Three Years

To be sung to the tune of the William Tell Overture..."Happy Cancer-versary, Happy Cancer-versary, Happy Cancer-versary, H-A-P-P-Y Cancer-versary!". Why, thank you! So kind of you all to remember. Gifts? You shouldn't have. Oh. You didn't? That's quite alright. I'm sure those stimulus checks were put toward another good use. What is the 3 year Cancer-versary gift anyway? I have no clue. I think it might be white chocolate mochas from Starbucks. Either way, I will be treating myself to one this morning.  

Like many of you in the Facebook world, my memories popping up this time of year are of our awesome family adventures on Spring Breaks past. This time next year, unfortunately, our family won't have any memories pop up for 2021 because we went NOWHERE. I guess I could have documented David and my's trip to the ol' Home Depot the other afternoon. He always tricks me into thinking we're running in for one thing. Then suddenly remembers about 15 things he needs. Every. Stinkin'. Time. 

Please don't take our lack of travels this year as a woe is me complaint, however. Remember, we were that family who cancelled their Paris plans at the last minute then turned around and hopped on a plane to Hawaii instead, just as Covid began shutting down the country around us last March. So we were definitely past due our turn of staying home. 

Pictures of our past Spring Breaks always bring up fun memories with the fam. Funny, how it's always the good memories that come to mind. Never the ones of me getting frustrated with the kids wanting to stay in the condo rather than go exploring and saying in exasperation, "That's it. This is our last family trip together. Next year you guys are staying home!". That's probably for the best. But for me, the pictures from the past three years are also marked by my cancer timeline. 

Take this picture of Tate and me at Universal Studios in March 2018, I remember the laughs, warm temps, my blue nail polish (what in the world possessed me to pick that color?!). And then, upon seeing my loosely braided locks, I automatically remember, "Ohhh yeah. This was pre-diagnosis."

Right before going on this vacation, I'd had my annual mammogram, showing a suspicious area, and had a biopsy scheduled for a few days after we would return home. God was already wrapping His arms around me even then. My worry wart self was able to fully enjoy a week away with the crew. (Minus my aformentioned mini outburst of never taking them anywhere again.) Oh sure, I got on a medical site, or twenty, after everyone went to bed. And even woke up in the middle of the night googling something else related to breast cancer multiple times. But I really was able to relax and rest in the fact that God already knew what my results would be and this hadn't thrown Him for a loop in the least. 

Then, there's this picture of Tate and me at Corpus Christi in 2019 (yes, the girls also accompanied us on on these trips, but their ol' Mom wasn't deemed instagram worthy at that time so there aren't very many pictures of us together. And Tate was still small enough for me to grab and clutch onto until he smiled). This one automatically brings up all the feels from from March '18 to March '19. A whirlwind year of scans, surgeries, chemo, and radiation. Oh, and why in the world did I think I was ready to venture outside my home sans beanie when my hair was still shorter than his?!

Speaking of Tate, much to his chagrin, David made him take Honors Biology this year. His first, and according to him, last honors class. The other day he said, "Hey, we're studying cancer cells right now." "Oh? Did you raise your hand and say, 'My Mom had cancer'? You might have gotten extra credit or something," I suggested. "Uhh, no. But we learned they mutate and stuff," he continued. I waited for him to go on, because I've learned if I start showing genuine interest and asking probing questions, he clams up and disappears just as quickly as the conversation had started. That ornery grin I know all to well began spreading across his face as he said, "So, like, you're a mutant..." 

Hmmppff. See if I take any pictures with him on our next getaway! 

So how are things going with me currently?

Depends on the day you ask me. Most days I would say, "Great! So glad all that's behind me! Thankful God has brought me this far!" But if you catch me on a bad, pity party kinda day, I may say, "Ugghh. I developed lymphedema in my left arm and spent months wrapping it daily in gauze, bandages, and foam. I spent weeks in therapy trying to get the swelling to stay down. (Which wasn't too bad because I had the awesome Janis, who coincidentally adopted one of our foster dogs years ago so I got to catch up with her quite bit.) Alas, my arm and hand are super stubborn (like the rest of me) so I have an appointment in a few weeks with my plastic surgeon to discuss a procedure where he shoots dye up my arm, maps the lymphatics, then puts in little mini shunts to help them drain properly. I did get to bid farewell to Tamoxifen this month and switch it out for Letrozole, a med that has a higher rate of preventing reoccurrence but causes bone pain. Always a pros and cons list with these meds. My baseline bone density scan revealed I have osteopenia so I've started on calcium/vit D tablets the size of actual horse pills. I have an appt in a few weeks to hopefully rule out uterine cancer. My biopsy this Summer for that was benign. So I'm gonna go ahead and declare the same this time around. Wouldn't it be nice if it worked that way? Oh, and my meds cause such tremendous hot flashes/sweats at night that I recently purchased a pet cooling get pad to sleep on."

Whew. Bet you're r-e-a-l-ly hoping you catch me on a good day now. 

Exercise is good for lymphedema, and just good for your body in general in case you weren't aware, so David and I joined a gym in January. We were able to add the kids to our monthly membership for just $10 but they have yet to darken the door. We even promised to stay on the opposite side of the gym while they were there and not to make eye contact or acknowledge them in any way if our paths should happen to cross. Meaning, I would hold my tongue from yelling out, "Good job, Sweetie" while Tate was on the bench press. 

So just David and I go together. Which has actually eased one of my worries. I've always wondered what will happen the day Tate flies the coop. Will David and I just look at each other and say, "Now what?". Or will we shake hands amicably and say, "Well, it's been a pleasure working with you," as we head our separate ways? But we've discovered we kinda do enjoy hanging out with just each other. And have even found things to talk about other than our offspring. 

Letrozole is an itty bitty yellow pill. Which makes me think of the verse in Matthew that if we just had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could move mountains. I'm still working on that one. I think an extra shot in my white mocha might help.

Cancer Journey

Today is my 2 year Cancer-versary. Two YEARS?!

How am I celebrating? Well, I'm not. Thanks to this other "C" word disease that has taken over the world. You may have heard of it.

But I have, what I hope will be, an encouraging perspective to pass along. David is no doubt laughing at this statement, because he's more used to my discouraging perspectives I usually share with him.

My diagnosis 2 years ago came out of the blue. I was shocked, a little overwhelmed, fearful of what the future held. I went through a bit of social withdrawal during treatment being stuck at home and felt misplaced being out of my normal routine. Sound familiar?

And that went on for months.

But I had a lot of support.

From friends and family and the multitude of prayers lifted up on my behalf.

And my terrible days made me appreciate my good days so. much. more.

Am I going though all of those same emotions going into this 30 day stay at home mandate? Absolutely. But I'm not quite as overwhelmed as I would be, because I know what it's like to be on the other side of them too. And I know we'll all get to that other side eventually.  

Some things I've learned:

You are not alone. But it certainly can feel like it when you're staring at the same surroundings day in and day out and you're seeing FB posts about all the fun crafts your friends are doing with their kids, but your kids are all teenagers and are relishing this quarantine behind closed doors in their rooms. I digress...and perhaps rant a little.

I'm trying to branch out and do other things besides FB during this time, but it really is a helpful tool to have. It lets me feel connected to all of you somewhat, even if you're just posting a picture of your dinner. Post away! I appreciate all the informational posts about COVID 19 but feel free to post other things happening in your lives too. Not to diminish the importance and seriousness of the pandemic, but to help us all feel a sense of normalcy in this chaotic time.

It's ok to give in to mini pity parties sometimes. I sure did during treatment. Most days I could joke about looking like Uncle Fester, but sometimes a FB memory picture would pop up of me with hair and I'd go have a good cry in the bathroom. But then I'd be thankful that the meds were doing their job and I would emerge and carry on.

Tate has said a few times, "I don't even remember what you looked like when you had hair...it's like when we got the new carpet and I couldn't remember the old one." Deep thoughts from a 13 year old.

This sounds totally cliche but just approach one day at a time. When I heard "30 days" I had a mini freakout. But if I don't focus on the thirty part, and just focus on each day as it comes, it's much more manageable.

Support each other. Reach out. It meant SO much to me to get a simple text saying, "Hey, just thinking about you today...". I see a lot of this happening around me and it's amazing. I need to be better at it.

