Save the drama for your mama

Yup, it's true. The past two weeks I've been crying at the drop of a hat. Which is quite annoying, as it's happening on Bart, and at work, at the grocery store, and well, pretty much everywhere. Ugh. So NOT cool. It's over such small things, too. But the reality, I know, is not small. The reality is that grief has it's own timeline. April and May were go-go-go. June was finishing up summer semester. July was big projects at work and a promotion. August is ... well, I guess August is time for grieving to begin in earnest.

Over the weekend we attended my in-laws 50th wedding anniversary. It was very lovely, and they are incredibly sweet people - it's no shocker that they're celebrating their Golden Anniversary. There were group photos taken, one of which was "just the kids" with the parents, so Alan, his sister and the granddaughter were called over to have a photo taken with the bride and groom. I started to walk over too, but then realized that my name wasn't called. Which is fine, I mean, I'm not their child or grandchild. I'm not blood. And that's okay, but I was surprised at how sad I was about it. Why was I so sad? It took me several days to realize why ... I'm no one's child anymore. No one can claim me as their daughter. Even 18 years married into a family doesn't actually make me family. My mom will never beckon me over for a family photo. I'll never feel that unconditional love again, and it breaks my heart.

(Check out my mom's frustrated look at me, her darling, screaming baby. Yeah, that's some unconditional love!)

Genetic testing: Step 1

On August 2, I arrived at the Stanford Women's Cancer Center for my genetic consultation. I wasn't feeling any stress as I arrived (other than the stress of being late, as I didn't factor in the construction around the hospital to my commute time). As I stood in line, waiting to check in, I looked at the women around me, my fellow patients. Many looked like me, in good health - you'd never know we have some mutant cells. One woman was probably in her mid-30's and held a baby that couldn't have been more than two weeks old. Another woman was probably younger than she appeared, with her bald head, walker, and a huge smile. As I approached the receptionist, I suddenly felt overwhelmed, and burst into tears. WTF?

A few minutes later when the male nurse escorted me to the examination room to take my vitals, he could see that I was upset. He said he wasn't going to take my blood pressure, as he knew it would be falsely elevated.

The meeting itself went well, and I calmed down as I talked to the three genetic consultants. We spoke for 45 minutes about chromosomes, genes, autosomal dominant inheritance and cancer biology, as well as my family history of cancer.

They are recommending that I get tested for not only BRCA 1/2, but TP53, CDH1, STK11 and PTEN. This is known as a BRCAPlus panel. Each of these genes corresponds to a hereditary cancer syndrome that is know to cause identifiable clinical features and family histories and confers a significant lifetime risk for breast cancer.

Because my family is so small, there's not much to go on, so despite the lack of breast cancer (except my great-grandmother - my maternal grandfather's mother - she died of breast cancer in her 40's) they are strongly recommending that I move forward with testing.

I am in agreement, but we must first jump through the HMO hoops, and submit the recommendation my insurance to decline or accept. Either way, I will get the testing. Now, I await a phone call so that I can schedule the blood work.

Just an interesting note - I asked if Angelina Jolie's announcement had made an impact on genetic testing at Stanford. And, indeed it has. Ladies, if you want to get tested, you can't get an appointment until January. And here I thought booking in June for an August appointment seemed a long wait!

Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more

Monday I had the biopsy on my right breast. It was easier this time around. I opted out of the anti-anxiety meds, and went in non groggy onto what I call the "hydraulic lift".  You enter a room with a big radiation sign on the heavy door, where you climb stairs to lay face down on a table, with your boob hanging out a hole in the center. Then, they raise the table, so that if you were to sit up, you could touch the ceiling. Like a mammogram, they press your breast between plates, and take many x-rays as they proceed. They give you a local, so it's not painful, but it's uncomfortable, just because of the awkward way you have to lay on the table, at an odd angle with one arm up, hips twisted for the Doctor to have a better angle.

The process I've had both time for extracting the tissue is called a vacuum-assisted device (VAD). Vacuum pressure pulls the breast through the needle into the sampling chamber. Without withdrawing and reinserting the needle, it rotates positions and collects additional samples.

As last time, a small titanium marker is left in the breast, so that the tissue spot can be located again, if needed. As my loyal fans know, the marker was needed last time for the lumpectomy on the left side.

After the procedure, you have another mammogram to ensure the marker is visible. And then, if you have an awesome doctor, such as Dr. Jain, she gives you a big hug, and poses for a picture for your blog.

Okay, so the results! Dr. Jain called today to let me know that it's all good news! Nothing but a calcium blip, no cancer!

Unfortunately, all of the stress is taking a toll, and I returned to see my RN today to be tested for an ulcer. Oh summer tomatoes, coffee and garlic, I miss you already.

Not much to report, so here are some photos instead

I hope you never have to experience the inside of an oncologist's examination room. It's quite boring.

But how nice that my Oncologist was the 2012 patients' choice recipient. I wanted to do a scene from "Elf" and yell, "CONGRATULATIONS!!!"

Nothing to report. Dr. Wilson confirmed that I should get a biopsy on the cyst on the right side. Then I'll meet with him again in July after the biopsy results are available. Hopefully Dr. Jain will be correct and it will be nothing of concern.

Lovely little moments

“Choose to be optimistic, it feels better.” 
― Dalai Lama XIV

Well put, Dalai Lama!

Last week was full of wonderful happenings. I met with an old friend I'd not seen in years, and she shared with me her journey with LCIS. Lumpectomies, Tamoxifen, etc. It didn't sound so scary.

I spoke with a specialist at Breast Cancer Connections and she emailed me a slew of information that I'd not been able to find online or at the library.

A good friend's sister was in town visiting, and she happens to be a genetic counselor, so I was able to get another professional perspective on my situation.

At the end of the week, I met a friend's mom who is a breast cancer survivor, and her diagnosis was much more serious than mine. She's doing wonderfully, and offered support.

A relative who I thought was lost to me forever rejoined my life.

Many lovely moments to be thankful for!

Nothing to see here, move along ... no, wait, maybe there's something to see here

I had the mammogram and an ultrasound on my right breast today. Dr. Jain said that it didn't look like anything abnormal, but that because I'm now high risk for developing an invasive breast cancer, she'd like to do a biopsy on the right breast. Oh joy. The biopsy hurts more than the lumpectomy, but at least the recovery time is quicker.

I see Dr. Wilson (the Oncologist) on Wednesday, and then July 8th I'll have the biopsy.

I'm not crying, I have something in my eye.

I knew it was going to happen, it just took longer than I expected. My mom visited me in a dream last night.

I was in a theater, in the dark, and the lights came on, so I guess the play had just ended. I stood and turned around and my family was in the row behind me, still seated. My mom had been sitting behind me the entire time.

I said to her, "I've been waiting for you. I thought you were gone."
She responded, "No. I'm not gone. I'm always here." 

And then I woke up, but desperately tried to go back to sleep, to the dream. I wanted to talk to her some more. 

Today was hard. It feels as if I am finally starting to grieve. So many people tell me that I'm strong, but I don't see what they see. I just don't want to be that mopey person that is depressing to be around, so I am trying to be strong, and humorous, but today I just need to cry and possibly, admit that I'm really quite frightened about everything going on with my health. Today I am so grateful for Alan and his hugs, and for not having to be brave around him. I'm grateful for a beautiful day of sunshine.