My Little Bs Have the Big C

A Breast Cancer Blog For Young Women


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Life After Breast Cancer: The Other Side Of Pink

 

This post was written for an organization that I am a part of, 5 Under 40.  5 Under 40 helps breast cancer survivors and those with the BRCA mutation age 40 and under with beauty and wellness services.  In addition, they host support groups and meet ups.  They have helped me in so many ways so when they asked if I could write something for them, I jumped at the opportunity.  I want to thank 5 Under 40 for all of their support and for giving me a voice in their community.  Please check them out at 5under40.org and if you are in the NY/Tri-state area and would like to be connected to 5 Under 40, please let me know

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            I know what I was told.  I was told that it was going to be a hard year; a mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiation.   I was told that I was going to lose my hair but it would come back and while it did, I’d get to wear cute hairstyles.  I was told that I’d lose some energy and might feel sick but once it was done, I’d return back to normal.  Normal.  That’s a word that I heard a lot referring to what would happen when I finished treatment.  I found “normal” to be far from the truth.

I was diagnosed with stage 2B breast cancer in my right breast and lymph nodes at age 37.  My son was 19 months old and we had just weaned from breastfeeding.  I was working full time as a teaching artist, my passion, and beginning to consider ways I might advance in my career.  Secretly, I was also beginning to think about what life might be like with another child.  Originally I had said, “one and done,” but, as Mother Nature tends to do so well, I forgot about the lack of sleep, the spit-up and the aching raw nipples.  I remembered the cuddles, the first giggles…the first everything.  But when you are diagnosed with cancer, many of your plans for the future get put on hold or changed forever.

I endured my treatment like a trooper.  I made jokes, smiled (and cried and threw a few temper tantrums) through the tough days and created a mantra to get me through the hellish days, “a blip in time,” to remind myself that all pain and discomfort would pass.  Through my six months of chemotherapy and 15 sessions of radiation, I checked each treatment off my calendar until the end, when my life would go back to normal.  I looked forward to spending long days with my son without feeling completely warn out.  I was excited to work and not be afraid that my chemobrain would completely derail or ruin me professionally.  I wanted to hang out with my friends, drink wine, eat sushi…hell, I just wanted to be able to taste my food again!!!!!!  I was excited to not spend time every week at the cancer center and to get back some time for myself.  I was ready to look normal again, to not look like a cancer patient and to get my body back.

When you are going through cancer treatment, you are surrounded with support; support from your medical team, family, friends and, if you are lucky like me, colleagues and bosses.  But, when treatment ends, a lot of that support goes away.  At one point you are seeing your oncologist every 2 or 3 weeks and suddenly, it’s every three months.  Of course you can call whenever you need something but, in their eyes, they have done their job.  Now your job is to get back to living life.

Or now that your hair has grown back, your colleagues figure that the worst is over and that you are feeling better and can return to work as you did before.  What they don’t know is that cancer related fatigue can last for years.

The offers for home cooked meals, laundry help, childcare also start to dissipate.  When treatment ends, so does a lot of the help that came with it.

It wasn’t long after treatment ended that I realized returning back to my normal life was unrealistic.  I no longer looked like myself, even with my hair growing back.  I developed major body image issues (remember sixth grade people?) because of treatment related weight gain and the whole one boob thing.  I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.  This was disconcerting.

I didn’t feel like myself.  I remember one-month post chemo, I tried to take a bike ride for exercise.  My husband encouraged me to go for a long ride.  I almost didn’t make it home.  My body was no longer capable of doing what it had done just six months prior.  This included exercise or for daily endurance which was for things like raising my son, grocery shopping, scrubbing the bathroom…whatever.

I can go on and on about why life wasn’t normal.  But I think the hardest thing for me after cancer was dealing with the trauma of what had happened to me.  I fought so hard for so long and suddenly, it was over.  I didn’t know what to do next.  I didn’t know what was supposed to come next.  I kept thinking I would feel the same, think the same and look the same as I did before cancer.  None of those things happened.  Instead, I felt like I was living in a body that wasn’t my own and having thoughts and feelings that were different than what was normal for me.

