Searching for the Resolution

Me and Rosie, our one-year-old rescued Golden. Because dogs pics > than cancer pics.

I want to be clear that I’m in a good place now, but when I first got the news? My brain lost control. My doctor told me he would call in some meds to help with anxiety and sleeplessness and I shrugged it off. Psh. Not me.

One single day — less than 24 hours — later I sent Justin running to the pharmacy. I’d had a panic attack.

I’d begun to ache the moment I received the call. Deep in my chest. The ache escalated to pain and that pain gradually spread and pulsed through my body until I couldn’t think about anything else. What is this pain in my side? Was that a twinge in my stomach? Has it spread? This headache – is it in my brain? I looked at our Christmas tree, half undressed and drooping, and thought What if I don’t get to put up a tree next year? What if I’m not here for my kids? What will this table look like without me sitting between Alex and Lillian on taco night? Who will sing my songs with Alex? Who will braid Lillian’s hair while singing (screaming?) the Moana soundtrack? Who will walk on Justin’s back for an at-home alignment? Who? What? How long … ?

I fully freaked out.

There is nothing anyone can say to you after you hear “you have cancer” that can ease your mind. So I took a pill and a nap, hoping I’d wake calmer.

Instead I woke feeling like I was underwater. Not hearing clearly and moving slowly, against resistance. There was a gray cloud draped over me like a weighted blanket. I tried to keep a smile on my face for the kids, to show a strong and confident mom, but the forced curve of my lips looked more like the Joker than me, and my eyes lacked their usual light.

I didn’t feel at all like myself. I like to think I’m equal parts optimist and realist. I generally think things will work out, yet I expect bumps in the road. Bumps are (sometimes the best) part of life. If you expect things to go smoothly and according to a perfectly orchestrated plan, that’s a setup for frustration and disappointment.

But this wasn’t a bump. This was something new. This was a Mount Everest hiding behind a blind curve. It was overwhelming.

There’s a common phrase recited to new parents: “the days are long, but the years are short.” Parents know is this indisputable.

Post-diagnosis days rivaled newborn and infant days in length. The dark days full of questions, fear and uncertainty stretched on and on. I had more than two weeks between diagnosis and meeting my care team. Two weeks living in the darkness. The unknown. What stage is this? What are the treatments? Is it only in my breasts? Will I survive this? How will this change my life? Will I ever have a normal life again?

I got a light in the darkness when we met with my care team. The moment we sat in the surgeon’s office, Justin and I exchanged a look confirming we both felt it. The calm started to envelop us like a wave, washing over us from our heads through our hearts and all the way to our toes. The feeling of crossing the threshold — taking those first steps — into battle steadied us. As we sat and listened, we were fitted with armor, knowledge protecting us from more of the “what ifs.” Pieces of the puzzle began to come together as the surgeon slowly and carefully explained what was happening in my body — the type of cancer, the size of the tumors, hormone involvement and staging — and what would be happening to my body — chemotherapy, surgeries and radiation. Despite the long and difficult road ahead, I felt better than I had in weeks.

Since that first appointment it has been non-stop. Appointments, calls, scans, tests, learning, planning, doing. It’s been exhausting but it has felt good — like I am taking some control over something that was previously fully uncontrolled. These cells are still broken and rapidly dividing, but the timer is set and the countdown is on. It’s almost closing time, bitches. You don’t have to go home but you definitely can’t stay here.