The other day we met with my high-risk oncologist, the doctor who will help me--a "young," BRCA2+ cancer patient--navigate my treatment and surveillance for the long-haul. Unlike my breast surgeon who has danced around the topic of chemo with me, this doctor indicated it is not only possible, it is likely. Somehow I am supposed to be reassured by the likelihood of a "short" treatment: 12 weeks. Three whole months!
I am really struggling to understand how it could be necessary to make my body sick when I have already removed the entire breast (both of them!), the offending tumor of less than 1cm, and a clear sentinel lymph node.
Maybe the test will come back and I won't have to suffer the indignity of chemo. It probably isn't worth worrying about just yet. But when my body feels like crap, the emotions start running. And it's just too damn hard to stop them.
I dreamed about my first mom last night. It was a saying goodbye dream, although it has been nearly 32 years since our actual goodbye. In the dream I asked her how she chose my name. She considered it and replied that the name meant strength and courage, and something about surviving what will come next. So many nights I hope to dream of her and she doesn't come to me. But last night she came, when I needed her most.