Depression post-cancer is very common and it was happening to me.  I was afraid every day about recurrence.  I was afraid every day that I couldn’t live up to everyone’s expectations of me or the expectations I had for myself.  And managing post-treatment side effects like lymphedema and fatigue were more difficult than I anticipated.

I don’t write all of this to scare people.  I write about it because it is the truth for many of us.  I think what is hard is that breast cancer is depicted as this “happy” cancer or “party” cancer.  I mean, what other cancer is celebrated with pink feather boas and t-shirts that read, “fight like a girl” or “breast cancer warrior?”  We see images all of the time bald women surrounded by their friends, covered head to toe in pink and smiling and cheering.   We hear stories about women who say that cancer was a gift and has changed them for the better.  We see these images and hear these stories but that is not everyone’s reality.

Some people hate the color pink (who me?) and don’t feel empowered by pink glitter and cosmopolitans.  Some of us don’t like to walk with Komen with every girlfriend we’ve met since Kindergarten.  And some of us think cancer was a curse and feel that it didn’t change us for the better.  Some of us are angry about what happened to us.  Some of us, instead of not sweating the small stuff (we aren’t supposed to sweat the small stuff anymore, we’ve been through worse) feel that each wound, no matter how small, cuts more deeply.  And some of us, after cancer, have a hard time.

This is not true for everyone.  I have met so many people who have gone back to living their lives and living them well soon after treatment was done.  We read about these stories in the papers and the breast cancer websites and blogs all the time. Many of the stories we hear are the ones where there is a happily ever after.  But, if you are not living happily ever after, after having cancer…you are not alone.

Here’s what I will say.  I am two years post diagnosis.  As of just two months ago, I stopped crying every day.  I still think about cancer every day but I’m not crying.  That’s a big step.  I am also finally starting to think about my future and with the help of a therapist, I am defining my new normal.  It’s hard work to redefine yourself but I’m finding the effort worth it.

Life after cancer might not be what you expect. Know that whatever you are feeling, thousands of others feel the same way.  Know that there’s no right or wrong way to do cancer or to feel after breast cancer.  Also know that there is help for you if what you feel isn’t like a “warrior” but like you have been defeated.

You are not alone.

You are not alone.

 


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2 Year Cancerversary

It was two years ago that I walked into a breast surgeon’s office to have a lump in my right breast checked out.  I remember telling myself “It’s just a blocked milk duct.  You just finished breastfeeding.  They’re going to tell you it’s nothing.  You’re going to be fine.”  Your mind tells you one thing.  Your soul tells you the truth and prepares you for what is coming.  I remember the nurse or the resident or whoever she was looking at my sonogram.  Her face didn’t change.  It didn’t budge.  Her pupils did.  I remember them narrowing with knowledge.  “I’m sure it’s just a blocked duct,” she said.  “But I’m going to get the doctor.”

The doctor came in and looked for himself.  He wasn’t quite as adept at hiding what he was seeing.  He was all business.  After a quick look, he told me that he’d like to do 4 biopsies.  One for each lump he saw and two for my lymph nodes.  WHAT?????!!!!!!?????  My lymph nodes?  Why they hell would he want to check those?  The lump is in my breast!  There was so much I was about to learn.

I remember crying hysterically as he did those biopsies.  I couldn’t believe what was happening.  My life was changing and there I was, being punctured over and over again.  Once it was over he asked, “Do you have to be anywhere?  Can you stay for a mammogram?”  He called in a favor downstairs, asking if I could be seen right away, even though it was the end of the day.  He let me know that he’d have the results of some of my biopsies the next day, “just in time to ruin your weekend.”  He asked me to come back and to make sure someone was watching my son.  He then walked me down to get my mammogram.

The next day in his office, he said, “Well, it is cancer” as if we all knew it already and it was no big thing.  But it was a big thing.  It was a huge thing.  That day, my life changed forever.

