Today is the first day where fear feels big. Day 1, 2, and 3 were dark enough that I knew I had to figure out my mental game--or, as much as I can in the first 72 hours of a cancer diagnosis.
I'm optimistic and high-energied by nature. Today, I learned that my genetic testing, which sifts out if I have mutations in my DNA that increase my risk of breast cancer, came out clear. 90-95% of breast cancer patients won't have genetic testing concerns; this is a major victory. And not just for myself, but for my cousins, sisters, and family. My treatment plan is easier with this news. And yet.
At this morning's fertility specialist meeting, I was told that all the hormones I am injecting into my stomach twice (and now three times) daily are dancing perfectly with my ovaries' follicles. I was diagnosed with HER-2 positive breast cancer two weeks ago tomorrow and I am now six or seven days out from harvesting my eggs. My eggs will be soon safely frozen in a Nevada desert until all the poison cocktails have been ingested via a port (coming this Wednesday) and I have healed. I joke that I shall soon feel like some sort of Easter bunny with my plumped eggs.
Surreal is an understatement. So is gratitude. It wasn't until around hour 60 that I realized I would likely go through chemo and my fertility would be impacted. Diagnosed on Tuesday and by Friday (hour 72+), I was rolling full steam ahead toward egg freezing at 34 years old. I feel grateful that I do not have to mourn the idea of a biological child and fight cancer at the same time.
For the first week of cancer, I was grateful.
Grateful it had been found early.
Grateful to the women who have walked before me and told me to stop in or call any time.
Grateful for how my family responded to The News.
Grateful I quickly learned who I would not choose to care for me.
Grateful I quickly found a team that were fully human, compassionate, and aggressive.
Grateful my breast cancer would respond to HER-2 positive treatments.
Grateful for my supportive communities.
Grateful my MRI showed no apparent cancer in my left breast or lymph nodes.
Grateful to whoever dedicated their lives and careers to the creation and ongoing perfection of the MRI machine.
Grateful for egg/embryo freezing--what a sci fi miracle.
Today, I noted the amazing reality that I do not have to worry for now about genetic mutations. I noted that my reproductive system is following all the cues of the injected hormones and my chance at biological motherhood is amazingly ongoing.
But I am tired, and stressed, and afraid. What will a port be like? Cognitively and realistically, I know it will spare my veins and make treatment easier. But will I be able to run with a sports bra? Will this machine-like mechanical device jolt me each day I see it resting in my chest? Do I know enough about HER2 positive cancers to know I am making all the right choices? Am I asking the right questions? Second opinions aren't seeming possible with Seattle, the Huntsman Institute, and Mayo Clinics backlogged and requiring in-person appointments on a timeline where I will have already begun chemo.
The beauty of the first week was radical trust and love--I trusted and felt so much love and sent love and gratitude to each person who checked me in, drew my blood, went over pathology reports, or met with me in any way. In the MRI machine, the experience felt holy as I realized I needed to control my emotions and keep my breath regular for the imaging. I focused on my ancestors and how they would hold me. I thought of each of my loved ones and celebrated them. I made the boat horn beeping that seemed to blare inches from my face go to the beat of "Go Katie, go Katie, go. Go Katie, go Katie, go." I was backed out of the MRI machine and felt immense peace. The path to healing was formed last week.
And now this week come the days of action to prepare for post egg-freezing chemo: installing a port, three self-administered daily hormone shots, bi-daily sonograms and hormone blood draws, an echocardiogram, chemo education, and the procedure to harvest and freeze my eggs. My body is willing for all these modalities of hope and healing, but my mind wants more time to be more ready. To finish my taxes and meditate and run a mountain and sit atop in the wind. To rest. To see loved ones before any isolation chemo in COVID may cause. To know all the 2022 studies that can spare my heart from chemo damage. Before pain and scars and poison is in my blood and tissues. To play with the kids and enjoy my long hair. To cuddle Jake before he can sense and smell any changes chemo will bring.
But cancer is showing me that resistance is suffering. I chose this. I welcome this--all of it. The chemo, the pokes, the lube-loaded sonograms and echocardiographs. The care teams who will give me all the info I crave and concoctions to counteract chemo. I want all the information and a sharpened strategy to have my body eradicate these aggressive cancer cells. It is just now that the hour is getting late and the chemo clock is going to ding. My ovaries are likely to ache from The Harvest and before I wrap my mind and arms around this experience, chemo will be the next period to recalibrate me and me to it. Honestly, I almost crave the normalcy of chemo. A new predictability in an experience where control and planning seem like magical incantations from a Disney movie. A new normal where I can know what to expect and ride the white water ahead.
Photos of the stellar Tippet and dashing Jake on a Monday hike for fresh air with Mike.
Comments