Jeff's been encouraging me to write for months, and I've been so overwhelmed that I just didn't know where to start. It's a bit like right after Lily was born--I knew I wanted to share her birth story, but I had no idea how to make it matter, how to give it the weight it deserved, how to write my heart down in words that would convey the enormity of where we were.
So here's where our journey (or at least this leg of our journey) began.
That’s right: five girlfriends, celebrating a fabulous birthday. We’d gotten our hair done, and I love the dress I’m wearing.
But what you can’t see—what you may not know—is that my left breast is really hurting because I'd had a biopsy the day before. And that biopsy was done by the kindest, most gentle, most honest radiologist. And it was she who confirmed what I’d been fearing since my annual mammogram got flagged: the two masses in my left breast were “quite concerning.” She left little room for doubt—which I appreciated beyond all measure—as she told me and Jeff that we should line up doctors right away—before results confirming a diagnosis were even in—because it was so clear what the outcome would be.
And so we arrived for our annual visit in Connecticut, expecting a phone call around every corner to confirm what we already knew. It finally came on Wednesday—a day my parents kept Lily at their house and Jeff and I nestled ourselves at an outdoor table at a pizza place we love in Kent, CT. And so, with a glass of wine in hand, I answered the call that told me “you have invasive ductal cancer.”
By this time, Lily knew what was going on, and she was smothered in love. She knew who to get hugs from (Aunt Karen is ALWAYS a top choice), who she could ask questions of, and who would just let her play and be a kid (thanks, awesome VT cousins!). She quickly moved from “If you have cancer, will you die?” to “Because you’re having surgery, you need a bigger bedside table to hold your water and books and medicine.” (Our kid has bananas levels of empathy.)
Coming back home could’ve been a crash landing into reality, but it wasn’t because our friends padded the runway. A joyful front walk greeted us, and then there was a new family member to love on: our brand new goddaughter, Vivi (the daughter of Lily’s godmother).
For a couple of weeks, there was chaos: there were plastic surgeons and breast surgeons and MRIs, but they were balanced with roller skating birthday parties and long nights with wine and friends. By this point, we had a few more answers (partial mastectomy recommended instead of full was perhaps the most memorable one!), but still a lot of uncertainty around when and where and how. (And, if you’re reading this, you must love me; and if you love me, you know unscheduled and unplanned isn’t really in my wheelhouse.) But I couldn’t dwell on this, because another adventure awaited.
Because then we were on a trip we dreamed up in 2019. A trip that 2020 stole from us. But a trip that 2023 gave us back—and that both of my surgeons happily approved. And so we traveled to Paris (worth its own post for Lily’s encounter with escargots) and then to Stratford-upon-Avon to finally reunite with dear friends (who also happen to be our godson’s parents, who also happen to be my oldest friends I adore, our bonds having originated in 2000).
We spent a week walking along the Avon river, grabbing a pint (or a G&T for me), seeing shows at the RSC, snuggling our beloved godson and “godsister,” watching trebuchets shot from castles, and spending hours just sitting soft, soaking in the joy of being together again.
And then the world crashed back.
Lily had her first day of fourth grade (complete with a uniform). I navigated sharing that I’d be out on medical leave balanced with proving (to me alone?) that I was completely still myself. I wasn’t interested in being told how strong I was or how much I’d be missed; I just wanted to be on the step I was on without looking ahead.
I needed to be strong THAT DAY. I needed Lily to know I was strong. And so I started CrossFit, and I challenged myself to a ropes course, and I ran a 10K (the morning before surgery, the same morning I hosted brunch for our friends at our house to say “Goodbye to the OG Boobies”—a party my plastic surgeon was very disgruntled he wasn’t invited to).
And then Monday, September 25, arrived.
I carried that little bluebird as long as they’d let me, before I handed it to Jeff and (with both of us teary) I was wheeled into the operating room. The matching bluebird (a gift from a dear friend) was in a bag around Lily’s wrist for surgery day, letting her know we were connected. That night, Lily stayed with a best friend, a house she’s known since she was 2, and she and her bestie celebrated mom’s surgery in a way that made me laugh even that night.
And thus began recovery—with a cat who has never sat with me but suddenly did, with gorgeous flowers and care packages, with colleagues who chose to wear pink to show their love for me. In those early days, though I decidedly do NOT sit still easily, I tried to rest.
And then (as many have told me since, unsurprisingly) that plan failed.
It started with small walks that got bigger and bigger, it started with acknowledging I needed rest (but refusing it) and getting sicker and sicker. Apparently, despite my grins in the photos above, I don’t play nicely with “clearance to walk” from my surgeon.
And now, well, we’re kind of at now. I’m back to work; I’m reminded to take half days; I presented at a conference (first time!) and balanced it with a lot of sleep. I know what’s next: not chemo (so grateful!) but radiation starting at Thanksgiving.
*
For now, this is enough. I am loved and cared for and watched over. I am finding time for me and for every version of “us” that our family takes. I am running and CrossFit-ing (who knew I’d love that!!). And I am doing my best to ask for what I need when I need it.
And I am so, so grateful. My story is the best outcome, my friends and family the most incredible support system.
BUT…
(and this is hard for me to admit...)
That doesn’t negate how I feel (physically and mentally) which I have to remind myself of daily. That is, perhaps, the greatest lesson of all of this: it’s okay to be “selfist”—to put one’s own needs first and model that for others. I’m not very good at it yet.
But I’m so fortunate those around me know that, love me in spite of that, have patience to remind me of that, and celebrate that when I do.
More to come…
