News

I've known I have cancer for nine days. The words still feel shocking in my mouth and to my ear. I imagine myself at the grocery store or the library, telling anyone who will listen, "I have cancer!" The thought repels and thrills at the same time.

The day we found out we stopped at the market to pick up wine and a few groceries. The cashier asked us how we were and then moaned about finals week. "Cheer up, I have cancer!" I thought but didn't say it.

On Wednesday I told my parents, and last night my brother. Tomorrow I tell my sister. It is hard to assure people who have been devastated by cancer--who remember how cancer rips apart lives and pushes them together--that yours isn't that kind, that it is different, that you will survive. It is hard to tell people who have suffered too much loss, that there is a new threat to their security. It is hard to tell people you love that you are hurt.

I don't know how big to draw the circle, who should know and when. There are people I don't want to tell and others to whom I just don't want to be the messenger. There are old friends who don't know and new ones who do. It is all as random as this cancer might be.

The final lab test on the biopsy came back negative for the HER2 Neu protein. That is a good result. Monday I see the plastic surgeon and have my blood drawn for genetic testing, the results of which I won't have until early January. Then it is decision time. 

I read the MRI results and saw the reference to the second lump and a recommendation for an MRI-guided biopsy. Not another MRI! 

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I finished up the cat and mouse quilt for L. I washed it and it is perfect. I am so excited to gift this quilt to one of my favorite littles, about to turn 5. This finish is also motivating me to wrap up the unicorn quilt for J in time for her sixth birthday. The top is so beautiful. I will miss it when it is no longer hanging in my house.

Plans, interrupted

I had modest sewing plans for the holidays this year. I thought I would make pillow shams--two sets of two--and finish up one or both of the quilt tops I made a few months ago. I ended up making zipper pouches for M's teachers and tote bags for three colleagues. And just this morning I finally basted one of the quilt tops. (The other one will be postponed until January.)

Cruella has certainly thrown a wrench into my plans, although sewing is always a welcome distraction. I have a few more work days to get through, too. Then we pack, travel, unpack, travel again, and finally rest for a long weekend before returning to the real world.

One of my favorite blogs, Habit, is ending. I love the introspective, wistful, warm reflections paired with beautiful snapshots of life. I will miss it when it is gone. Maybe I will just have to start over and revisit the original posts... Or learn to take a decent photograph of my own.

I had thought his blog would be a place to document my sewing journey. I don't know if that is still true. I've never shared it. And a (secret) sewing blog with few to no photographs really isn't worthwhile.

Just a few weeks ago I thought the most pressing concern before me was how to celebrate my 40th birthday in April. Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! Now, with the new year looming, I'm not sure I even feel like making any resolutions. Maybe a sewing to do list. Maybe not. I also thought I would be planning travel. Some with family (disneyworld in May?), some with the Artist (Hawaii? Europe?)... Rescheduling that passport appointment is at the bottom of the to do list, and planning trips below that.

I feel fine. In some ways this all feels inevitable. 

Cruella de Vil

Well, Santa really screwed up big time. I have breast cancer! I'm auditioning code names. Current leader is Cruella. We toyed with Sammy Hagar, Mitch McConnell and Caillou, but it's just better for the soul to hate on a fictional character and hey, Caillou is just a (very annoying) kid.

The Artist and I received the news yesterday morning. The poor doctor who did the biopsy looked stricken. It's only 8-9mm. ER+ and PR-. We don't really know what that means yet but she said it is "favorable." Monday I have an MRI, presumably to see if it is contained, and Tuesday I meet with the breast surgeon. The doctor was not kidding when she said they move fast.

Today I feel remarkably fine. Normal. I am trying to just go with the feeling because soon there will be so much to deal with. A more complete diagnosis, genetic testing, a treatment plan, health insurance to sort out, paperwork, who to tell and when...