That was two years ago but it feels like yesterday.  Time has gone so quickly yet so slowly.  It’s hard to explain.

At my one year cancerversary last year, I was still reeling from the trauma I had experiences both mentally and physically.  In my post commemorating the date, I chose to thank all of the people who helped me get through what was the worst year of my life.  I am still grateful to all of those people.

But this year is the year where I have tried to get back to living my life.  I have accomplished so much.  This year, I finished my weekly Herceptin treatments.  They didn’t really cause any side effects but they kept me going to the hospital every three weeks.  It’s hard to move on when you are constantly going to these appointments in the hospital but it kept me close to Nina, my chemo nurse who I always love to see.

Even though my lymphedema progressed into a non-reversible stage, I advocated for the kind of care I wanted.  I left NYU Rusk for physical therapy and found the amazing Cynthia Shechter at Shechtercare who is helping me learn to manage this condition.  It reminded me to trust my instincts and to never settle for sub-par quality of care.

I went back to work full time.  It was exhausting.  I still experience harsh fatigue and my body was still weak.  I also still have some lingering chemo brain.  It’s not horrible but I still forget to do things and can’t remember people’s names.  But I love my work and am glad that I can continue to do what I love to do.

I’ve tried to be a great mother to Oliver.  Many would say I accomplished that.  Being my own worst critic, I can think of a million things I did wrong or about all of the projects I didn’t get to do with him or all the places I wanted to take him, but there was never time.  But, he’s also so bright, funny and caring.  He did so well in his first year in school and grew so much.  I think I should take even just a little bit of credit for that.

This year has also been extremely challenging.  I had my DIEP Flap surgery.  I was warned that it was difficult to recover from but I didn’t quite believe it.  I should have listened.  I’ve never experienced that kind of pain before in my life.  I also underestimated how long it would take for me to recover.  Even though I went back to work after 6 weeks, I still feel like my body is healing.  I’m also still not used to the scars and dissatisfied with the results.  I know that it is a work in progress but, no matter what the plastic surgeon does, I will still be unhappy with the massive scarring on my body.  I just can’t get past it.

Emotionally, moving past cancer has been hard.  The good news is that I don’t cry every day anymore.  Up until about six months ago, I cried every day since my diagnosis.  That’s a lot of crying.  A lot of trauma.  I still think about cancer every day, several times a day but the thoughts and emotions are no longer paralyzing.

Cancer has made me feel stuck in life.  Right before I was diagnosed, I was starting to think about the next steps in my career.  I had to put that on hold, of course.  Now, I have no idea what I want.  I’m trying to work through all of this with a therapist but I’m having trouble moving on.  I’m still mourning and I’m trying to understand what this new normal is.

They say that each year, dealing with the aftermath of cancer gets easier and easier.  That one day, I won’t think about it all the time.  It will be a distant memory.  At two years post diagnosis, I don’t find this to be true.  I have my life and I’m so grateful to be able to do many of the things I love but I’m having trouble moving on.  It’s all still so raw.  I’m still so bitter an angry.  It doesn’t feel good.

I’m going to try to keep busy all day tomorrow.  Hopefully I won’t think too much about the significance of tomorrow’s date.  My hope for myself is that I find as much joy as possible.  Maybe I should do something nice for myself.  Get a mani/pedi or take a long walk and window shop.  I don’t know.  But what I do know is that I need to start turning this frown upside down.  I need more joy.  More life.  Or why did I fight so hard?

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What Defines Me

I was riding in my car this morning, listening to WNYC, and a commercial for Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center came on.  It was talking about survivorship.  I can’t remember the exact words of the commercial suddenly (chemo brain!) but it was something like, “After cancer, people call you a survivor.  But after cancer, at Memorial Sloan Kettering, we want you to do more than survive.  We want you to live.”  On the Staten Island Expressway, 10 minutes from the school I would be teaching in, I started to cry.

