My chemo is rescheduled for next week

because I will have surgery on Monday. They are going to remove my uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries.

I visited my gyn onc this morning. Her nurse was very nice--and sugary sweet. The gyn onc was perfunctory. She felt the mass on my left ovary and then excused herself. Because of the kindness and efficiency, I could tell the news wasn't going to be good.

The gyn onc returned to tell me the next steps: surgery. She said the mass didn't feel like a circular waterballoon which is the shape and texture of typical benign cyst. If the mass is cancerous, my chemo treatment will be different.

Earlier in the morning I had my blood drawn for the genetic mutation test because at 45 years old, I'm very young for breast cancer. They will run tests for the BRCA and eight other genes that increase the risk for breast and ovarian cancers. Unfortunately, the results won't be available for three weeks.

Trying to remove the mass without taking the uterus is risky. The potentially cancerous mass could rupture and "seed" the cancer to other areas. The uterus becomes a neat little bag to pull it in.

The gyn onc could place the mass in another type of bag and smash it up before removing it (gross, I know). But if my genetic mutation results come back positive, I would have to undergo a second surgery.

A simple biopsy isn't so simple. Ovarian masses have a greater tendency to give false negatives. And certain areas of the biopsy might draw liquid which isn't helpful.

The easiest surgery for my body is to go through the vagina. The gyn onc will have to cut a hole through my uterus to get to the mass thereby destroying my uterus. Might as well use it as a take-out bag. And, heck, throw in the fallopian tubes while you're at it. It eliminates the need for a potential second surgery.

This is what you call a clusterfuck.

I was stunned this morning but I'm ready to move forward. I need the chemo.

The surgery will last three hours. I will be discharged later that day. It will be performed laparoscopically with little robotic arms. The mass will be immediately analyzed once its removed while I'm still on the table. If it's cancerous, the robot arms will go back in and remove other cancerous areas (but according to the scans, the mass looks localized and the surrounding lymph nodes are not inflamed). And yes, all of this will be performed through my vagina.

I'm being mugged by a goddam robot.

I am a file

to which my oncologist adds more paper. Blood work. Scans. Doctor appointments. Important dates.

Every Monday, my file gets passed around her team of colleagues during their weekly meetings. Files are opened, handed over, reviewed and discussed. Questions are answered.

But in my case, my file brought more questions.

Specifically, the team of oncologists is concerned about that mass near my left ovary. They don't like its behavior. So before I begin chemo, my oncologist wants to ensure that its benign. The nodule in my lung--meh--they could care less about. All my random cysts--nobody batted an eye or uttered a word. But this mass near my left ovary makes them wonder.

This means that I have more doctors appointments: one for a genetic screening and another to visit a gyn oncologist. My first chemo infusion might be postponed. My oncologist wants to ensure what my treatment plan will include.

This back and forth shuffle isn't new to me and Jase. When Nigel was in the NICU, we became accustomed to the two steps forward, one step back dance. I'm eager to begin chemo. But I also understand why this mass needs to be scrutinized.

It's five centimeters large. It's self-contained. And none of the surrounding lymph nodes are swollen. Yet its behavior is questionable, still.

Another finding from the team: it is absolutely certain my breast cancer wasn't present in my October mammogram. It emerged quickly! But chemo tends to kill fast-growing breast cancers like how a wrecking ball swings at a cheaply built house.

Bring it on! And yet, we might have to wait. Stay tuned...

I am now part Borg Queen.

I had my port-a-cath surgery yesterday. It was relatively quick, about an hour. But considering pre-op and post-op recovery, I was at the hospital for four hours.

My breast surgeon is such a sweet and loving doctor (thank you for the referral, Frances!). She likes to give lots of hugs. Pre-surgery, she marked my port site with two purple hearts. And while I was going under, she sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to me until I fell asleep.