Chemo weeks felt never ending at times. But then, just like that, I was ringing the bell.

I've forgotten the horrible taste in my mouth from the saline flush accessing my port.

I've forgotten the aversion to some of the foods I couldn't eat during that time...ugh, marinara was the enemy!

And I've forgotten what it felt to be awake most of the night after surgery, trying to get comfortable in the basement recliner but not succeeding because I was stiff and sore and the pain meds were starting to wear off.

But I've tried to hold on to the good things that came from it. The compassion I feel for others when they're going through an illness or tough time. The help I can offer along the way. Even the hair tips I can relay to my bare headed sisters.

I was grateful when my kids started fighting with each other again, after they'd been walking on eggshells right after my diagnosis.

Just like I'll be grateful for my bad days at work when I'm able to go back.

Things like this change people. But I think mainly for the good.

And, no, David, I'm not turning into an optimist...so don't get your hopes up.

Between trying to convince my brood that, yes, they do need to at least finish Junior year, Freshman year, and 8th grade year to be productive members of society, and helping them find the perfect outfits to start in, I forgot to post a post-op update. (Say that 5 times fast!)

And here's hoping this will be my last. post op. update. ever.

Because...my margins were clear! No evidence of malignancy. Music to my ears, my benign tissues, and my new implants. 

Drue was out of town with a friend for my surgery so I reminded Tate the night before that he'd be home alone, lest he channel his inner Macaulay Culkin and think he'd wished us away, "I have my surgery tomorrow and Reese will be at work."

"Oh. Where will Dad be?" he asked. 

"Uhhh...perhaps with his BRIDE of 21 years while she's under anesthesia." We may have a little more work to do preparing him for a future relationship. 

I could tell he had already moved on from the conversation and was planning in his head how to consume the entire contents of the pantry while we were gone. 

The hospital parking lot and lobby were eerily empty at 5:45am.

But I was happy to be first on the schedule. I wasn't as happy to see my brand new year older age emblazoned on my hospital bracelet.

I'm required to take a pregnancy test before surgery and am happy to report there are no little Hollaways on the horizon. Had my test been positive, I most definitely wouldn't have needed anesthesia. I would have passed out all on my own. 

Getting prepped for surgery is such a flurry of activity, questions, pokes, prods, signatures, and the ever popular getting marked up with a sharpie. My plastic surgeon and his assistant marked up my chest. Then my breast surgeon popped in and wrote "yes margins" on my right side. I thought about grabbing the marker when they left and scribbling "Thank you, have a nice day" with a smiley face on my rib cage.

I can't wear contacts during surgery and they always take my glasses off before whisking me away to the OR. This time they started to whisk me to the wrong room and I heard someone stop them before we screeched to a stop and my bed was pulled backward down the hall and pointed in the right direction. This was only mildly unsettling. Everything was blurry and I couldn't see the faces of anyone in the OR. So I just had to trust they got me to the right one. An oxygen mask was held on my face while someone stood over me watching and waiting for me to drift off. So surreal.

David ran into his old high school basketball buddy turned surgeon again in the post op area. Never fails. He wasn't even my surgeon that day. Glad they can have little reunion get togethers on my behalf.

Recovery wasn't bad at all. My only restriction is I can't lift more than 5 lbs for 6 weeks. This is a tad annoying because I feel totally fine so I tend to forget this restriction. But my plastic surgeon scared me into following it so my implants don't bust through my incisions. Everything weighs more than 5 lbs! Laundry basket, laundy detergent, our dutch oven pot David cooks scrumptious meals in but I usually wash.

Speaking of David, he took great care of me as usual. So thankful. My plan before my first surgery last year was to assign the laundry, dishes, and cleaning tasks to the kids. But he took all of it over on his own, including the cooking which he already does anyway. (No, I don't loan him out.) The other day I laid down the law to the kids that going forward they would be put back on the dishes rotation. Groans ensued. "Dad spoiled you guys all last year by doing everything," I continued. "Mom's breast  cancer journey is officially over!" David declared, "Everybody back to work!" More collective groans. So supportive, my crew. 

I did feel a twinge of domestication a few days after my surgery when I was feeling good and getting up and around more. So much so that I decided to bake a cake I'd been craving. Drue discovered it first, "What are you doing?"

"Baking a cake."

Looking puzzled, "For us? Or for work?"

Reese found it next.

"Why are you making a cake??"

"Because I want to."

"Who's it for??"

When I told her it for us, she laughed and yelled up the stairs, "Drue! Mom's actually making a cake!"

And David had to put his two cents in when he smelled it, "What did you make?"

"A cake," I said through gritted teeth.

"Huh. You just thought, 'Hey, I'll make a cake'?"

And this is why I tend to stay out of the kitchen.

The main KU campus welcomed me back with construction in the dreaded parking garage. We're talking traffic lights in the garage, one way lanes, and cones everywhere. I finally made it to the roof level, walked down a creepy stairwell, and completely by accident stumbled into the plastic surgery lobby for my follow up. Oy.

Everything is healing up well. My right side has an air pocket in it from where the extra tissue was removed. So for a few days I sounded like a 12 year old boy making armpit noises whenever I moved my arm. I was just glad it made the same noise at my appointment. I figured it'd be like taking my car to the repair shop.

Radiation did a number on my left side. So I'm not even. My plastic surgeon suggested going back in, doing some fat grafting, tucking, lifting. Um, no. I shower, dry off, and throw on my clothes. I don't pull out a level and prop it on my bosom while looking in the mirror. I'm good. They're good. And my cake was really good.

I think I'll throw my family for a loop again and go bake some brownies. Just because. 

After spending Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve mornings getting radiation, I figured I had to find a really cool way to celebrate my birthday. So I'll be having surgery bright and early tomorrow morning. Just to be clear, I'm not observing any holidays in 2020. Maybe that will unjinx me.

We'll actually be leaving the house dark and early at 0520 hours. David briefly entertained the idea of Ubering me there, until he remembered Top Golf is right across the street from the hospital. If he tries to toss his clubs in the car tomorrow I will call an uber. And remove his name from my emergency contact list.

Never in a bazillion years did I ever dream I'd be getting implants for my birthday. Whose life is this?? Hopefully this will be the end of my reconstruction. Until about a decade from now when I have to swap them out for new ones. My breast surgeon will also be taking out more tissue on one side because my margins weren't completely clear last Summer.

Please be clear. Please be clear. Please be clear. 

I am such a hopeless sap. I've had tissue expanders in since last June after my double mastectomy, which a man had to have invented. So. Uncomfortable. But even though I'm thrilled to bid them farewell tomorrow and commence sleeping on my sides again after over a year of not being able to, I'll kind of miss them. I mean, we've been through a lot together this past year. They did their job and held up well during radiation.

My plastic surgeon will be able to go in my same incision on one side (just making it a little longer) but will have to make a new incision on my radiated side. Makes no difference to me. I already feel like Frankenboobs. What's what more scar?

My super creative sister sent me a tiny little bra made of money for my birthday and wrote in my sweet card to treat myself to a nice new one. Reese peered into the box and said, "What? That's not even going to fit. How small does she think you're going?"

And, no, I won't be taking this opportunity to to go up a letter size or 2. For those of you wondering but were too embarrassed to ask. I used to blush completely discussing these types of things. My, how times have changed.

I got a notice in the mail a few weeks ago that it was time to schedule my annual mammogram. I wanted to send it back and say, "No can do. No mammos left to gram."

I also received a pre-survey questionnaire to fill out prior to coming in tomorrow. The very first question was, "Have any of the following symptoms related to your liver disease gotten worse in the last 6 months?"

Ummm...I think my first question to them in the morning will be, "Exactly what type of surgery are you planning on performing?! And since when do I have liver disease??"

This morning I wandered down the grocery store aisles with list in hand, had a friendly conversation with the Starbucks baristas, tossed my bags in my car, and headed home.

Typical, ordinary morning.

Much like the one I had a year ago today. I ran errands that day too before work, began planning in my head what I needed to pack for Spring break, and oh, yeah, made a quick stop at the imaging center for my mammogram.

A stop that would stop me in my tracks.

One. Year. Ago.

