? I didn’t know whether to be happy or not.

The last step was confirming my staging. I would have a bone scan done to see if there was spread to my bones, and I would have a PET scan done to rule out spread to my organs. The bone scan was first. In the days leading up to that scan I felt the most fear I had ever felt in my entire life. This scan was going to decide the fate of my life. I couldn’t think of anything but that scan, and I can’t remember anything about those few days except fear. At some point, I developed a mini mantra that I would repeat both aloud and write in my notebook;

My cancer hasn’t spread.

My cancer has stayed local.

My cancer will be cured.

Dr. Escallon had told me that there was a 30% chance of spread. His exact words were that he wanted to be honest. That the chances aren’t very high, but they also aren’t small. I asked him to tell me the second he got the results.

I did my bone scan, waited a day and a half, and received an email on a Friday morning from Dr. Escallon. The scan was clear! There was no spread to my bones. The mantra had worked. I screamed the results “NEGATIVE” up the stairs to Bill and ran upstairs and jumped in his arms. We both cried happy tears for what felt like the first piece of good news up to this point.

About 1.5 weeks later I had my PET scan. The days leading up to it were as bad as with the bone scan.

My cancer hasn’t spread.

My cancer has stayed local.

My cancer will be cured.

The scan was on a Thursday afternoon before the May 24 long weekend. We were told that the results could take up to 48 hours. So if I didn’t get them the next day, I would have to wait until Tuesday morning to hear the news - which also happened to be my first chemotherapy session. On that Friday, I almost vomited every time my phone buzzed I was so anxious. I wanted these results. I wanted this Friday to be like the last - ending with me running up those stairs screaming “it’s negative!” again and into Bill’s arms. But the results didn’t show up. I’d have to wait until Tuesday. Waiting was easier than I thought it would be. I think that once I knew I couldn’t get ANY news, good or bad, my mind was able to relax.

I don’t remember anything about Tuesday morning really until I was waiting in Exam Room 8 for Dr. Brezden. She was going to be coming in to tell me the results of my blood work, and she’d have the results of the PET scan. Waiting for her felt like forever.  This was my second time meeting Dr. Brezden. In my first meeting with her, she had told me what my chemo plan would be; 6 rounds of combination Docetaxel and Carboplatin, and then Herceptin and Prejeta. After that, I’d be a surgical patient to have any remaining tumor and impacted breast area removed, likely a lumpectomy, but in that first meeting we also found out that my tumor was much larger than the ultrasound had shown, over 7cm, so reaction to chemo would decide if I was still a candidate for a lumpectomy or if I needed a full mastectomy. …Anyway, all of that “if/then” would turn out to be for not.

When Dr. Brezden arrived, she delivered what would actually be the scariest sentence I’ve heard in my life to date “your PET scan showed 3 spots on your liver” (an MRI would later confirm 4 tumors). It was undeniable now. My cancer had not stayed local. My cancer had spread. My cancer would not be cured. Looking back, this was absolutely the second time that my body went into shock. I had stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. When you’re told that your life is forever changed like that, I’m not really sure it’s normal to have any reaction other than complete shock. How can anyone be expected to fully understand and comprehend what is happening to them in an instant? I remember thinking that I was glad the results hadn’t come before the weekend - that sitting around at home for 3 days with this news would have been an actual nightmare. This was the worst news that we could have heard, given the circumstances, but at least we were hearing it from a woman who must be the kindest Oncologist on the planet, and mere minutes before injecting my body with chemo. That second part felt like I was at least doing SOMETHING to battle my reality.

Dr. Brezden changed my protocol to 6 rounds of just Docetaxel, plus Herceptin and Prejeta. Maybe 8, we would do another round of scans after my 4th round of chemo. I was no longer a surgical patient. That part is hard for every patient in my position to understand, I imagine. It’s hard to wrap your head around why they can’t just cut out your breast, and cut out any impacted liver area (hell, it’s the only organ the can regenerate, after all) and call yourself cured. If the cancer isn’t showing up anywhere else in my body, why can’t we just cut it out of where it is? You just can’t, those are the rules. You have to move on to the next treatment plan; a lifelong plan of keeping your cancer at bay medicinally. What Dr. Brezden called “curing the incurable” that Tuesday morning, and what I keep reminding myself can be my reality.  Once I completed my chemotherapy, we would keep me on monthly maintenance infusions of Herceptin indefinitely. The plan is that my chemo will eliminate all of my tumor, breast and liver, and Herceptin will keep it that way, for what could be decades.

