Forever Young

Yesterday was my birthday. This spring I was realllllly dreading it. 38, okay. Turning 39 -- seems so much... closer to ... 40. And when you feel like you're 28, how does this math compute? But there is nothing like having breast cancer at 39 that makes you feel super duper, like, totally young. I don't know where I've been in breast cancer education, but I had no idea that it was something you usually get after 50. And I did not know that usually when you have it at a young age, it's not pretty. It's probably very aggressive and rampant. This is one time I do not mind being a freak.

I love it every time a doctor or someone says, "You're sooooo young to have breast cancer..." I've never had so old a birthday and think it is so young! And, as one doctor told me, every birthday from here on out will all the more special.

So this is how it went: found lump myself, saw primary care Dr. Woo the next day, got signed up for a mammogram two weeks later at Ballard Swedish Hospital on Friday May 29. Mammogram actually came back normal, but there was obviously a lump there, so they went on and did an ultrasound. The lump showed up on that imaging. Now they had to determine if it was benign or cancerous. To do that they sent me to the other side of town to Cherry Hill Swedish that same day for a biopsy. My biopsy was ultrasound guided, meaning they used that to see where to stick the needle in (your lump area is locally anesthetized). They stick that in and pull out core samples of the lump that get sent to a lab to see if it is cancerous. The doctor had a hard time getting those because my lump kept moving around.

The results came back much quicker then they said they would -- Monday afternoon, June 1st. That's when I got the lovely phone call with the fabulous news. One of the only things the nurse could tell me from the biopsy about this new cancer stuff in me was that the lump had scored a 3 out of 9 on the Bloom-Richardson test. They grade it in three categories, so the lowest you can possibly get is a 3. These categories grade the tumor: things like its shape, aggressiveness, how much the cancer cells look like their counterpart normal cells, etc.

One surgeon told me that usually when women as young as me come in they almost always score a 9 out of 9. And of all her patients, she usually only sees one to two 3's walk through the door a year. So, in a way it seems I have the hormones more like a 70-year-old. I am, as another surgeon said, "really, really strange..." I will most gladly take strange, thank you very much.

I mention all of this because I've had shared with me quite often the very, very kind words of people's experiences that, for example, their mom had breast cancer and all they did was remove the lump and she was good to go, so don't worry about it, you'll be fine, no big whoop. This can be many (older) women's experiences, thank goodness. And while my inner 70-year-old and I may actually be a little similar in their lower-impact experience, most young women with breast cancer are not facing a simple journey. The 9 out of 9 is not a place I'd want to be. I would like to share this as I had no idea either, that while it is less common to get breast cancer younger, it is usually a much more aggressive and potentially very devastating cancer. Thought I'd throw that out there.

So, as my birthday wrapped up the first 30 days of this lump that's change my life, I still haven't had much time to reflect. It has been CRAZY. No one tells you that for the first month or so, your life is going to be completely insane. A million doctor appointments, that run into other appointments, meeting surgeons, 2nd opinions, 3rd opinions, oncologist, radiation oncologists, radiologist, genetic counselor, social worker, plastic surgeon, lab work, tests, blood drawn, MRI, nutrition counseling, mental counseling, 4,000 new cancer-related vocab words and test name acronyms, lost films, information total overload. Not to mention if you've been given options for surgery (how super great!) like me... you have to make some really major decisions. Soon. (And then there's the rest of your life that you hate to put on hold. Did I mention I ran a half-marathon last weekend and moved? Help me.)

I look back at my notebook and see all these things I wrote down June 3rd, when my naturopath gave me the 2-hour lowdown of what the process was going to be -- and how now I understand all that was once jibberish. No one tells you that your cancer is going to be a FULL-TIME job the first month, and really, good luck trying to work. And if someone told you what it will be like, you won't believe them anyway.