When I was in recovery, the nurse told me that my port site would feel like I had been kicked by a horse. That's about right. And if you can't envision what it's like to have a horse kick you, you can probably understand what it's like to have your front shoulder whacked by a metal crowbar. The pain is big, deep and burns.

The nurse says I'm supposed to turn a corner by tomorrow. I'll hold that thought tightly next to my little purple hearts.

I was injected with radioactive fluid yesterday.

And I also had to drink a bunch of hideous contrast. And then I was injected with iodine. All for the sake of my CT and bone scans. My breast surgeon wanted to ensure that the cancer hadn't spread to my lymph nodes or metastasized.

The scan experience wasn't memorable. In fact, it was quite relaxing. It only became interesting when the young tech with the boyish face asked if I wanted to listen to some music for my 20-minute bone scan, and I said, "Sure, play whatever."

So I listened to gansta rap. A lot of motherfucka this and pimpin' that.

This homegirl's got breast canca!

I was called early this morning with the results. And good news! It's a localized cancer. As far as what the scans indicate. My medical team always has to qualify its statements: "The cancer hasn't spread--according to the scans." I get it. Because of Nigel, Jase and I are seasoned to hear these sort of medical footnotes.

The human body is gross. It creates all these benign cysts and then absorbs them, kind of like growing its own food. But the scans also illuminated some of my body's history, and there were two notable growths.

One, I have a nodule in my lung. It's very common, but also indicates a remarkable illness. I had pneumonia twice--once as a child and once as an adult. Two, I have some sort of noncancerous growth near my left ovary. I had dermoid cysts removed from both ovaries nine years ago. This growth might be a detached fibroid floating out in space like a satellite moon.

These are memories that my body has never forgotten.

Nigel knows.

You can tell your kid(s).

Actually, we told Nigel on Saturday. He did have a fun-filled weekend planned, but instead, he got the flu. Of all things. And he was vaccinated against it (fingers crossed that he will be less symptomatic). So Jase and I decided to talk to him about my breast cancer.

In order for me to do it in a calm and rational manner, I got stoned beforehand (thanks for the cookie, Don and Hannah). Sidenote: I'm currently applying for my medical marijuana card.

As you might guess, Nigel's anxious and worried and teary. He says he doesn't want to think about it much. This will be difficult for him, but I trust that he'll find a way--his way--to manage. We told Nigel that all of us will cry at times. And there will be times where he might not want to be stuck inside a sick house, and he will want to go outside to play. His job is to still be a kid.

It feels so much better to have Nigel know what's going on. We're able to have open conversations about my doctors appointments and infusions. He's watching us prepare the house for our new lifestyle. We can sit at the dinner table and chat openly--and casually--about my cancer. It feels right. I can finally sleep at night.

During that first conversation I ran downstairs and brought up this:

It was given to me by another mom who is also fighting breast cancer. She and her two children were in our playgroup. I told Nigel it was a gift from those girls. The Brave Bot will give him a little bit of courage to face the things that feel uncertain or scary.

Nigel said that it was the worst week of his life. On top of getting the flu for the first time, cancelling the awesome overnighter that was planned, totaling our car (more on this later; everyone is fine), he also learned that his mom has cancer. We told him that there will come a time when he will be able to laugh about this, once it's all behind us.

Oh, you fabulous, wonderful people!

I've so enjoyed reading your comments! Even though I'm not able to reply (prepping to fight cancer is a busy job), I want you to know that you have buoyed me. After all, prepping to fight cancer is very dark.

If there's one thing you can do right now: please keep your words coming!!! I appreciate them so, so much.

Thank you!!!

Today I met my breast surgeon and oncologist.

They gave me my plan. Our lives will change on June 1st with my first chemo infusion.

Before that, there's work to be done. I'm scheduled for surgery to insert my port-a-cath for my infusions. I am also scheduled for a CT scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis. Afterward, I'll receive a bone scan. And I'm going to have breast gamma imaging done, too.