We meet again, March. And you are weirding me out because of all the dates and memories associated with you.

A quick stop for my mammogram before work-March 6, 2018.

Having no clue a year from that date, I'd be typing this blog entry, still without the full range of motion of my left arm, running my hand over my fuzzy crew cut.

What. On. Actual. Earth.

And it's one of those bizarre things where it feels like yesterday but also like a lifetime ago.

Like time's stood still but also like I aged 5 years in one.

The entire month of October is dedicated to breast cancer awareness. When social media and ads are adorned with pink ribbons, inspirational quotes, and pictures of beautiful bald ladies uniting together.

But I hope you are just as aware in March. On your ordinary days. Dropping off kids at school. Getting your oil changed. And scheduling that mammogram you've been putting off.

Last night I went to a concert at the Kauffman Center for work. The same Kauffman Center I toured the day I got the call with my biopsy results-March 22, 2018.

Another surreal reminder date coming up.

You've certainly come in like a lion, my friend. Stirring up all the feels.

On one hand I'm glad to see you because it means I've made it through a year. Ask any cancer survivor and they'll proudly tell you how many years out they're celebrating.

On the other hand, it's hard for me to face you. Because my life before you, before cancer, is slipping farther and farther away and I've already forgotten bits and pieces of what it felt like.

But I'm learning to embrace this new life. This "beanie baby", as Drue affectionately referred to me these past 6 months, packed up my beanies and donated them back to the wonderful boutique I got them from. Except my favorite one. That one I'm keeping. Unless David donates it to Goodwill like he did the tote of baby clothes I was saving as keepsakes.

I'm blending back in now instead of standing out as a cancer patient. People just assume I got too clipper happy with my short locks. And I have zero doctor's appointments this month. After having a slew of them the previous 12.

One of our sweet bridge players who calls me "Kersten" saw me today and said, "I'm still praying for you every day. I don't know your last name so I just pray for 'Kersten who works at the Community Center' ". Thankfully, He knows just who she means and has been faithful to carry me through this past year.

I better wrap up this update...I've got a beanie to go hide!

A week from today marks 10 months.

10 months since I found out I had cancer.

But I'm not writing to talk about next week.

I'm writing to talk about today.

Because today was my last day of scheduled treatment.

My final radiation.

I unexpectedly finished a week early because I didn't need the added boost they had factored in initially. So it hasn't really had time to sink in yet.

I made it. We made it. Because so many of you have been right there with me. Cheering me on, praying for me, sending messages of encouragement. And I'm so grateful for each and every one.

I had radiation to my left side which meant I needed to move my heart and lungs down and out of position of the beam. To do so, I had to hold my breath each time the beam was turned on. I'd hear a voice come over the intercom and say, "Take a breath and hold it..."

Which, incidentally, has contributed to me developing the lung capacity to rival Michael Phelps. If I let my breath out while the beam was still on, it would shut the whole machine off. So I counted, daydreamed, and tried not to think about turning blue until they came back over the intercom saying, "You can breathe". They radiated 4 spots each time. My midline, left side, and 2 spots targeting the lymph nodes by my clavicle. Those last two went all the way through me and toasted the back of my shoulder like a marshmallow.

I'm sporting 6 pretty cool tattoos. If tiny little black dots are considered "cool" these days. Reese wants me to connect them all together now into some huge fancy illustration covering my torso. Too many dot to dot books as a child.

To prove I was me, I had to stop at the door each time, show them my hospital bracelet, and recite, "Kristen Hollaway. 8-1-76. Left (the side they were treating)". Once I was in the room, they displayed a picture of me from my first day and asked, "Is that you?". Seriously. If someone wanted to take my place that badly, get burnt to a crisp and have all the energy sucked out of them causing them to crawl into bed right after work some days, they're off their rocker.

My modesty flew out the window long about my second or third doctor's appointment last Spring. Since KU is a teaching hospital, there was always a student or new doctor getting trained by one of mine. And I was asked time and time again if it was ok if they sat in on my examination. "Sure, no problem," I'd say, wanting to add, "Anyone else out in the hallway wanna come take a peek? Housekeeping? Maintenance? Bring them all in!" This from the middle school girl who used to change into and out of her gym clothes faster than Clark Kent could slap on a cape.

For radiation, I had to change into my gown then traipse back out into the little waiting area, pretending like it wasn't awkward at all as I tried to hold the back closed and slither into a seat next to fully clothed family members waiting for their loved ones. At least I made it out there with it on each time. Once I was in such a hurry to get to work afterward, I stripped off all my top clothing, adjusted my beanie, and headed for the door, thankfully realizing a half second before I opened it that something was missing!

So I relinquish my standing 10am time slot. And hate that there will certainly be another person ready to fill it. I wish them well. I hope they're nice to sweet "B", my little old man friend I won't be seeing anymore and who's only halfway done with his treatment.

This last month has probably been the hardest for me. I haven't felt inspiring. Or amazing. Or anything of the sort. I've just felt off. Not a fun place to be. Stuck inside your own mind, going through the motions. But I'm plugging along and coming around. And growing the softest little baby hair you ever did feel. "You almost have enough for bedhead," David pointed out.

I snapped this one day while the person before me finished up. Probably sweet "B".

Beam on.

Beam- shine brightly.

I can do this. A rough chapter has finished. But my story isn't over yet. I feel more like a snuffed out candle at the moment. But I'll shine again. Perhaps for someone else going through this.

Beam on.

Next up: I'll be on an oral med for 5 years. And will part ways with all of these.

Oh, and I'll have my exchange surgery this Summer where they'll switch out these blasted tissue expanders for what will most likely be the smallest implants my plastic surgeon has ever created. He confirms with me at each appointment, "And you're sure this is the size you want to be?" I may mess with him next time and say, "Actually, no. Now that I think about it, can you take some of this out and make me a little bit smaller?"

My breast surgeon doesn't want to miss out on our little reunion so she'll be there also to take out more tissue on my right side. Some of my cancer cells decided to party too close to the edge of what she took out in June. So we need to make sure none of those little suckers slipped through.

So what did I do to celebrate my last treatment?

I picked Drue up from school for an orthodontist appointment. Because life goes on. And that's a-ok by me. I'm certainly ready to get back to being an ordinary Mom doing ordinary Mom things.

This was the garden outside the cancer center on my first day of chemo.

And here it is on my last day of radiation.

A different season for sure. Each season has its own challenges. But also its own beauty.

I feel like I've been holding my breath since that March 22nd phone call.

It felt so good to hear them say at the end of my treatment today, "You can breathe..."

I'm not bidding 2018 a fond farewell. I'm looking it in the eye with a triumphant grin, giving a little wave, and saying a BIG "Buh-Bye"!

Whew! What a whirlwind. It tricked me at first, giving me a few low key months before everything began to unravel in March. I never imagined at the beginning of this year my NYE festivities would include hanging out at the Cancer Center getting radiation and visiting with my oncologist. This girl knows how to party.

We all have those memorable milestone years with which we mark time by.

If someone mentions 1994, I immediately picture myself, blue cap & gown, getting my high school diploma.

1998- black cap & gown crossing the stage at SBU and in a wedding dress a few weeks later.

'02, '04, '06- bringing home newborns.

Of course, 2018 will be forever remembered and marked with the "C" word.

I finished chemo, got my port out, started the next phase of treatment, and I felt amazing. Or that's how I thought I'd feel. My emotions have actually been all over the place.

If you look at me wrong, I'll cry.

If you smile at me comfortingly, I'll cry.

In fact, if everyone could just stop making eye contact with me altogether for awhile until I feel semi back to normal that'd be best.

Some have complimented my outlook. But I can't take credit for that. That's God.

He's got this.

He writes my story.

He's carrying me through.

I would have a much more defeatist attitude if my hope wasn't in Him.

A few months ago we sang a new (to me) song at church. I am team "traditional hymns" all the way and am slow to embrace new songs and choruses. But this one grabbed a hold of me and made me wonder, "Wait, has Matt Redman met me?". His song Never Once certainly hit home.

"Kneeling on this battle ground
Seeing just how much You've done
Knowing every victory
Was your power in us

Scars and stuggles on the way
But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone
Never once did you leave us on our own
You are faithful, God, you are faithful"

And all the mental snapshots of this past year come flooding back.