She told me about a patient of hers who has had this outcome exactly for 12 years and counting. She was diagnosed at 70, and is currently 82 with no return of her tumor. I’d take 12 years at age 70 in a heartbeat - that’s a lifetime! At 40 (my 40th birthday was in 3 days) you want to hear about the patient who’s on year 30 and going strong. The point was, this patient is still doing well, and was 70 when she started the plan to boot. In reality, Herceptin has only been in use for about 15 years, so if that’s the drug that’d going to keep me safe for 30 there just isn’t a patient who has gotten to be on it for that long yet. I would have to stay patient, I would have to stay positive, I would have to follow that plan laid out for me, and I would have to put my faith in God to keep me safe.

As of today, I’ve had 2 rounds of chemo. About a week or two after my first round I could no longer feel my tumor - a lump I’d been feeling for well over a year. Dr. Brezden said that it would just “melt away”, and that it could be gone with one or two rounds of treatment, but I didn’t expect to not be able to find this thing after 2 weeks. After 2 rounds, I really can’t feel it at all. Most days, I want to believe that if I can’t feel it, it must be gone. And if it’s working in my breast, it must be working in my liver too, right? But the fear is so so real. I have cancer, and I have a kind that no doctor will ever tell me is cured. 

I am living the most beautiful life that I could have imagined for myself right now. That wasn’t always the case - I worked hard, and made some scary and uncertain decisions in my life because I didn’t want to ever look back and say that I settled for anything less than extraordinary. And 90 days ago, if you had asked me, I’d have said that I achieved that goal. I have a love that is more than I ever thought was possible. I never believed in soulmates, or one true loves, and when I met Bill I still fought the notion and refused to acknowledge that I loved him until way longer than I actually did. I was scared to be wrong, and maybe I was scared he didn’t feel the same. But Bill is my best friend, my soul mate, and the love of my life that I didn’t know could exist. And I get to live with him in our perfect home, where we sit on the front porch, with tomatoes growing in the back yard in the summer, just like my parents and grandparents did when they lived in this neighbourhood. And it’s where I travel to a job I love, leading “a residential division for a publicly traded company”. Though that description doesn’t do justice to what I actually do. I get to manage a team of people who I truly care about and hopefully help them grow and succeed and achieve their ambitions. I get to build homes where real people will live and feel safe. And I get to do it for a team of people who actually care about me as a person. Not a bad days work. Top it off with parents I consider my best friends, family that are always there when I need them, and trusted lifelong friendships, and I can’t think of anything I would change. Of course I want to live this life forever, but I will settle for another 55 years or so…

I was IG messaging with my cousin Christine a few days ago, and she said something to me that struck a cord when I really needed to hear it; “…That’s why you need to remind yourself of who you are. This fight is mental too. It’s hard not to get lost in the darkness this horrible disease brings, but you must try and speak like the strong badass woman you are. You have fought hard to get where you are. It didn’t come easy. This is a different kind of fight but you will win. You just have to believe it. Your body believes what you tell it. Tell your body how proud you are of how hard it’s fighting and to keep fighting. It’s doing great. You have a whole beautiful life waiting for you… this is horrible and hard but you are one of the good ones, so loved by Bill, your parents, your family, your friends, don’t fight for them…fight for you.” “You have earned this life honey and cancer has crept in and is trying to steal it. I know it’s hard to stay positive but I have come to believe that God’s plan for us is not always an easy road but there is reason for it. We just have to have faith that He’s got you and there is a lesson in this and believe you are going to be ok. I believe it. You will. Against whatever odds they are giving you. You are going to beat it. Have faith…”