Somehow yesterday was a really great day in spite of the bad news. The Artist knows how to take care of me. Lunch in bed, a favorite tv show, a simple DIY project, a walk with the dogs, a trip to goodwill to purge some old toys, and a $300 grocery run. Followed up with an Indian feast.

This could make for a very interesting Christmas letter. "This year C got a great new job -- and cancer!" "Things will really heat up when C starts radiation!" 

FU, Cruella. You are going down.

Reality Check

On the day of the second mammo, I lose my smartrip card between the bus and the metro. It feels like a bad omen. I frantically pat myself down -- coat, pants, backpack -- over and over again. The woman beside me says nothing. When I exit the train, it is raining and I have no umbrella. I try to convince myself it isn't another bad sign. I arrive at the Breast Health Center at 8:15am. It is a curiously glam space with pink and silver decor. 

The man who takes my paperwork is too grumpy to be working at the breast health center. He tells me I have the wrong paperwork and I have to go downstairs to my midwife's office to get the correct order. As soon I as I walk into the midwife's office, I cry. I hand over the letter from the midwife that says why I am there and the receptionist gets me the right order. She calms me down and hugs me. I go back to the breast center and wait.

I'm escorted to the changing room where I put on a gown that is meant to strangle or expose me. Then I enter the diagnostic waiting room where I feel conspicuously young. We all wait. I am called for the second mammogram and the technician tells me to go back to the waiting room--more waiting--and they'll come get me if they need to do another one or an ultrasound. She also tells me that after the doctor looks at the screening she will talk to me about the results. I'm reassured -- I don't have to wait three weeks! 

The technician returns for me and I have another mammogram. It's after 10am and I have an 11am appointment to renew my passport. I learn there is only one doctor on duty. I ask if she can find out if I will need an ultrasound. She says without hesitation that I'll need one. I don't think anything of it, except that I need to cancel my passport appointment.

Eventually I am moved to another waiting room. I try calling the post office where my appointment is but no one answers the phone. The ultrasound technician retrieves me and scans only my right breast. She leaves briefly to speak to the doctor and returns to tell me I'm done. I get dressed, relieved that the appointment is almost over. She takes me to meet the doctor -- not the woman I was expecting but a young man. On the screen is my breast. It looks white, with a curiously round black spot. He recommends a biopsy. I am in shock but I hear him when he says 75-80% are nothing. I ask no questions. I'm taken back to another room to make an appointment. The scheduler asks me how I am and I cry.

When I leave it is 12:15pm. I cancel my lunch plans and go shopping. I buy overpriced ornaments for my boys to hang on the Christmas tree we will buy that night. I call my husband. He tells me we will be fine. I text my best friend. I tell her I won't discuss it. I don't tell my family.

I remember how just a couple of months ago, before my first ever "routine" mammogram, I told my friends I was convinced I would be OK. I've already outlived my mother. I've already survived her breast cancer. 

The midwife calls and asks how I am. She is sympathetic but distant. Part of me wishes I had listed the feely midwife as my doctor, and not the matter-of-fact one I usually like best. I read another friend's facebook post about her own loss and I have a good cry. Then I sew. 

Husband comes home and we agree it isn't a problem unless the doctor says it is. I can't even say the word. When we pick up the boys, I give them their expensive ornaments. M is mad that it isn't a toy. H thinks it's the best thing ever. We buy an expensive Christmas tree and go home. M is still sour. 

The next day, I am convinced I have cancer and will die. My friend tells me we will make sure that--IF it happens--it is only a chapter of my life and not my whole story. Then I torture myself with internet images of cancerous breast ultrasounds. It's too hard to tell difference between the ones that are and those that aren't. 

Now I am back to waiting. Tuesday they will biopsy my breast. It will take four days to get the results. I don't know how they will give me the results or if I will have to wait over the weekend. I hope for a clear result. But now I know: the waiting won't ever end. Every year for the rest of my life, I'll go back. There will be waiting, and maybe more testing. There will never be any certainty.