All of this will determine whether or not the cancer has moved into my lymph nodes and/or other areas of my body. It will also determine if there's a hereditary gene that caused the cancer. From the ultrasound done last week, it doesn't appear that the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes, however the other scans are far better at detecting little bits of cancer floating around.

The oncologist described five basic types of breast cancer similar to individual personalities. They all behave differently and therefore require different treatment. The type of cancer I have is called Triple Negative. It does not feed off estrogen or progesterone. Nor is it Her-2 positive (hence the Triple Negative).

Triple Negatives have a high growth rate. My tumor is considered Stage II. It measures 4.1 cm. Tumors under 2 cm are Stage I. My prior mammograms have been very helpful in determining my breast behavior and the tumor's rate of growth. In fact, my priors (mammograms and general blood work) have been brought up a lot.

Triple Negative cancers respond favorably to chemotherapy--or I should say, chemotherapy is this type of cancer's kryptonite. I will undergo eight cycles of chemo with two different cocktails of drugs.

The first round will consist of four cycles (once every two weeks) of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. This will last roughly two months.

The second round will consist of four cycles broken into 12 weekly infusions of Paclitaxel and Carboplatin. Weekly infusions will minimize the side effects of these drugs. This will last roughly three months.

Naturally, there are a lot of side effects. I will feel increasingly tired throughout the course of my treatment. And--as you might suspect--I will lose my hair.

So in order to counteract some of these side effects, I'm taking full advantage of the offerings both clinics provide. In the chemo clinic, I will receive weekly massages and acupuncture. And I'll schedule some time with a naturopath. In the breast clinic, my goal is to take their pilates and meditation classes if I'm not too fatigued. And perhaps their art class, too.

After the chemo, I'll be scheduled for surgery. It's still to early to determine what will be done.

Sadly, this whole process leaves me checked out my family. But I need to get better in order to move forward. It will be a rough, long marathon and I don't suspect I'll be anywhere back to "normal" until 2017.

Let's do this thing!

It began 12 days ago

when Jason felt a lump in my left breast. It was big, a golfball. But we were on vacation and wouldn't return to Oregon until late Sunday night.

On Monday, I called my doctor and requested a mammogram. He needed to see me first, so we set up an appointment for Tuesday.

My doctor examined both breasts and agreed that the lump felt like the size of a golfball. I was scheduled for an ultrasound and mammogram the next day.

The radiologist didn't like the look of the mass. She took four biopsy samples right there on the table.

Then we waited.

For seven days.

My doctor called while I was driving on Burnside. I knew what his answer was going to be.

That was yesterday. I have an appointment with my breast surgeon this Friday morning and an appointment with my oncologist this Friday afternoon. I'm guessing treatment will begin next week.

My mass has the generic name of Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (it started in my milk duct and spread). This basically means I've got cancer in my boob. It is 4cm large. It was not present at my last mammogram in October, so it is most likely aggressive. There is no history of breast cancer in my family. I breastfed Nigel for two and a half years. I cook and bake the majority of our meals and snacks and they are mostly organic. I make my own deodorant and, for the most part, wear natural products.

What the fuck???

I have breast cancer.

Dear friends and family,

Jase and I wanted you to know—especially since my life will be dramatically different for the next six months.

Since I’m trying to manage all my communications, I’ve created this blog, My Evil Tit.

I know. It was Jase’s idea. We couldn’t believe that nobody had already taken it. And it’s easy to remember. 

I’ve already received so many loving and encouraging text messages and emails. Please don’t stop. I LOVE those. However if you can, leave your words of support on the blog. I’m trying to clear up my cell phone for all my doctor communications and I’m using my email for everyday work stuff. The best way for me to read and reply to your messages will be on the blog. And subsequently, I’ll be able to text or email you when necessary.

Finally, please don’t tell your kids anything until Nigel knows. We’re going to talk to him on Monday—this weekend he’s busy with many fun activities and we want to keep it that way. Fun. 

Onward.