The room where I waited in my gown while they reviewed my additional mammogram images.

The Hen House parking lot I called David from to tell him I needed a biopsy.

The parking lot at work where I was standing when I got the call it was cancer.

The MRI tubes.

I wasn't really alone any of those times. He was right there with me.

I know others of you are still reeling from the events 2018 tossed your way. But we made it! Tomorrow we turn the page. It certainly doesn't erase the effects of this past year but it's a fresh start and a new number. With all sorts of adventures and possibilities in store.

2018 was a hard year.

But it was also an amazing year.

And I would go through it all again just for the friendships I've made, laughs I've had, hugs I've received, encouragement, support, the list goes on.

The sweetest little old man has radiation right before me. We smile and exchange pleasantries as he exits and I enter. Today he said, "Good Morning. Have a good New Year!"

I held back the tears that threatened to break through (he's going to be excluded from my "no eye contact" decree because he's precious) and wished him the same.

To 2019 I say, "Bring. It. On."

How is it that I'm halfway through chemo and haven't written an update?

Probably because it knocks me on my hindquarters.

And makes me say weird things like, "Are these your footballs...I mean shoes?!" and "There are plates in the dryer...I mean dishwasher!"

I feel like a walking, talking Mad Lib most days.

So how's it going?

Well, it's going...to drive me bat crazy if these next 7 weeks don't zoom right on by. And if my last 4 treatments are anything like the first 4. Which they aren't supposed to be. BUT, again, nothing during this whole ordeal has been how it's "supposed to be" with me. How's that for a lovely upbeat attitude?

I guess let me paint the picture of the infusion room to set the stage. It has multiple pods of chairs. Which is basically 4 sections of recliners lined up on both sides facing each other. Maybe 10 per pod? I don't remember. I don't take that detailed of notes, people.

I walked in that first day and they said, "Pick a chair".

Slight panic set in. I do better when someone says, "Sit there". Takes the decision making off me. I'd wished I'd read up on Infusion Room Etiquette, if there's even such a thing.

There were plenty of chairs that morning. So should I find the farthest one from others? Do I sit down right next to someone and make a new friend? Do I greet people as I go by? Or curtsy as I make my way down the row? I decided just to give a slight smile to folks as I passed. Heck, we're all stuck in this room together for hours that none of us want to be in.

Then I saw it. My chair. In the corner. Back against the wall so I could see the whole room. Right next to the window overlooking the garden. With a spot for David next to it. Off I headed. As I sat down I realized there was a guy right across from me getting infused.

Shoot. This wasn't going to be awkward at all. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to now be sitting across from this newbie stranger for the morning. But I'd already committed to the chair so it would have been more awkward to get up and move.

As I settled in, I gazed around at the others in my pod. The fellow across from me I'd be avoiding eye contact with. An older man hooked up to meds with his wife next to him. Another white haired gentleman already asleep.

What the heck?! Had I inadvertently wandered into the man pod? I later learned that wasn't a thing. Just a coincidence that day.

I won't go into a play by play of chemo because that will just start to read like a medical journal and even my eyes will begin to glass over. I did get a wee bit curious though when the nurse wheeled over a huge cart of supplies, gowned up, and started creating a sterile field to access my port that first time. Even I have to wear a mask for that part. I started thinking, "Wait. What? Do they have me scheduled for a surgery right here and now I didn't know about? And am I scrubbing in for my own mini surgery?!"

I got two meds these first 4 rounds. Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Or "AC" for us BC experts. Yeah, I'm down with the breast cancer lingo now. We're a super hip club in case you didn't know. One I hope none of you ever have to join.

The Adriamycin, as I mentioned on FB, is known as the "red devil". And boy howdy, is it ever! I am SUPER thankful I didn't have terrible nausea with it. My home meds basically knocked me out for 4 days afterward to help avoid that. Hey, bring it on. I'll take that. I had to suck on a popsicle while it was getting infused to help prevent mouth sores. I felt like a 5 year old getting bribed to take their shot.

The "red devil" part for me was just when I started to come around and have a day or so of standing upright and safely being able to drive myself places, it would say, "Oh? Feeling better are we? Have plans to head on in to work today? Alrighty. I'm just gonna drop your white blood cell counts to almost nothing. And, what the heck, let's drop those red cell counts too. Nope, more. A little more. Eh, let's just go ahead and make you anemic and put you right on the edge of needing a blood transfusion. There. And just for grins, since I dropped those levels so low, let's raise your temp up. More. A little more. Yep, 103 sounds about right. I don't want to make you go unconscious or anything."

I was on 3 different antibiotics and needed IV fluids once. All during my weeks/weekends where I was supposed to be feeling good. Little devil for sure.

I've gotten pretty good at knowing when my counts are dropping. Walking out to the mailbox and feeling like I just ran a 5K usually tips me off.

When I had to page my oncologist this weekend for yet another fever, he said, "Ok, tell me where you are with your treatments because I'm just coming back from vacation."

"Well, I just finished my AC..."

"Oh thank God!" he interjected.

"I know! I am!"

The smell of the saline they use to flush my port has become my most hated smells of all smells. Oh. My. Word. I have to hold my breath and go to my happy place when they do that part. Why can't it come in different scents/flavors? Like tooth polish at the dentist? Bubblegum would for sure be my first pick.

The kids have been pretty understanding when I feel like crud in a bucket and they have to forego having sleepovers here. Drue texted me this weekend asking how I felt. When I said, "Not so great" she said, "Oh, ok. I was gonna ask if so-and-so could sleep over but we can do it another time."

She texted me a few hours later asking again how I was feeling.

"What do you mean??" I texted back wearily. We'd already been through this. There would be no sleepover. Turns out, she was just genuinely concerned that time and wanted to make sure my fever was gone. No ulterior motive whatsoever. Oopsie.

So that about sums it up. Probably more detail than you cared to know. If people see me out and ask about chemo, I usually say, "Oh, it's going pretty good. Not as terrible as I'd feared." Because I feel like I have to defend it since it's, quite frankly, saving my life at the moment.

For some reason, it has rained on each and every treatment day thus far. I'm sure there's a witty correlation to be made there but I'm sleepy so that will have to wait for another day.

My coveted window corner chair was occupied this last time. I texted David who hadn't made it in from the truck yet. He offered to get his tire tool and "rough somebody up" for me.

I will not be asking him to co-author the Infusion Room Etiquette Book I'll be writing.

I'm happy to report people have stopped looking at my chest to see if it's still mine. And have started looking at my hair to see if it's still mine.

Which, of course, it isn't. After having it come out in fistfuls and literally watching my highlights go down the drain, it was time.

A question I get asked frequently (understandably so) is, "How are the kids handling all this?"

The answer: Remarkably...Surprisingly...Oddly well. I'm not sure which adverb to pick exactly.

They still take their cues from us. Just like toddlers taking a tumble. Every parent knows not to gasp or suck in their breath. You say, in your best singsong voice, "Oopsie Daisie! Hop up!" They may look uncertain for a second, but when they see you're ok, they're ok. Same rule seems to have applied with my diagnosis and treatment.

Sure, there have been a few "Are you going to die?" discussions.

I put on a reassuring front and calm their fears. But also usually throw in, "Besides...there's no way I'm gonna miss out on tormenting you throughout your teen years. This is what I've trained for!"

I didn't want my head shaving to be a somber moment. But I didn't really expect the kids to get downright giddy about it. They were full of all sorts of crazy ideas so I just decided to humor them.

Reese called first dibs with the clippers.

Drue suggested I dye it a fun color right before we shaved it. And she wanted us to shave everything except my bangs to see what that would look like. Not a look I'll be repeating, that's for sure.

I was leery about the hair dye idea. But, really, what did I have to lose? All my hair! Naturally, we picked pink. So I bleached it and dyed it. All while more and more kept falling out around me.

We all gathered in the gazebo out back for my shearing. It seems like an eternity ago, but it's only been 3 weeks. And I still forget I'm bald most days until I pass a mirror. I envisioned myself looking like Demi Moore from G.I. Jane. And I guess I resemble her look a little, if part of her crew cut fell out in patches and she had random pink dye splotches on her scalp.

