Pried Open

Today marks 4 years. Four years that I couldn’t see even a small glimpse of on that day. Back then the road ahead looked much like my view this morning, foggy and uncertain. I don’t do uncertain well. I do predictable and planned out. I do my plans, the ones where I can see very clearly each next step. The ones where I can prepare and control outcomes. But I’m learning that my faith doesn’t have to be very deep if I can always see what’s up ahead. When I can’t see past the next day, or the next hour, that’s when I have no choice other than to trust. 

When my hands are pried open and I am forced to let go of the plans that I had, that’s when space is made for the ones that have already been written for me.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

I debated on whether or not to leave work early to take the call this afternoon. Being with a classroom full of children wasn’t an ideal setting for hearing that kind of news, but then again I was really thinking it would most likely be a call informing me that everything was fine. I ultimately decided just before bed last night that I should come home for the call so I emailed and asked to leave a little early. The call was supposed to come between 2:00 – 3:00pm. Adam met me at my apartment at 2:00 and we sat on the couch, praying, talking, and trying to find things to keep us busy while we waited for the call.  Just a few minutes past 2:30, my phone rang. I grabbed my pen and legal pad, ready to write down anything that the nurse was about to say. She said that she had read the pathology report.  

“Unfortunately, it’s cancer.” 

I can’t describe what I was feeling and the look on Adam’s face when he realized what she’d just said to me. I started to cry but I knew that I had to hold it together so that I could write down the information that she was telling me. Invasive ductal carcinoma. They would review my report in two days, on Thursday, at the breast conference, a meeting of about twenty doctors. She would call me afterwards with more information if I’d like. They would discuss and decide my best treatment options. I would need to have an appointment with a general surgeon on Friday because even if they didn’t decide to do surgery first, I would still need this surgeon to put in a port. A port? I had never even heard of a port. That was for chemo. I hadn’t even thought about chemo yet. The nurse was so helpful, a breast cancer survivor herself. She answered all of my questions and was patient with me while I processed it all. After we said goodbye, I cried for what seemed like hours. I just can’t believe it. Not me. Not now. Not when we were about to get married in June. I was so excited to start a life with Adam and now I’m terrified that I’m going to die. All I can think about is dying. Not treatment or surgeries. I feel like I’ve just been handed a death sentence. 

Then I knew we had to tell our parents which I dreaded most. Telling my mom and dad in person would have been ideal but they are each 2-3 hours away so it was going to have to be over the phone. I called my aunt to see if she could go over to my mom’s house and be there with her when I called to tell her. She let me know that Mom was working and asked what was wrong. She knew it was something serious so I went ahead and told her. I called my dad but he was driving. I didn’t want to tell him then so I asked him to call me when he got home so that I could talk to him about something. So I waited, still not able to tell either of my parents yet. About 45 minutes later Daddy called me. He talked for a few minutes. I listened and waited for a break in the conversation to say what I really didn’t want to. When there was a pause, I told him about the lump, the mammogram I’d had yesterday, the biopsy, and the results. He asked me if they were sure. I don’t think he could believe it. I assured him that I’d let him know as I soon as I knew more later in the week. When we said goodbye, we were both crying. 

While I waited for my mom to get home from work so that I could make that next phone call, we began looking up all that we could online. We found most of our information on the Susan G. Komen website and wrote down a list of questions to ask the nurse and my surgeon at the appointment on Friday. We were thrown in to a whole new world of tumor characteristics, hormone receptor status, HER2/neu, grade, stage, and the list continues. Treatment wasn’t on my mind yet, just trying to sort through what exactly this disease was that was growing inside of me and trying to grasp that it might kill me. I was terrified. Finally, I got word that my mom was home and that my aunt was on the way to her house. By this time it was about 6:30pm. I gave my aunt enough time to get there and then called my mom. We talked for a few minutes and then she noticed that my aunt was pulling into her driveway and wondered why. I told Mom that I needed to talk to her about something. I told her about the events of the past 24 hours and that I had breast cancer. More disbelief, more shock, more tears. She said she would rather it be her than me. After I got off the phone with my mom, I called my brother. My aunt had told him what was happening and I knew he’d be upset, too. At 18, when you’re preparing to go to college in a few months, learning that your sister has cancer is the last thing you see coming. Telling my family was so heartbreaking. I knew how hurt and helpless they would feel and I didn’t want to put that on them. The conversations were short and filled with silence and crying. Our heads were spinning with questions that we didn’t dare want to speak out loud. After the phone calls, we drove over to Adam’s parents to deliver the news one more time. They were upset as well and assured us that they knew we would beat this. I sure hoped they were right.