Genetics

As a young child, I was told "we're Jewish". My family never went to synagogue. We didn't pray. I wasn't given any information about what "Jewish" meant. My examples consisted of lighting a menorah for Hanukkah (inconsistently), going to my grandparents' for Passover (where we ate some unusual foods), and attending some of my cousins' bar and bat mitzvahs up north (where I sat in boredom listening to them sing in a strange language before the fun party began). I even attended shul once with a neighbor. We walked miles back through time to a place where women and men spent most of the day segregated and everyone around me spoke nothing but Hebrew. Needless to say, "Jewish" was not presented to me in a particularly glamorous way.

On top of that, my family, and also society, enjoyed celebrating Christmas. Along with our menorah, we often put up a beautiful Christmas tree with twinkling lights rising up above piles of beautifully wrapped gifts. We loved going to see the new Christmas movies in the theater, listening to Christmas songs on the radio, and walking around the mall in all it's Christmas glory.

During middle school, I became close with a girl who was "Christian". They always went to church on Sunday morning, so if I wanted to sleep over I'd need to tag along with the family while they attended church. We would dress up like we were attending a wedding and then go to their huge, modern church filled with lively music that was sang in English. The inside was a stadium filled with people. The content never really meant much to me, but the place sure made an impression. Then, when it was over we'd go out for lunch at Pizza Hut. Quite the opposite of my "Jewish" experiences.

My knowledge was limited to what I saw.  Judaism made a very poor impression on me, and as a result I rejected it to the point of repulsion. "Jewish" appeared to me to be an unfriendly old man with a long tangled beard who emitted the scent of age. He sat by himself and grumbled about the changing world. I wanted nothing to do with him.

As I grew into a teenager who knew everything about everything, I would tell my family, "I'm not Jewish!" I identified better with the religious beliefs of one who is agnostic. I rejected and resented being associated with the grumpy old man. My beliefs were completely different from his. On top of that I'd become infuriated by those who would associate me with him by appearance. How can one "look Jewish" when there's no such region as "Jewland".

My grandma always used to say to me in her cute little English accent, "You're Jewish! You'll always be Jewish whether you believe in it or not! If the holocaust happened again they'd take you no matter what you believe." Harsh, but she was right.

After I was diagnosed and all the doctors were trying to figure me out, one question kept coming up... Are you of Ashkenazi Jewish decent?

Cancer does not care what my religious beliefs are. Cancer does not care that I don't want to be friends with the little old man. Cancer doesn't care that I'm spiritual, not religious. Jewish is in my DNA. Grandma was right, though I'm sure she would wish she was wrong on this one.

Thankfully, I do not have the BRCA mutation that is often seen in people of Ashkenazi Jewish decent. What I do have is a family history. The one question I wish I'd asked my genetic oncologist is, "lf I look exactly like my great aunt who had breast cancer, does that mean our genes look alike too?"

Embryos Aren't Like Kittens

When you've never had a baby, your expectations of what it's like to conceive one are sort of romanticized. You imagine it happening naturally with someone you love at the right time in the perfect way. All of this has been framed by "The K-I-S-S-I-N-G Song" that you sang on the playground as a kid.

Love + Marriage = Baby in the Baby Carriage.

I never would have imagined that my song would go like this...

Love... ... ... ? ... ... ?? ... ... ... ?!?!! + Cancer = Produce Your Stuff. Fertilize It. Freeze Your Embryos.

I guess we've never really been conventional.

Cancer, or any terrifying illness, has the power to reveal people for who they truly are. Cancer removes pleasantries, barriers, costumes, and fallacies. All that remains is the person and their true character. Some people run away and other people reveal that they possess a deep well of heroism, compassion, and love. The latter is true for Brian.

As much as we loved each other before all of this, braving this war together has really cemented what we are. Now we're making frozen babies together. Brian has (romantically) administered my hormone injections each morning and opened my pill bottles for me. I have many eggs developing, which he attributes to his excellent injection skills.