For insurance purposes my wig is a "cranial prosthesis". And my oncologist had to write a prescription for it. Which made me snicker.

We've actually had quite a few snickers over my lack of hair.

Each month I order two Target Beauty boxes for the girls and I to share. 6 out of 7 items in our last one were hair products. So the girls were pretty excited they each got a box all to themselves.

Drue straightened her hair one day last week when the humidity level was 112%. So she tried to finagle a ride to school so her curls wouldn't break through as soon as she stepped out the front door. When her request was denied she said, "Ugh! I'll just..." then trailed off and laughed guiltily. "You'll just what?" I pried curiously. "I was gonna say...cut it all off, " she confessed. Then promptly left for school without complaint.

I'm told my wig looks fairly similar to the haircut I got a few weeks before it all came out. Even the kids would ask before I lost my hair, "Wait, is that your wig?"

"Yep. I just left your room 5 minutes ago. But in that time, I shaved my entire head by myself in the bathroom and am now sporting my wig."

Cancer has taken many things from me. But not my snark.

I pull my wig off as soon as I get to my car after work, slap on my ball cap, and don't put it back on until I go back to work or church. I asked the kids if they wanted me to wear it to their school functions and they all said they didn't care. Tate was confused why I was asking. "Well, I thought you might want a Mom with hair to come to stuff, not your bald Mom in a baseball cap."

He still look confused and said, "I don't care. I mean, cancer is a good excuse to be bald."

Bless it.

The other day when I picked him up from practice after work I quickly said, "Oh! Don't sit on my hair," as he scrambled into the car. Felt super normal yet odd to say at the same time.

It was weird running errands for the first time with just my hat on. And running into people I know who aren't aware of this turn of events in my life is strange. "I look like a cancer patient," I lamented to David. "Well, Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you..." he replied.

My beauty routine has always left a lot to be desired. My makeup application takes about 4 minutes, I slap polish on my picked to nubs nails, and I usually check with the girls for their approval before buying any new articles of clothing. But it took me about 12 years to grow my hair out to the length it was, and I do kind of miss it.

But, hey, I am sporting that super cool scar on the back of my head I never thought I'd get to see.

Raise your hand if you can't believe it's been 3 weeks since my surgery.

Let me tell you, that's on my looooong list of things I will hopefully never take for granted again. Being able to raise my hand. Along with: getting out of bed, changing position in bed, getting up from a chair, getting in and out of a car, buckling my seatbelt, and more. Whew.

Why so long for an update you ask?

I literally just typed that I've had limited use of my arms. Why would you even ask that question? (Insert winking emoji face here) Also, it's kind of hard to write a blog when you can't remember what's transpired. David and the kids are helping me piece some of those days back together. "I did what...?" " I said what..." Not funny viral video type things, darn it (I love those). Just day to day happenings and conversations I have no recollection of. Gotta watch this crew though. They're likely to ad lib things just for the fun of it. "Yeah Mom, you said you didn't care if we wore belly shirts now and that we could wear them to Sunday School".

Truth be told, I actually didn't even have all the info I needed for a complete update until YESTERDAY. Heavens to Betsy. Talk about being weary of the wait!

I completely understand now why a cancer diagnosis is referred to as a journey.

Journey: noun-A traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time; trip.

Mine wasn't supposed to be a cancer "journey". It was supposed to be a cancer "jaunt" back in March. I cannot believe all the stops and detours I've made in between then and now. My 2nd diagnosis, my skull scare, craniotomy, lumpectomy changed to bilat mastectomy. I've had more pictures taken of the inside of my body than there are pictures of me growing up. (Third child problems. Tate's just lucky he was a boy. Ensuring I took a plethora of pics. Had he been another girl, I may have just said, Been there. Done that.)

On with the update. I'll share the good, the bad, but probably skip the ugly here. Although I'm fine talking about the ugly with you if you'd really care to hear. It just doesn't quite fit with the theme of my blog. It's more Edgar Allen Poe-ish. And I don't want to scare anyone who may stumble upon this entry down the road about to undergo their own surgery. To them I would say, "I made it!! You will too! It sure doesn't feel like it some days. Keep on keepin' on. Ok, that one's cliche. But seriously. You will not want to get out of bed. But you have to. And you will feel 87% better when you get up and around. That's a solid B+, my friends."

The week leading up to my surgery, I started to panic.

Over dumb things.

It was all of a sudden imperative I wash our couch throw pillow covers and hose down the front porch chairs no one sits in.

And my linen closet? No way was I heading to the hospital with that in such disarray. I pulled everything out, threw out old, haggard linens I was too embarrassed to donate, and arranged the leftovers neatly. I spent a few minutes holding on to Tate's little hooded dinosaur towel, before it found itself in the toss pile. Nostalgia got the best of me so I pulled it back out and cut just the hooded dinosaur head off for a keepsake. But that just looked creepy, so it all went back in the trash.

We sent Reese off to Florida the day before my surgery on a school trip. Which was well timed. Her first trip without us and I couldn't even worry because I was sedated half the time. Handy. I still didn't care for the fact she kept going over who got to keep what if her plane crashed. "Can you not?!" I finally said.

That same day, my sister showed up at my doorstep with her roomba, wanting to know where she could help. Her house is spotless. Mine was a hot mess. I delegated living room duties to her and she set to work. Scrubbing the fireplace doors, glass candle holders, and making a pile of little hidden treasures from under the couches, exclaiming more than once, "I just love to clean!". I'm still trying to decide which one of us was adopted.

Enough build up to surgery. Let's get on with it. Spoiler alert: I made it through. David took, what is now hands down, my most unflattering picture of all time before I was awake from anesthesia. Scrub cap and all. If I ever find that framed in one of his offices somewhere, all of his belongings will be tossed onto the front lawn.

When the nurse came in later that evening to help me up for the first time, she said, "Now, you'll have to rely on your leg and stomach muscles these next few weeks."

How convenient. I have neither.

My pessimistic tendencies became amplified. My 2nd day home I thought, "This is it. I've peaked. I'm going to feel this way for the duration of my Earthly days." But I discovered I have this spunky little inner voice that is both motivating/sassy, "Heavens, Girl. What in the world?! Millions of women have gone through this surgery before you and are walking around as we speak with full use of their upper appendages, not dragging themselves around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Now get out of that bed and change your shirt for crying out loud."

I can only sleep on my back currently. And can't change position without difficulty. My skull incision still feels weird to sleep on so I can't put too much pressure on the left side of my head. Just call me Goldilocks. I've tried all the pillows in the house. Some too firm. Some too soft. I sleep slightly raised, with more pillows to prop my arms. I'm like a little Tetris piece trying to fit in my bed nest/recliner just so.

And I would like to take this opportunity to thank Facebook for all the helpful pop up ads and articles. Experimental treatments for cancer. Personal stories of those who've lost their battle. Various cancer memorabilia. So sweet of you to remind me every single time I get on your site for the past few months that this is part of my life now. Really. (Insert eye roll emoji here)

Fast forward a week from my surgery. (Since everything is fuzzy that happened before that anyway.) I had an appointment scheduled with my oncologist to get my pathology report and find out the treatment plan. Of course that would have been too easy. And they called saying my path report wasn't in yet so there was really no reason to come in. Could I reschedule? For two weeks later? My report actually came in a few hours after that phone call, at which point my oncologist had already left for vacation. My breast surgeon was very considerate and called me with the results but wasn't able to go over anything further as far as treatment.

The entire report is 9 pages long. But the gist was I actually ended up with three types of breast cancer and a huge area of cells that are markers for developing future breast cancer. Too little too late there, buddies. Would have appreciated the heads up a bit earlier. My sentinel lymph nodes on each side were positive. And my surgeon then said, "I was very happy when the report showed you also had invasive cancer on the right side that we didn't know was there."

As I began questioning her medical certification in my mind, she went on to explain that if there hadn't been invasive cancer on that side, the positive node would have meant the left side had already spread and I would have been Stage IV.

Here we go again! I feel like a cat. That's twice now I've dodged a Stage IV diagnosis. I should have 7 lives left at this point.

