Wednesday, March 16: Today I had my fancy chemo port installed. Well, first I had my fertility specialist appointment--ultrasound on my ovaries (the eggs are looking eggcellent) and blood work to check my hormones. According to Dr. Shomento, my ovaries are looking ready for a Sunday or Monday harvest in Billings. Tomorrow, I want to pause and think about these oocytes--these eggs--that may be my future child(ren).
I had one moment last week, sitting on my living room floor, where I touched my abdomen and realized I may already hold some half of my future child within me. Egg freezing was never on my mind before March 3, 13 days ago. I hadn't thought about parenthood until I realized (on Thursday, March 3) that chemo could take my default concept of motherhood away. I am grateful for egg freezing--what a fantastic sci-fi reality and what an act of radical compassion and hope. I am so grateful I do not have to mourn biological children while working to embrace chemo.
[SIDE NOTE: Nationally, insurances offer zero support for egg and embryo freezing. Sadly, I assume this also applies for sperm freezing. Zero insurance consideration is given for mothers who experience infertility or hopeful women who must undergo chemo to save their lives. Simply, this is a shocking failure of healthcare. Healthcare should be centered on the patient, or remove the "care" and rename it "bodyprofiting." Once I get through chemo, I am going to speak about this to everyone. I am documenting every insurance rejection. I want to know whether my "elective" is cancer or chemo with Blue Cross Blue Shield. This is a policy change that could offer so much hope and remove financial stress to future parents who are suffering. An easy, humane win for insurance companies who, currently, are failing to serve these clients. I will pay about $7,000 (out of pocket and all up front--no payment plans) by Friday. I also get a 25% discount from Montana's sole fertility site because I am an oncology patient, an ironic cancer bonus.]
Normally, and by my professional training, I prepare for the best and worst case scenarios and have contingency plans. I am great at this, professionally, and don't personally enjoy this default. With the rate of how quickly my Bozeman Health team is (they are fantastically aggressive and I could not have better advocates), I haven't been able to research anything or know what is ahead. I knew what to expect with a biopsy. Those feel like the 'old' days. The MRI, fertility treatment, port installation, and soon, the egg harvest, all are simply things I am walking towards. I have to walk. I feel that's the only choice. I mean, I can quit and demand I don't get a port installed, but then I will suffer and chemo will impact my veins.
Mike and I hiked Monday. I was scared and sad about how many things are happening so quickly. A port. Another injection. Egg harvest. Chemo. I am not prepping or researching for anything. I just have to trust and have peace without having many questions. Appointments are given with 24-48 hours notice. I thought I'd have more time before any cancer scars were made or chemo pumped in. I thought I could go sit by a lake or spend a day on the mountain. That won't be possible. It's hard to feel so little control. We were both wondering how do we get through this? How do we seek support? How do we keep walking when we don't know the path and only must keep moving forward, even though there will be pain ahead? After a meandering walk up to Bozeman's "M," we didn't come down with many answers, but after only three or so miles, we did find some peace.
I sat outside Bozeman Health after my appointment with Dr. Shomento and her team. The sun was shining. I spoke with a friend earlier who is also going through breast cancer. It shifted my mentality. The sooner I start chemo, the quicker and harder I can fight back. As much as I now know, the cancer is only in my right breast and has not spread into my lymph nodes. But HER2 positive cancers are aggressive. I don't want to wait. I want this to be as simple as possible--as aggressive and direct as can be. So, getting a port before my egg harvest and starting chemo in seven days has to be the best option.
There really isn't a second option. I can't choose to not get a port because I am scared and this feels like something mechanical. Of course I don't want a port placed in my chest and covered with my skin. But, I want to fight. So I sat outside and felt the warm sun and embraced the idea of a foreign device in my body that will feed me chemo which may hurt. But, it will be what keeps me alive and stops the cancer from spreading to my lymph system, my bones, and my blood.
I couldn't see what was happening. A clothlike 'fort' covered my face and went up and over my head. I could hear Dr. Anderson's movements, feel the lidocaine shots, and then feel some pulling. I asked questions. The team talked about their dogs and Led Zeppelin. I was relaxed and thinking back, it all feels distant.
Throughout this whole experience of an MRI, oncology, surgical, and social work appointments, fertility blood draws, shot demonstrations, and ultrasounds, and getting a bit lost in Bozeman Health, I have been in a place of calm and compassion. My cancer team at Bozeman Health, and all the other caregivers inside who I have interacted with, have been so kind. Some quick thoughts:
Lizzie, RN, who said "I'm so excited you are here!" when I first walked into the fertility clinic, 96 hours into cancer, overwhelmed, and scared. I love seeing her and will stop in to say hi once this fertility journey ends.
Melissa Z., ultrasound guru: She paused and came back into the room, touched my knee and said, "Katie, what type of cancer do you have?" She has this striking short, salt-and-pepper hair. She said this was her post-chemo hair. I was doing great, and I will be okay.
Katie (radiology?), married to a Mike: When she called to schedule my port, I had questions. I got emotional. She said she went through cancer, too, and how helpful the port was. I didn't get to meet her at the port install. I am so grateful for these strong women who have walked before me and who I walk among now.
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