Recently, I have been thinking about my life post cancer.  It’s been a year since I’ve finished major treatment and although my trips to the cancer center are less frequent, I still feel like it’s a major part of my life.  I remember after being diagnosed that I was told that I would have “a bad year.”  I don’t know if I was told the next part or if it was something I assumed but, I thought my doctors told me that after the bad year, my life would go back to normal.  My hair would grow back and look super cute with short styles.  My energy would be back.  I’d feel good and I’d be cancer free.

What a load of bullshit!

While the side effects of past and current treatments are awful, it is the emotional toll of the experience that is now hard to live with.  When I started this blog, I wrote in my “About Me” page that I wouldn’t let cancer define me.  I meant it, too.  Just two weeks into my diagnosis, I’d bought into the idea that cancer was not permanent and that while it sucked in the present, it was something to be overcome.  And when I did kick cancer’s ass, I could continue with life as usual.  Cancer was like a “Breaking News” interruption of my favorite program; it was annoying and I wanted to get back to my regularly scheduled programming (my regular life) but I had to get through the necessary detour.  That is what I was promised.  That is what was sold to me.  So when I said that I would not let cancer define me, I meant it.

Oh, naive, Carrie!!!!!  If you only knew then what you know now.  If you only understood the damage cancer treatment can do.  If you only understood what was in store.

Cancer completely defines me.  I think about it all the time; with every hot flash, every time I see my scars, every swollen sensation in my ugly ass lymphedema arm, every time I see the new curly, dry hair (previously wavy and shiny) that I can’t control, every time I put on mascara (I never needed it before), every time I eat (is what I’m eating a good choice?  Will it stop my cancer from coming back?  Is it feeding my cancer?), every time I work out and my body feels like hell, every back pain, every disappointing moment and even in every moment of joy.  Cancer is always there.

Cancer is a part of almost every conversation I have.  No matter the topic, it always comes up.  I think to myself as I talk to people, “Just don’t mention it!!!  No one wants to hear about it!  They’re all sick of it.  Stop talking about it!  Stop! Stop!  Shut the fuck up!!!!!!”  But I can’t help myself.  Everything for me comes back to cancer.

It is who I am.  It is so much of what defines me, I often don’t remember the person I was before.  This leaves me with the particular conundrum of having to redefine my life.  I’m suddenly in the position where what I thought I wanted, I either don’t want anymore, am not sure if I want anymore or if I can make it work in my post cancer life.  The things that brought me joy before cancer don’t bring the same amount of contentment.  I feel like I should now do great things with this second chance I have been given but, what is this new goal that I must surmount?  What must I achieve to make my life meaningful again?

I believe that in our lives, experiences can change us and make us analyze our current lifestyle and goals.  We should redefine ourselves.  We should always be growing.  But when the impetus for change is something so violent, invasive, and permanent…that redefining can be overwhelming.

I’m trying to get to know myself again.  I want to know who I am and what I will become.  But right now, the old me is holding the new me back.  She doesn’t want to let go.  She doesn’t want the cancer, or, more accurately, the experience of cancer, to win.  But it’s who I am now.  It’s everywhere!  Even in my morning commute.

 


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Lymphedema and How It Has Changed My Life

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It’s the side effect that’s barely mentioned.  A whisper in passing by the surgeon and radiation oncologist.  Spoken nonchalantly as if not talking about it means it won’t happen.  But many of us know that this is not the case.

Today it was announced that the U.S. Senate unanimously voted that March 6th will be World Lymphedema Day.  This landmark decision is the first step in bringing awareness to this awful condition.  I wanted to use this opportunity to not only tell you all about lymphedema but how it has impacted my life.

Lymphedema can happen to anyone who has lymph nodes removed during their mastectomy, a sentinel lymph node biopsy or radiation to the area.  I’m not even talking about those who are born with or develop the condition as part of a hereditary trait or those who get it as a result of another bodily trauma.

Lymphedema is the swelling of an extremity that occurs when lymph fluid is trapped and can not flow properly.  I got lymphedema in my right arm and hand about six months after my mastectomy with axillary lymph node dissection.