My left nodes had to be dissected out. So that's now my "bad" arm. And it's not to be traumatized by anything further like blood draws, blood pressures, etc. It even gets to wear a fancy sleeve when I fly or exercise so I don't develop lymphedema. I want to get one with tattoo designs. So I'll look super tough on the airplane and no one will mess with me. The nurse helpfully explained I'll still be able to engage in my regular activities like yoga, gardening, crocheting. That was great news. If I actually did any of those things to begin with.

I could not get through this without my support system. I. LOVE. YOU. GUYS. (Which, yes, includes all of you reading this). David got his own Facebook post already regarding his support, and I could actually write about 12 more for him. I have a select few friends/family who are impatient and can't wait for my blog posts. So they demand immediate updates after all my appointments. Bossy little things.

And it's amazing to watch their replies roll in. All of their different perspectives and responses are JUST what I need to hear at that time.

"Crap! Hate that!"

"Are you kidding me??"

"You've made it through the worst, you'll make it through this too."

"So, how are you after hearing that news?"

I have friends who've been through it, nurse friends, friends who say "What can I do?", and friends who just "do". I have friends checking in I haven't talked to since high school. I'm on church prayer lists in at least 3 states that I know of. People I have never met and probably never will meet. With many more individually praying for me around the world. This is both overwhelming and humbling for a wallflower like myself to be smack dab in the middle of such a huge circle of supporters.

Sorry to say, your stint isn't up quite yet. Since I was node positive, my treatment plan will be chemo followed by radiation. Beginning week after next. Yes, I've already ordered a new ball cap: Chemo Hair. Don't Care. 

Reese asked, "Do you want us to shave our heads too?"

Drue looked appropriately horrified.

"Well no!" I put their minds at ease.

"Ok. We'll just make Tate shave his then..."

Sure, because him shaving off the half centimeter of hair he currently has as his Summer cut would be a huge sign of support.

"No one's shaving anything!"

Just when I thought things couldn't get crazier around here...

Confession: My attitude isn't always "how can I find the humor in this to make it bearable?". I suspect most of you knew that. But just wanted a guilt-free conscience going forward.

Case in Point: Bursting into tears on the way to the dollar store this evening.

I was going over in my head all that we had going on tomorrow.

Let's see...Thursday...May 31...May 31? Why does that sound super familiar?

Oh.

Tomorrow was the day all my follow-ups were scheduled for after my original surgery date of May 18th.

All three of them.

Breast Surgeon. Plastic Surgeon. Oncologist.

Three different campuses. But I didn't care. I'd be getting my drains removed, hopefully hearing how nicely I was starting to heal, and finding out whether or not I'd need chemo.

I would be closer to returning to work, returning to regular t-shirts pulled over my head, returning to...normal.

And the tears came.

Not a lot. Just a few. Because all of these appointments and milestones are now over a month away.

A month. I wiped my cheek. Honest to Pete, in the grand scheme of things, a month is not. that. long.

Heck, with the way time flies at this stage of my life, I'll be buying stocking stuffers next week. And Easter candy the week after.

I've heard the story of the parting of the Red Sea from the time I was toddling around the church nursery. But I never truly grasped what an awe inspiring miracle that would have been to behold until I saw the Ten Commandments on TV. However accurate, or inaccurate, that Hollywood portrayal was, it stuck in my head. And I could never understand how the Israelites who had just experienced that could grumble about such trivial things immediately afterwards? What on actual Earth? They had just walked through the sea on dry land. Thanks to an amazing God.

I still have the scratch piece of paper I scribbled notes on when my oncologist called to discuss the MRI of my head.

-need skull biopsy
-neurosurgeon
-might not be cancer
-if it is...Stage IV isolated metastatic disease

My subsequent BENIGN skull mass result was my Red Sea moment. And here I was just 5 days after receiving that wonderful, amazing, colossal answer to prayer, feeling sorry for myself for having to wait another month for my follow-up appointments.

Nope. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps. Turned into the dollar store parking lot. And went on with my evening.

My new lucky/unlucky number, depending on how you look at it, is 22.

3/22- Cancer diagnosis.

5/22- First surgery ever.

6/22- Rescheduled date for my second surgery ever.

On 7/22 I'll either win the lottery or get hit by a bus. It's anyone's guess.

Next year, of course, 22 will become my celebratory number.

That will be here before we know it.

Oh, and at some point, I'll probably change the lyrics to Taylor Swift's "22" to something related to my cancer journey. Come on, you all had to know that was coming...

When I don't feel like writing, or drinking white chocolate mochas, you know things are bad.

Thankfully this morning, I sipped away on my cup of white chocolatey goodness in our backyard gazebo, and, well, you're reading this aren't you?

Telling people I needed a skull biopsy elicited quite a few cringes and replies of, "Yikes! How the heck do they do that?!"

And I would repeat what my neurosurgeon had told me (minus his super cool accent), "So, they'll just make a tiny incision back here and take out a little sample of bone to send off. Not a biggie."

Uhhh...that tiny incision required 13 staples in the back of my head. I feel like that's a semi-biggie. I was sent home with after care instructions for a craniotomy!

And I call "Bologna!"...or "Baloney!"...however you want to spell it, I call it. We know those hospital shows don't give a completely accurate picture of medical life. And I now know their depiction of the doctor/patient dialogue the day after surgery is f-a-k-e. The patients in the shows are well rested, sitting up comfortably in bed, able to carry on a perfectly normal conversation about how their surgery went, blah, blah, blah.

I was in a complete fog when the doctor and discharge nurses came in yesterday morning. I could barely hold my head up to look at them standing next to my bed. My glasses hurt and I had to wear them crooked so the stem wouldn't rub my incision, cocking my head to the side to keep them on while the nurses spouted off "do's" and "don't's", med directions, follow up appointments, etc. Finishing with, "Any questions?".

"Yeah. Huh?" I thought. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and have David roll me out to his truck. Which is pretty much what I did, thanks to the wheelchair they brought us.

Let's back up a bit, however, to before my surgery. Reese took a driving class last August and finally finished all her required driving hours last week for her restricted license. All we had to do was pop into the Driver's License place and trade her paperwork in for her license. "So, can you take me Tuesday?" she asked over the weekend.

"I am getting a HOLE drilled into my SKULL on Tuesday. So, no," I said.

"Oh. Then can you take me Wednesday?"

I still haven't answered her.

David. Bless him. He really is the best caretaker. He spoils me on a good day, and even more so on some of my worst ones. He's had to rearrange his travel schedule, calls, and meetings, on top of taking care of everything around the house and with the kids. And he does a better job than I do. Which doesn't make me jealous. At. All.

Now that I've sung his praises, I feel like it's ok to poke fun of him. Just a bit. He's always been super patient with the kids. But not so much so when it comes to waiting on things. Food at a restaurant, appointments starting on time, or surgery starting when it's scheduled. We sat in my little pre-op room for over 4 hours yesterday. Waiting. He still had some work to tend to, but when that was taken care of, he 'bout drove me bonkers.

He chatted it up with any doctor, nurse, tech, anesthetist who popped their head in. Being his usual, jokey self.

After one such encounter he turned to me and said, "Wow, he's not very jokey."

"He's a brain surgeon," I replied. "Not really a hallmark of their personality."

Next, he wondered aloud if he should have my surgeon take a look at his poison ivy while we were there. I contemplated calling security.

But I just shook my head and responded, "You're a mess."

"Am I? Because you're the one lying in that bed."

Touché.

We played pool and basketball against each other on our phones to pass the time a little. But he quit after I beat him at both.

"Last time I saw you in a hospital, you were having Tate," he reminisced.

"I know. It feels weird to be in a hospital without a baby."

"I'm sure there's one around here you could have," he suggested. Great. I wouldn't need to call security after all, they'd come on their own if someone overheard that comment.

The nurses finally descended upon us and said, "Ok, here we go. Time for good-bye hugs and kisses."

Why did they have to use the word "good-bye"? Cue the tears streaming down my face. Even if I had been ready to kick him out one minute prior. And even though it would only feel to me like I'd been away for 5 seconds when all was said and done. For my next surgery, I'm just going to have David say, "I'm going to the vending machine to get a Diet Coke" instead of "good-bye". I'll handle that much better.