I hardly remember last week. I had so many appointments and I was trying to fit in work here and there. One day I said, "Tomorrow I will definitely be in for two hours," thinking this was an entirely attainable goal. Nope. At 3pm when I was finished with my second half-a-day appointment, I needed to get my films to bring with me for when I see the to second-opinion surgeon. Apparently no one could find them, and I spent the next two hours trying to track them down. It's like dealing with the government. So much for going back to work. And so much for not being exhausted. (Note: one thing I have learned -- keep your films in your possession at all times. Never give them to nobody, no matter how nice, trustworthy, organized, or official they may look. Nobody.)

The next day I had to use my lunch hour to pick up the copy of my mammogram that they were reprinting back in Ballard... because they still could not locate my films. It wasn't ready when they said it would be, so I decided to run over to this tiny but awesome take-out place, Green Go Food, while I waited for them. I walked in the door and asked some questions about their yummy yum yum super yummy menu. This little kid off to the side (in fact if you click on the Green go link you can see a picture of him) started showing me his airplane toy. "Oh, cool," I said. "Did you get it on a flight somewhere?" "No, I got it at the airplane store." I decide this kid is a-ok.

I'm bleary-eyed I'm SO insanely exhausted from the week and it's only Wednesday, lunchtime, but I really don't mind his incessant airplane talk. His smooshie-cute parents are in the kitchen, his mom yells, "Cypress. Please let the lady eat her food." The plane flashes red which he insists are the engines blowing up and he has to put them out. Over and over. All these mishaps. "That plane has got a lot problems," I comment. "I know," says Cypress. "It just keeps catching on fire."

I like his exploding plane play. Finally he comes over and climbs up on the stool next to me to show me yet another feature of the plane. Then he says:

Are you my friend Cooper's mom?
No, I am not.
Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure. I'm not a mom.
Are you a grandmother?
(oh, thanks kid!) Nope. You have to be a mom first before that.
Well, you look like Cooper's mom. You remind me of her.

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Why aren't you a mom?

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He stares at me with blue eyes and blond hair. I stare back at him with mine. For what feels like 10 minutes. My stomach hurts for a second. Why didn't I tell this kid to scram when I had the chance?

That's a good question. I don't know. It just never happened. I guess I never got around to it.
Why not?
It's ... complicated. But... I would like to be a mom. I'd like to have a nice, fun little boy like you to talk with. This triggers something in him. I think he thought I thought he was a baby.
He jumps up and shows me his fingers. "Hey! I'm FOUR!"
Wow! Does that mean you go to kindergarten next year?
Yup... in the fall... when the leaves drop to the ground. He makes a graceful gesture as he says this, his hands and fingers making slow, tiny movements of leaves falling off trees and landing. Is this kid a mini-poet or what?
And by then...maybe I'll be FIVE! He totally cracks himself up with this and smacks his face with the whole palm of his hand.
When's your birthday? Do you know it?
February 3rd. It always has the same name every year: February 3rd... it never changes. When is your birthday?
Well, hey! My birthday happens to be next Tuesday!
Which Tuesday?
Today's Wednesday. (I count my fingers) Then Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday...Tuesday. Six days.

His face totally changes with enlightenment.
Heyyyyy. I know. I should get you balloons. And I should make you a cake!
Ohhhhhhhh my gosh. Huh. What a wonderful thought! Thank you for thinking of me!

Dad walks by.
Hey, Dad -- can we get her balloons and make a cake for her birthday Tuesday?

ADULT WORLD ENTERS.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh... I don't know how we can do that..."
But it's her birthday. Cypress looks back at me incredulously with palms up, face like Johnny Trav in Saturday Night Fever reading, "Wha? Wha's the problem here??"

I decide it's time for me to take off, relieve Cypress's poor dad from signing up to personally cater my birthday, and hope that stupid mammogram film is finally ready. I still can't stop thinking about Cypress though, and how at his age anything really is possible. Cypress thinks it's completely realistic to schedule balloons and a make a cake for a perfect stranger. I swear I will try to think of a few things that could be possible too.