a year in a life

This week has been on my mind for its memories of where I was a year ago at this time.

One year ago yesterday morning, I got the phonecall that changed everything. Suddenly, I was not only with child, but with cancer.

One year ago this afternoon, we met for the first time with Dr. T., the surgical oncologist who got the ball rolling and removed my tumor — for good, I thought.

And next Friday, the day I go to the Mayo Clinic for a second opinion on my treatment options, will be a year to the day (though not date) after I had my surgery.

It's hard to believe so much has happened to turn my life over in just a year — good and bad. As horrible as this cancer has been, Ben's new presence in our lives has been as much of a blessing.

When I think of my cancer, I think of it in two parts.

Part 1: Last August and September, when it was in my abdomen, removable through surgery, and I was still in my first trimester of pregnancy with Ben.

Then a lull, where I healed, nurtured my pregnancy, gave birth to our beautiful baby, and tried not to think of worst-case scenarios.

Part 2: This April, when Ben was just three weeks old and I learned the cancer had metasticized to my lungs and hip. That was when chemotherapy and radiation entered the picture, and low success rates and the very real prospect of my odds.

And here I am now, still waiting, still not knowing what will happen, still scared, yet still living my life and loving my family. Cancer is not all I am. But in the past year, it has shaded our life in ways that we can't turn back.

it's not good news

Dr. T. did reach me Saturday morning on my cell phone. I was alone with Ben, who was crying hungrily in my arms as I swirled a bottle of breastmilk in a pan of hot water on the stovetop to warm it up. Steve and Daniel had gone to the Children's Museum. I had to ask Dr. T. to wait while I hobbled into the living room, sat down on the couch and started feeding Ben.

"It's not good," he began. In short: The cancer has spread to my hip and my lungs. Yes, that is the reason my hip has been bothering me and not clearing up. All this time I thought it was pregnancy related, and instead it was this horrible, horrible cancer taking up residence in even more of my body.

I know this is an aggressive cancer, and that survival rates go down considerably when there is a recurrence. I didn't have the courage to ask Dr. T. for any quantifiable chances of treatment success, so I just asked if my prognosis was not very good. "It's not very good," he said. By the end of the phonecall, my hand was shaking so much that Ben's bottle slipped out of his mouth and he started crying again.

The next step is to meet with the medical oncologist, Dr. S., on Monday, where we should learn more and find out what's next. Chemo, most likely, Dr. T. said. And maybe they could do some radiation on my hip to relieve some of the pain, he said. He gave me his cell phone number in case Steve or I needed to ask him anything else over the weekend.

I sat on the couch, numb, uncomprehending, wishing Steve were there. Five minutes after I got off the phone, it rang again. It was Liz. She asked me how things were going. "Not good," I said, and started crying. She came right over and stayed with me until Steve got home.

Daniel was asleep when Steve walked through the door with him in his arms. I slipped Daniel's shoes off him, and we walked toward the bedroom to put him down for a nap. "I think I'll take a bath," Steve said. "Actually, we need to talk," I said. "Dr. T. got ahold of me." And as we slipped Daniel onto the bed and out of his jacket, I told him.

And then we cocooned ourselves in our house for the rest of the day and night, not going out or answering the phone. What followed — the words shared, the brokenhearted tears shed, the gestures of love exchanged, the precious innocence of our beloved children — I will leave to your imaginations.

* * *

Addendum: Monday afternoon. I can barely write about this right now. The oncologist today used the words: "probably not curable." So anything we are doing right now is a matter of buying time. I have a PET scan tomorrow and probably start chemotherapy next week.

Child care. We're going to need it more than ever. Thanks to those who volunteered before. I may be calling you.

And I'm probably going to have to wean Ben from breastfeeding in the next day or so, which is a heartbreak in itself. I can't do it for something like four days after the PET scan, and not during chemo, either.

Last night I popped a pacifier in his mouth for the first time when he was having trouble falling asleep. I thought, what the heck ... it's not like we need to avoid nipple confusion now. That's going to be the least of this sweet boy's worries.

I need to believe that a miracle is possible right now. At the same time, I need to face reality and prepare myself and my family for the worst outcome. Our poor boys. My heart is breaking a million times a day, and so is Steve's. It's so unfair.

If there is a bright side to any of this, it's that the unimportant, superficial things in our lives have suddenly fallen away, and we are intensely focused on what remains truly important, which is each other, our family, and making the most of the time we have together now. "It feels like we just met again," Steve said. Like we're falling in love all over again.

* * *

Excuse my lack of pants, but we had this totally wonderful family moment on the bed last night, and Steve ran and grabbed the camera. We've been doing that a lot lately ... documenting things.


Daniel loves to rest his head on Ben and "hug" him, especially when he's crying. He's really good at empathizing and anticipating Ben's needs. "Baby sad," he says. "Baby eat booby." "Mommy sad."

this just gets suckier and suckier

Back from the appointment with the surgeon. This isn't going to be the easy fix I hoped it would be.

This thing is big, the size of a cantaloupe, 15 to 18 centimeters, and it is irregularly shaped, and it is pressing against my kidney and the vena cava (a major blood vessel running down the center of my body) and wrapping itself around my aorta. It's probably been growing in me for five years. (How could I not have felt it until three weeks ago?) It is, in the words of Dr. Suhr, "complicated" — too complicated for his surgery clinic and the HealthEast hospital system, apparently, to handle. So he's recommending the University of Minnesota or the Mayo Clinic. He was able to pull some strings and get us an appointment this afternoon with a doctor at the U of M, who he says is very good and he would send his own family to him. I haven't had a biopsy yet, but I think it's safe to say this is a bad thing, a sarcoma. I don't know if we are going to lose our little baby, but I have a bad feeling about it. I overheard the doctor on the phone telling people at the U of M that "time is of the essence" and using words like "abortion." I feel like this might end up being a fight for my life, much less the little one's. Oh God, it's heartbreaking to think about what could happen.

I am hovering in a wierd place between disbelief, sadness and fear, yet somehow a little removed from it all, like the emotions haven't sunk in all the way. I have been crying off and on, but I've also been cracking jokes with Steve (bless his shocked heart) and baby-talking with Daniel. Somehow, listening to old hymns of praise like "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty" brings me a sense of comfort, like a reminder that there is so much beautiful in this world in spite of this. I hope I can stay strong and positive through all this. So far, I'm holding it together, but I see such a tough road ahead.

Ironically, my life insurance policy arrived in the mail today. So at least we've got that going for us. Ha.

Anyway, everyone, thanks for all your support. It means so much. By the way, some of Steve's family knows what's going on through this blog (you know who you are!), but we'd like to tell the rest of the family ourselves, so please keep mum. :)

the c-word

The doctor called with the results of my MRI. My mind is all hazy with shock and the words he used swirling around my head. Mass. Cancerous. Large. Likely malignant. I need to see a surgeon now. I have an appointment tomorrow. I can't believe, can't fathom, that this is happening. What does this mean for my unborn baby? What does it mean for my life? What does it mean for Daniel, for Steve? I am just ... stunned ... I never expected this to happen now in a thousand years. I've got to pull myself together, for Daniel's sake at least. He still needs to eat and play and cuddle and have his diaper changed, after all. We're going to go to Woodbury to meet Steve and have lunch so we can talk about this in person. Pray for me.