Aside from the bloated ovaries, constant discomfort, and mood swings that come from so many growing eggs, there is one more bothersome facet to this gem of a situation. I can't help but want to keep all of the embryos! Babies are like kittens; so cute and squishy and it's hard to just have one when you have an entire litter at your disposal. Plus all of these are our cute little kittens. Good thing using the embryos isn't easy or cheap.

I've Always Done Well On Tests

Of all the doctors appointments I've had thus far, yesterday's was my favorite. I went to the women's center to see my surgeon for my post-op appointment. I went in on my own first so he could check my incisions. They are healing nicely. Then my family came in so the doctor could go over the test results from the surgery.

I've always been good at tests. In school I managed to get good grades with minimal preparation, and so far I've been pretty good at cancer too. If I had a cancer report card it would tell you that I aced Genetic Mutations, Lymph Nodes, and Clean Margins. I just have one test left, the OncotypeDx. Like lymph nodes and genetics, there isn't anything that can be done to influence the outcome. It'll be what it'll be and I'm hoping I do well on that one too so I can dodge the chemo bullet.

After all the information was given and lots of questions were asked, the best bit of information came out. I am now cancer free. Those words were the antithesis of the nightmare that began on May 18th. I know that there are still things to be done to prevent this from coming back, but atleast that sneaky little intruder is out of my body and being sent away to a lab in California to be chopped up into little pieces and experimented into oblivion.

Good riddance.

Things That Shift

Since this little intruder popped up in my boob and my life turned into a science fiction movie, my perspective has shifted on a number of things.

First of all, my already strong distaste for "breast cancer pink" has been heightened. More than ever, I feel that everyone with breast cancer is tied together by this awful pink ribbon and placed on a stage for society to look at. The purpose of this is to evoke certain emotions of fear and pity, while simultaneously getting people to open their wallets and donate money. Don't get me wrong, money for research is fantastic. Research makes this cancer more survivable than ever. For that, I am grateful. For me personally, I would much prefer to be represented by camouflage than pink ribbons. I want to be represented by something that symbolizes strength of mind and body. Something that demonstrates that I am not a weak little victim wearing a head scarf.

Enough of that rant.

The second thing that surprised me in all of this was my immediate need to make sense of it all. That's where God comes into it. I've always believed in something, what that is, I'm still not really certain, but there is something that I can't see that has a strong influence on how things go. I believe we all have a little bit of that "God energy" in us (maybe that's the soul?). When we pray or wish or whatever we do, that energy goes somewhere. Since this started, I have felt stronger than I ever thought I could be, and I attribute that to the outpouring of love that has been sent my way. Love is powerful.

The other thing that shifted was my need to find the bright side to things. I've always done this to an extent, but when you get blown up on a landmine and things feel bleak and you have nothing to look forward to, you absolutely have to change your thinking. The silver lining:

My family has been completely disjointed and spread out for several years. This is going to bring everyone together and make us closer than ever.

If I have to lose my hair, atleast I can get a beautiful wig with my dream hair. I know my hair is pretty, but it's such a pain to manage.

If I have to be on Tamoxifen for 3-5 years and I have to put off having kids, I'm going to take the opportunity to go on some awesome trips and have some adventures.

I am much stronger than I thought. I don't think I would know that if not for this.

I believe I have a guardian angel that made my tumor hurt (breast cancer doesn't typically hurt) so that I would pay attention and catch it early. I have so much more I want to do with my life for myself and for others.

That's all for now.

Breast MRI = Alien Spa Day

Medical procedures are unpleasant. Fact.

People who love you will try to tell what to expect so you won't be scared or shocked. The Monday after my diagnosis I had to have a breast MRI. Here's what people told me:
"You're going to be face down on a hard uncomfortable table with your breasts in these holes. It's the worst."
"It's going to be loud and uncomfortable."
"It's very claustrophobic. Don't open your eyes."
"It takes 45 minutes and you can't move."
"Take 2 Xanax before you go."

Here's how it really was...

I took 1 Xanax before I went.

We arrived at Diagnostic Centers of America, which is decorated like a luxurious spa with waterfalls, TVs playing HGTV, and cloth robes in pretty colors. I sat down to fill out forms. It was the first time in my life that I wrote "breast cancer" in my medical history. Up to this point I've never had anything to report except my allergy to penicillin.

