So thrilled to report that I just got the word from the pathology lab that the seven (!) sentinel nodes removed during surgery were all clear and benign. This explains why my underarm is so sore ... but is great news! They are still trying to determine the size of the actual tumor, as it was surrounded by a good bit of DCIS (Ductal Carcinoma in Situ), which I understand to be the pre-cursor to invasive carcinoma. Seems the path lab at Vanderbilt is a little busy (darn that Swine Flu), so even though almost two weeks was a while to wait for this news, I”ll take it!
The size of the tumor is important information for my oncologist as we determine my course of chemotherapy. I will let you all know more information as I get it. I will try and post here about once a week. Don’t want to bore you but also it is a good way to get the word out. You can subscribe to this blog by email so you don’t have to come back here to check it. Click through the link at the bottom of the blog and the next screen should have some choices on the right margin. Also, please don’t be shy if you have a thought to share in a comment. Or a topic to recommend. I would love to hear from you and would love to talk about whatever is on your mind. As they say, content is king. (I have now figured out how to set it so that anyone can comment. Hopefully I won't get any spammers or fruitcakes)
I have not said much here yet about the most important people in my life: my kids. I am sure those of you who have been faced with unexpected threats to your time here on earth can relate to this; but when the word cancer enters your life, your kids are the first people you think about. Sure, I felt sorry for myself for a second or two but my cares immediately shifted to my kids. Richard, yes, I worried about him, too. But let’s face it: he’s cute and has an accent and would find someone to drink wine and watch baseball with him if I were gone. He would heal. But the terrifying thought of leaving my kids without a mother reduces me to tears every time. I know you can relate. This is what keeps me up at night. (And thank you, Ambien. See previous post re: the miracle of modern phamacology.)
My mother was, and continues to be, a driving force in my life. I would be a different person if she had not raised me. I thank her for that but I also know it goes so much deeper. She is an inextricable part of me. I want that security and comfort and feeling of unconditional love for my own kids. My grandmother (Who is 90!How lucky am I?) left me a voice mail before my surgery that said, “I love you, Barbara Keith, and I would do anything for you.” I loved that message so much because I knew it was true, and I think it is the ultimate expression of a mother’s love: that we would do anything, anything at all for our children.
The fear of leaving motherless kids seems universal among the friends I talk to who have experienced serious illness. Initially my instinct was to protect my three completely. They were kept in the dark for a good month while Richard and I processed info, visited with doctors and developed the plan. I don’t regret this time we took. I think it was the right thing to do, especially for me because I needed to work through it myself first. They have learned the information slowly, but hopefully honestly and in a way that their variously aged brains can process.
Adriana, our babysitter/nanny and one of the true angels in my life, is training to be a Child Life Specialist and just happens to be reading How to Help Children Through a Parent’s Serious Illness by Kathleen McCue. Divine Intervention? Absolutely. This book came into our house at a perfect time and guided me through separate talks with each of my children at their level. The funniest was with Brown (7), who is going through a stage of typical middle child goofiness. He giggled through the whole “chat” but at one point said “Oh... is that what you have...breast cancer?” Although I had told him these words before, I think he was ready to really hear them. So I went through the age-appropriate thing about how “it’s not contagious, nothing you or I did caused it, etc. I am going to be just fine, so I don’t want you to worry and always talk to me if something’s bothering you.” His response? “Okay mommy,” as he rolled his eyes, giggled and went back to his fruit roll-up. He got up to leave the room, but paused at the door, came back, and gave me a big hug. Must have been his seven-year old way of acknowledging that what I said registered and reassuring me that he was okay. He won’t ever know the magnitude of the message he conveyed through his small gesture of genuine affection, but in that small moment, he told me he’s going to be okay. It is a mommy moment I hope I never, ever forget.
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