When I settled into my room for the night, and David headed back home to run kids around, I reached up to push my hair out of my face and gasped, What were all those plastic wires doing hanging out of my head?! 

You guys! It was my hair!

Whatever they had to coat it with to ward off infection makes it disgustingly crunchy, cement like. Now, I don't consider myself to be a terribly vain person but when they said I couldn't wash it until Sunday, I wanted to assume the fetal position and cover my ears. I look like Medusa. Sorry, no photographic evidence. Because I'm pretty sure David would get his hands on it, and send it out as our Christmas card this year.

Or the kids would make bad hair day memes out of it for all eternity.

They're supportive like that.

Speaking of supportive, I don't take medication regularly. An Excedrin now and then is pretty much it. So these pain meds are doing a number on me. I went down to the kitchen last night with my water bottle and literally forgot how to use our ice machine/water spout on the fridge. David and the girls yelled "Stop!" before I spilled water all over the floor after pushing the wrong button twice. They then proceeded to double over with laughter.

David went to throw something away and said, "Who got into the kitchen trash?"

Drue chimed in, "That was Mom...she was trying to find the bathroom!" And they all doubled over once again.

I'm keeping notes on all the ways I've been wronged.

At least they balance it out by being sweet. Tate sent me to the hospital with some of his favorite squishies and a small stuffed animal to remember him by. Reese gathered all the little "pink" items she could from her room and left them for me with a note. Cue more tears.

They normally cover holes in the skull with titanium mesh, but my surgeon left mine open in case I did need radiation. David is already making quips about this new hole in my head, "Now I can say, 'It went in one ear...and out your hole'!". Good thing he can cook.

I gathered my crunchy, Medusa type locks into braids before leaving the hospital so I wouldn't turn all the staff into stone on my way out. Peace Out KU Med. Until we meet again.

Which could be sooner, rather than later, if my skull mass is a benign fibrous dysplasia, like my neurosurgeon is thinking. Now that he's seen it in all its glory. I should find out tomorrow or the first part of next week.

Again, THANK YOU for all your prayers. This was my first surgery ever. And it hasn't exactly been a walk in the park. When my meds start wearing off and I think, "I cannot do this" God gives me strength and I know is saying, "But I can". So I'm able to put one foot in front of the other.

And perhaps even relearn how to use our ice maker.

Sooo...an impending double mastectomy doesn't seem so scary after I spent a week not knowing whether or not the cancer had spread to my brain (it hasn't!!).

But between a suspicious spot on my temporal bone lighting up on my scan, to when I got the results of my head/brain MRI (ohmygosh YES, I had to go in that tube of terror for a THIRD time!), I was in waiting limbo Hades. A special place reserved for those of us wondering which direction we'll head in a "Choose Your Own Adventure: Medical Edition". Except we're not the ones getting to choose.

When I first heard, "biopsy recommended" in March, God flipped my switch to preparation mode. Yes, the internet can freak you the heck out, but it has its helpful moments. I narrowed down the possible diagnoses I could be given if my results weren't benign. So when I actually got the call, I was 90% ready to hear it, 10% freaked out.

For my second biopsy, I knew it would either be "benign and continue on with our plan" or "malignant and double mastectomy". When it was the latter, I calmly said, "Ok, thanks for calling."

Next up, if my CT/bone scan showed the cancer had spread to an organ or nearby bone, we'd postpone surgery and start chemo. So I was mentally getting myself ready for that just in case. What I wasn't prepared for, was my oncologist's call 20 minutes after I left my bone scan, saying a suspicious spot lit up in my head that didn't make sense and they needed more detailed images, including brain images.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

At my last appointment with my breast surgeon, she'd said, "You haven't really freaked out this entire time. And I've kind of been waiting for you to."

Well, that phone call from my oncologist did it. That's what tipped me over into semi-panic mode.
Because for the first time since this whole process began, I thought, "This could end badly." And I had to stop to catch my breath that evening on my walk, when the thought of not being here to see the kids as their adult selves hit me like a ton of bricks. Or not being here to make fun of David when his goatee goes completely silver. It's about 1/4 of the way there now, I like to point out to him frequently.

I toodled on over to the main KU Med campus this week for my MRI. The thought process amongst those in charge of the layout of that hospital had to have gone a little something like this:

"First, let's challenge all of our patients and see if they can find a parking space. Get them really frazzled. Next, let's take a super scary test...say, on their brain, and put that MRI machine all the way in the farthest corner of the basement. We'll make the basement extra creepy looking too. So it doesn't even really look like they're in a hospital anymore. More like they just stepped onto the set of Paranormal Investigations. Make sure there are absolutely no windows down there, lest they get a glimpse of the outside world to try and draw hope from the sun. Oh, and don't forget to charge them when they actually find their car again and exit the garage. They'll be so relieved to be getting out of there...they'll pay anything."

For my brain MRI, I only had to go halfway in the tube. This brought me joy. But then they put a little cage over my face, so I felt like Hannibal Lector ready to silence some lambs up in there.

My results show it has not spread to my brain. However, the spot on my skull does require a biopsy. I can think of 1,000,001 things I'd rather have done than that.

My apologies to those of you I may had conversations with this past week. I have a limited recollection of them. My mind was elsewhere. I hope I said something witty. Or at least something coherent.

Looks like I'll be adding a few more links to my surgery countdown chain. It was scheduled for next Friday, but has been put on hold while they figure out what is wrong with my head. David has been trying to figure this out for years, so it will be nice to have some answers.

I thought about having him post an update when I finally do have my surgery but here's how his updates usually go:

David: "Oh, hey, the So-and-Sos had their baby."

Me: "Awww...what'd they have?"

David: "A baby."

Me: "Boy or girl?"

David: "Yep."

Me: "Name? Weight?"

David: "I've told you all I know."

So I'm pretty sure his super helpful and informative post would be something along the lines of, "Kristen had her surgery."

For now, I'll stick to the updates.

And he can stick to counting his silver goatee hairs.

Well, crumb.

I had hoped my update would read: All is well, lumpectomy went swimmingly, cleared the bump in the road called cancer.

Of course, that would have made for the shortest blog post ever.

AND I don't regularly use the word swimmingly.

After feeling as though I'd been kicked by a Shetland pony for a few days, I bounced back from the biopsy, no problem. Not terrible, just uncomfortable. But I was still relieved to put the whole process behind me. The procedure, the recovery, and the w...a...i...t, grateful I wouldn't be going through that again in the near future.

Next came my MRI. Not a fan. I'm the person who gets to the movies/church service/program early to secure a seat near the aisle and feel confident in my escape plan, heaving a heavy sigh when asked to "move in toward the center aisle to make room for late comers". Well, they can just shove their way past me and feel stuck for all eternity in the middle of the row because I ain't budgin'.

So getting slid into a tube, in my skivvies, staying stock-still, was not my ideal way to spend a half hour. I almost pushed the panic button twice. But I refrained and tried to think of humorous things to distract me. Which may have included envisioning some of you falling. Don't judge.

And can I just say: You know you're from Kansas when...your medical facility is under construction and the MRI machine is in a trailer out back! I kid you not. The techs wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders and out the door I trudged in my hospital gown and scrub pants in 30 degrees. No sir. If I never had to have another MRI in this millennium, it would have been too soon.

Lo and behold, my surgeon called the next week saying the malignant area on my right side measured twice as big on the MRI as it had on my original mammogram. AND the images picked up an area of abnormality on my left side. So I'd need an MRI guided biopsy.

An MRI BIOPSY?! Was that even a thing? Would a clown with a knife be performing the procedure? Because that would pretty much cover all the bases of what my current nightmares are made of.

We decided to wait to tell the kids until after the results came back. But Reese foiled that plan. She is always watching. Always listening. And has been since toddlerhood. How she didn't figure out Santa and the Easter Bunny by age 3 is beyond me. The girl picks up on everylittlething. The evening before my second biopsy, she casually asked me when my next appt was.

"Uhhh...errr..." I stammered.

"Oh, and why did you have your cancer notebook this morning when you took Tate and I to the dentist? You brought it out of the house and put it in the car," she observed.

My bedroom was an interrogation room. Luckily, I had a good answer for that one, "I had my blood drawn today for all the genetic tests. My orders were in that notebook," I explained.