The Xanax picked the perfect moment to take effect. It descended upon me as a cloud of shimmering mist, settling into the senses, providing a buffer between me and this new world that I should be so afraid of. I began to smile, just a little. It just didn't matter anymore.

I was brought into a small room where I changed into a blue robe and was set up with an IV where they would later inject the contrast. Needles. I hate needles. That was the worst part.

They walked me to the MRI room. The woman opened a huge door that looked like the entrance to a bank vault. That's when I entered the space ship. The room glowed with a pale blue light that washed over the sterile, shiny machine that took residence in the center of the room.

I opened the front of my robe as I was helped onto a table. Not a hard, uncomfortable table, a luxurious massage table. There were pillows around the three holes (face and boobs) and another pillow that was positioned under my legs to ensure optimal comfort levels while I had my massage. I was covered with a plush blanket and given some headphones. I selected 90s music.

Then the ride started. I flew forward, spinning through space (though I was later told the motion was simply up and forward). The music began. "Killing Me Softly"... really? The aliens were having a rock concert and began to play their loud  music, which drowned out my music. All I could hear was the bass, but I actually knew the song, "I Believe in a Thing Called Love". Much better.

The noise stopped and I could hear the song in the headphones again, "The Sweater Song". I was suddenly transported through time, watching my cousins sing the song together and dance around the living room.

The rock concert began again. The aliens really love loud music. Good thing I do too. I allowed myself to relax into the table while my spa treatment continued.  I had a cool arm infusion. Some more music and then it was over. Twenty minutes.

Aliens probably shouldn't run spas.

They wrapped up my arm where the needle was, I got dressed, then Brian and my two moms (mine and his) took me out for lunch. I had a giant chocolate muffin. Giant chocolate muffins are good for the soul.

Friday the 13th

I was driving home from work, singing along to the radio and enjoying the sunshine. I suddenly felt a tenderness under the wire of my bra and immediately groped for the source of the discomfort. A lump. My face flushed with heat at the recognition of the intruder. I got home and stripped off my clothes, panicking as I examined the lump and the rest of my breasts. Like any millennial with a smart phone, I began to Google my symptoms: painful, palpable, oval. I didn't allow myself to catastrophize. It was probably nothing... maybe a fibroadenoma. I reassured myself with the facts, with the likelihood that it was nothing and began to relax.

My boyfriend, Brian was not so relaxed. I was going to the doctor immediately, whether I liked it or not. My tumor is one sneaky little devil. So inconspicuous with it's fibroadenoma disguise. It fooled many people until the day came when it would no longer be able to hide behind ultrasound images.

Friday the 13th was biopsy day. I'm not superstitious (I have a black cat), but I couldn't help but feel that this was a bad omen. The fear of being awake during an invasive procedure was scarier than the biopsy itself. Fifteen minutes and done. The dentist is worse.

I was scheduled to go back to the office and hear the results on the following Wednesday. Brian was with me. I don't remember anything that was said past, "Unfortunately, it's cancer." All I remember is the physical response that happens to the body when you hear bad news. I saw through what felt like a dolly zoom in a movie. My whole body flushed with heat. My ears got hot and the doctor began to sound so far away. My mouth became dry. Then she stopped talking and looked at me. No one said a word for what felt like 5 minutes. "I don't know what to say," I managed to squeak out. "I don't think there's anything to say. You're just too young for this," the doctor replied.

That's when the fog rolled in. After that there was no hunger. No joy. No desire.
Just fear.

Is this going to kill me?

Being 29, I have seen just about every Nicholas Sparks movie that's been made. Nicholas Sparks teaches us that young, good people who get cancer always die. I hate Nicholas Sparks.

Now that I know that my cancer is stage 1, estrogen and progesterone positive, HER2 negative, grade II, and I have a clean MRI in the rest of my breasts, my outlook is no longer bleak.

I AM NOT A SAD CANCER MOVIE.
I am not cancer.
It's my boob, not me.
I will not be defined by this.