Cancer is weird. And not because your own body is like… trying to kill you (how ungrateful!) but because it creates this extremely weird before and after situation. Or maybe it’s more of an inside and outside situation.
The moment I read my results and saw that I have cancer, my life shifted. 1 second ago – in the “before” – I was a healthy 38-year-old mother of two. I have an amazing husband and 2 wonderful sons. I work full-time from home for a company as a W2 employee and for my own freelance clients. I’m always busy, always have something to do for someone – be it a kid or a client. I have a list of house chores that need to get completed that’s a mile long.
And in that 1 second, when my entire world shifted on its axis, I became a cancer patient. I immediately broke down into sobs, hyperventilating and clutching my husband in that dramatic way that you thought only happened in soap operas. Every thought that wasn’t related to “oh my God I have 2 babies and I have cancer, what am I going to do,” evaporated. I had just been about to walk out the door to a client meeting, but instead, I was literally hyperventilating in the kitchen and trying to call my mom to tell her, but I couldn’t get the words out. She asked if I wanted to tell my sisters, and I said no, I wanted her to tell everyone because the house of having to say it – “it’s cancer” – 1 more time made my stomach churn.
From that moment, the only priority in my life became getting this cancer out of me and becoming the world’s foremost expert on triple negative breast cancer (besides … you know, the actual renowned doctors on my team).
The thing is … the rest of the world didn’t shift with me.
My kids’ school still needs them to show up, day in and day out, with fresh clothes, a packed lunch, snacks, their homework done, while being clean, well-rested, and fed.
My husband started a new job during all of this and has to go to work every day. My parents, sisters, aunts, and cousins have to work every day. The dogs still need to be fed. The house still needs to be cleaned. The groceries still need to be purchased. The bills still need to be paid.
Oh … and I still need to work.
The world is keepin’ on keepin’ on, and I was trying to stand perfectly still.
During “The Great Wait” – when I was waiting to get answers from my various scans and tests and then waiting to start chemo – it felt like a death sentence. Every day that I wasn’t ACTIVELY fighting cancer was a day that I was losing ground. I wanted to be doing SOMETHING – and if I couldn’t do something, I wanted to be frozen in time so that the cancer couldn’t spread. I googled things like:
- “Why don’t they cryogenically freeze cancer?” (turns out sometimes they do, but it’s more of a temporary solution to a long-term, systemic problem… but sometimes it works for smaller spots or lesions!) or
- “Why don’t they remove breast cancer before chemo?” (because it doesn’t really make a difference to the outcomes, but it does remove the doctors’ ability to have a clinical measurement of whether you’re responding to treatment – so it’s kind of “better” to leave it there to see if it grows or shrinks) and
- “Why don’t they just inject the chemo directly into the tumor?” (Again, sometimes they do! But because cancer can be systemic and microscopic cells can escape, it’s important to treat the whole body – not JUST the offending tumor).
It’s now been about 2 months since I was diagnosed. I’ve completed 6 chemos and have 10 more on the horizon (6 more of this type of chemo, which I complete weekly, and then we’ll switch to Red Devil chemo, which is once every 3 weeks). I currently have immune-mediated hepatitis (or Immune Checkpoint Inhibitor-induced Hepatitis (ICIH) if you’re feeling formal) from the immunotherapy that I receive every 3 weeks so there will possibly be some adjustments there on whether I continue immunotherapy or whether the dose is adjusted etc.
Apparently, my other liver numbers are completely normal, my liver is just inflamed and angry because my immune system is attacking it AND the cancer. Sorry Liver, you’re just another sacrificial lamb.
Thankfully – miraculously – my tumor has “resolved.” More specifically, my medical oncologist – when I met with her before my 4th infusion – wrote into my chart “resolution of palpable lump.” Clinical Complete Response. The lump I felt is now gone, a divot left in its place. So the 10 chemo infusions I have left, followed by potentially 25 radiations, and at least 1 but probably 2 surgeries, are to track down remaining cells that are floating around. Since my lymph nodes were clear, it’s unlikely there are any cells elsewhere in my body, but if there are, we’re getting them gone.
So now I’m just … waiting. Waiting to find out if the cancer is 100% gone. Waiting to see if I achieve the holy grail of TNBC results – Pathological Complete Response (pCR), which would essentially mean I am “cured.” Waiting to see if I need radiation. Waiting to see what my surgical options are. Waiting for more chemo, more scans, more tests.
But clearly, I am on the right path. A massive hurdle – the tumor itself – is gone. My doctors are experts in their field and have kept me informed and safe every step of the way.
So we wait.