Day One as a Future Breast Cancer Survivor

It's been quite a while since our last post. Frankly, we haven't had much write about -- or maybe just too much to write about. We're in the throws of raising a child. We're doing all the things that we used to except now instead of John Bonham rhythms in my head all day, I've got Handy Manny's 3/2 clave theme song in my head. Parenthood has agrees with us, nicely... We've been incredibly happy...

... Until Wednesday.

A few weeks ago during the Susan G. Komen race weekend, Kristina was inspired to feel around for lumps. She found one. She showed it to me and honestly, we didn't think much of it. I told her to go see her doctor, just in case. But it's so unlikely to be anything of consequence... The CDC doesn't even recommend self examinations any more for women under 35 because there are just too many false positives.

So she scheduled an appointment. And even the day of, this past Wednesday, we didn't even consider breast cancer. I went to work, she went to the doctor. She had a couple tests, texted me a few times, increasingly a little more frightened. Then, just after lunch, she called. Before she could gather the breath to utter a word, I was out the door.

When I arrived at Barnes Jewish Community Hospital, the nurse immediately escorted me to a secluded cubical where she described the lump as a tumor, 3 cm in diameter at it's longest and repeated the word "suspicious" more times than I care to remember. When I finally saw Kristina, my heart broke. She'd been through the ringer. We hugged, and cried, and hugged, and cried.

The nurses and doctors were all incredible. They were incredibly supportive, but really didn't leave much opportunity for hope. Whatever they saw in the MRI and mammogram, didn't leave them much doubt, though a positive diagnosis couldn't be made without a biopsy. So we biopsied and waited.

We had an appointment already scheduled with our surgeon at 3:30pm on Friday. But we asked the nurse to call us as soon as the biopsy results were in. Not knowing when the results would get in, and not really wanting to be waiting at home for the news, we drove around. We were in the Galleria Mall when the nurse called. Kristina was listening and then handed the phone to me. To be honest, I can't remember the specifics of what she said - except that Kristina has breast cancer. Kristina's fears had become reality.

The nurse managed to immediately get us an appointment to get a full body nuclear cat scan and a full body bone scan. By the time all of the tests were complete, it was 3:30 - time to meet with the surgeon. So we rushed upstairs and waited. Several people arrived after we did, but were seen before us. I got the feeling this was by design. So that, as a new patient, we could spend as much time with the doctor as possible. There was a man in the waiting room who made my blood boil... He answered his cell in the otherwise-quiet waiting room on his bluetooth and spoke loud enough to fill a concert hall, let alone this tiny waiting room, full of people who didn't want to be there.

After everyone else had left, we saw the doctor. Dr. Morgantaylor called it Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, which means the cancer started in the milk duct, and spread outward infecting the rest of the breast. They were also suspicious of lympho/vascular invasion. However, the relative normal size of the lymph nodes is a good sign that it hasn't spread. On the bone scan there were two areas of interest: the tail bone, which the radiologist said could be an old injury (thank you roller derby), and a small dot on the sternum. The sternum could be concerning, however the cat scan did not corroborate, so the test is inconclusive. Usually, if it were cancerous, it would also show on the cat scan. So the oncologist will have to make a determination as to whether to biopsy or not.

It's a stage 2 breast cancer -- based solely on the size. If the sternum is also positive it would be considered stage 4.

So the next several months will be tough. We'll have to do surgery to biopsy the lymph nodes and install the stint which will be used for the chemo. Followed by four months of chemotherapy, mastectomy and radiation. It sucks. Frankly, it does. But I know Kristina will beat this thing, because that's what she does. A year from now, this thing will be behind us. And in June 2011 we will run as a family in the Komen race, closer than ever.