"Hmm. And what about your MRI?" she quizzed.

"That's tomorrow," I said, not thinking.

"Tomorrow?! It was last week! What are you talking about? You have another one? What's going on?"

Oh boy.

Drue appeared from across the hall. The girl can't hear us yell her name 4 times to do the dishes, but by golly, she can sure pick up on conversations I hadn't planned on having yet.

Cancer is getting on my nerves. Literally. Some days, out of the blue, my stomach just knots up like I'm about to perform the National Anthem at the Super Bowl. But the next minute, I'm fine. And I know it's because someone has prayed for me. I cannot thank those of you enough who've done so.

So, the results are in. My left side decided to say to my right, "I see your non-invasive ductal carcinoma, and raise you an invasive lobular carcinoma."

Double the cancer. Double the...ugh.

Over this past month, they've been poked, prodded, smashed, smooshed, pushed, pulled, tugged, clipped, bruised, marked, steri-stripped, and glued. And quite frankly, they've had enough. Their series of unfortunate events will conclude with a mastectomy.

Which Reese has been on board with from the beginning, "Just get everything off. I mean, it's not like you have all that much up there anyway."

Straight from the mouth of one of my biggest supporters, folks.

She also feels she's earned a spot on my surgical team because she watches Grey's Anatomy. Yeah, no. I've seen her bedroom. And I most certainly wouldn't let her anywhere near my operating room. The nurses would be tripping over her backpack, shoes, and dishes from last week.

When she found out about my second diagnosis she said, "On Grey's, there was this fake doctor diagnosing people with cancer who didn't really have it. And he would start them on medicine and everything!"

As I made a mental note to research boarding schools, she continued, "I mean, I don't think that's what's happening here. I'm just saying..."

They can't tell right now the extent of the invasive component/stage so they won't know if I need chemo until after surgery.

Reese's take on that? "Awww...I hope you don't need chemo. You just figured out how to curl your hair good."

Seriously, someone take this child. Give her a loving home.

I'm so thankful for my first cancer diagnosis, which led to a discussion with my surgeon about getting an MRI, which led to David and I shrugging our shoulders and saying, "Sure, why not?", which led to a diagnosis of my invasive cancer that wouldn't have been found otherwise. Does God work in mysterious ways? I've never been more certain.

That first week back after vacation can be a doozie. Am I right? Lazy days of sunshine and carefree agendas replaced with a slew of activities and commitments.

I do believe my week back after this Spring Break was my dooziest yet.

A biopsy, breast cancer diagnosis, and some dental work thrown in just for grins.

"Hi, Florida? Yeah, I think I'm gonna go ahead and come on back. Kansas isn't working out. At. All."

I had zero symptoms.

Zilch.

My mammogram at the beginning of this month was just another pesky thing to check off my "to do" list. Which I think must have hurt its feelings, because it decided to go ahead and just change the course of my health, my priorities, and my general outlook on life.

My images were suspicious so they recommended a biopsy. I can't help but wonder if my radiologist suspected malignancy more than he was letting on, because when he handed me my disc of images, he said, "You'll need to take this with you to all of your appointments." All of them? A biopsy is one appointment. And my results were supposed to be benign. So there wouldn't be "appointments" plural.

We headed off to sunny Florida. And I channeled my inner Scarlett O'hara, pushing aside all worries for a week away with the fam, "I'll think about that tomorrow..." We came home, David left for Indy, and the next day I headed to my biopsy. He called that morning and asked if I was nervous. "Nope," I said, semi-confidently. Apparently, my subconscious decided otherwise, because I started sweating on the way. And I was instructed not to wear deodorant until after the procedure. Not wanting to arrive a hot, stinky mess, I stuffed wads of kleenex under my arms and cranked up the A/C, all while the temp outside registered a balmy 40 degrees. At least I was headed to a hospital, where they'd be well equipped to treat me for my subsequent frostbite and hypothermia upon my arrival.

As I neared the exit, a billboard advertising their healthcare system caught my eye. Something about "advances in cancer treatment...". I'd have to speak to them about that. Because that's pretty much the last word one wants to see emblazoned in the sky as they reach their destination in a situation such as this. Perhaps a palm tree, or a cute puppy photo could better advertise their facility and evoke positive emotions.

Tate had forgotten his gym clothes at home that morning. Naturally, I was exasperated. Looking back, I think it was divinely timed. Instead of worrying about my predicament in the waiting room, I was focused on devising a plan for how I would make it back home, find his clothes and deliver them to the school office before heading to work. I was also scrambling to find the email I deleted from his school with the location of their temporary office while the main one is under construction.

My name was called. And off I went, trying not to leave a trail of kleenex behind me.

They said I should get my results in 2-3 business days. This isn't an Amazon order, people, I thought, this is my future.

I got the call at work 2 days later. And just like that, "oncologist", "treatment plan", and "hormone receptors" were added to my vocabulary list.

Next came telling the kids. The day I was told I'd need a biopsy, I was driving Reese to practice that evening and she was going on about great her life was at that very moment. "I just have like these bursts of happiness!" she said, all smiles.

"Awww...that's called bi-polar," I suggested.

"No, like I'm always happy. But sometimes I'm just like extra happy, like right now. But I kinda feel like something bad could happen at any moment though."

So I kept my mouth shut. I wasn't ready to be the reason that their biggest worry in life was no longer how many likes they'd get on their Instagram post.

Should we sit them all down together to break the news?  No. Too ominous. Although, that is how we surprised them with a trip to Disney World a few years ago. So I guess it could have gone either way.

I told the girls together. "Soooo....I had my mammogram a few weeks ago..." I started. Reese immediately interjected, "You have breast cancer!" So much for easing into it. I went through the timeline of events, reassured them it was early stage and very treatable, then answered their one trillion and one questions. "So when they called me yesterday..." I continued, Reese interrupted again, "Yesterday?! You've known since yesterday? Why didn't you tell us last night?"

"Uhh...because I was carting all of you to and from practices all night. We weren't even all home at the same time," I reminded her.

"You, Drue, and I were all in the car together on the way to volleyball," she pointed out.

"Yeah. And you were driving! What was I supposed to say, 'Ok, go ahead and take a left up here. Oh, and I have cancer'?! What on actual Earth?!."

Our conversation took a slight detour when Drue asked, "So, do you know if you're heterozygous? Because we're studying punnett squares in Science."

Reese's biggest concern was that I'd let a man do my biopsy. Bless it.

Tate adorably let it sink in and asked, "So, like, is this something that we need to be worrying about?"

"Nope. Not in the least, Buddy."

The kids suddenly became very agreeable and amicable toward one another over the next few days. At first I thoroughly enjoyed it, but then it turned a little creepy. And when I suspiciously beat the girls at MarioKart, I said, "Aha! You let me beat you! Stop it!"

From the moment I got my diagnosis, I've had a flurry of phone calls from nurses and schedulers. The very first of which turned out to be a sweet nurse I actually met when she was a little girl and her parents taught my Sunday School class. It was very comforting to have her end our conversation with, "I'm praying for you and your family!"

My cancerous culprits look like grains of salt on my images. But instead of playing nice and spreading out evenly, they decided to cluster together and plot against me. We're waiting to see if any cells have escaped into other areas or if I have mutant ninja genes indicating a high rate of reoccurrence. If not, my surgeon is just going to crash their little party, remove them all in an outpatient procedure, and any stragglers will get zapped with 3 weeks of radiation. At which point I'll do a mic drop as I exit the hospital. Until I return shortly thereafter for my appointment with my oncologist to begin my 5 year med. Maybe I'll just take my mic to all future appointments from here on out.

So, ladies...G-O! Go directly to your mammogram. Do not pass "Go". Do not collect $200. Although I'd gladly bribe you if that's what it takes.

I want to go back and hug the radiologist who read my mammogram, the 75 year old survivor who didn't hesitate to approach me in the waiting room offering encouragement, and the nurse who instinctively reached out and held my hand during my biopsy. I'm not even a hugger. But I suspect I'll be more open to the idea from now on.

I finished out the week getting a filling in my tooth and was numbed up half the day. There I sat at my desk, contemplating the information I'd received within the last 24 hours, dribbling my water all down the front of my shirt thinking, "I've had better weeks..."