I asked my surgeon about lymphedema, concerned about the risks.  “Do you see anyone in the waiting room with a sleeve?  It’s extremely uncommon.”  She then handed me a pamphlet about lymphedema prevention and sent me on my merry way.

Let me say, I love my breast surgeon.  What she does, she does brilliantly.  She’s warm and caring and when it came to my cancer and mastectomy, she was knowledgeable and giving.  Her job was to get the cancer out of my body and she did that.  What she had to do to my body is not pretty, but that doesn’t matter.  Her job was to save my life and she did that.  But that’s not where the story ends for many of us, is it?

Getting lymphedema has been traumatizing in many ways, more so than the cancer itself. Cancer was something to be beaten or overcome.  With my cancer I could have a mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, herceptin and tamoxifen to help make sure it never comes back again (although even all of this is not a guarantee).  Lymphedema is for life.  It’s something I am going to have to manage.  At this time, there is no cure.

I’ll repeat that in all caps.

THERE IS NO CURE!!!!!!!

Knowing I had done everything I needed to do to save my life and many of these life saving measures have caused me to have a painful condition that I will have to live with for the rest of my life has been unbearable.  When it was first happening, I fell into a depression and cried all the time.

I couldn’t imagine how I was going to live my life with a limb that unpredictably swelled when I lifted my child, ate a salty meal or the weather went above 80 degrees.  I was afraid all of the time; afraid when I tried to imagine what my future might look like.  It was hard to imagine my future at all.

I felt ugly.  Like a teenager who’s uncomfortable in her developing body I began to hide my hand.  I’d fidget with my clothes so that they’d hide my swollen hand or how one sleeve was tighter on my arm than the other.  And feeling even more ugly than I already did after my mastectomy was a major blow to my self worth.  Sometimes, I wondered if life with lymphedema was worth living.  I never contemplated suicide or anything like that and I didn’t want to die.  But I wasn’t sure I wanted to live, either.

I kept a lot of these feelings to myself.  My husband, who knows how hard this has been on me doesn’t even know I was having these thoughts.  He’s going to flip the fuck out when he read this. (Don’t flip out, honey.  I’m ok, I promise.)

But that’s the problem with lymphedema.  Many people don’t know about it, not even doctors.  They don’t know how to talk to us about it and they don’t know how to help us prevent it from happening, although, sometimes it is unpreventable.  They also don’t know how to support us when and if it happens.  Like many medical conditions, we don’t need to simply treat the ailment but all of the mental and emotional baggage that comes with it.

That is where Cynthia Shechter comes in.  Cynthia is an amazing physical therapist who specializes in breast cancer care and lymphedema and she runs and owns Shechter Care here in NYC.  Before I met Cynthia, I was told that I would need to wear a compression sleeve every day for the rest of my life and go to sleep each night with my arm bandaged.  I told my previous PT that I couldn’t live like that.  Cynthia agreed.  Her goal is to find ways to manage my lymphedema and still be able to live my life comfortably.

Since meeting and working with Cynthia and her team, my lymphedema has improved.  Any time there is a flare-up, she doesn’t freak out.  She just says, “Oh, don’t worry about it.  We’ll get it back down.”  She means it and she does.  This has changed my whole perspective and outlook on life.  You see, now I don’t cry myself to sleep every night.  I don’t wonder if life is worth living.  I know it is and I can find a way to live happily with this condition.  Life will be hard and it won’t be perfect but there will be more joy and happiness than I thought I can have.  This is a huge gift.

Coming soon, I will have an interview with the amazing Cynthia Shechter about lymphedema.  I’m hoping that by bringing her expertise to my blog, many of your questions will be answered about lymphedema and care for women who have undergone breast cancer treatment.  With awareness and education, it is my hope that no one will have to feel hopeless like I did and will be able to advocate for their own care.  I can’t wait to introduce her to you all.

Did you develop lymphedema after breast cancer surgery and treatment?

How has your life changed as a result of lymphedema?

What is one thing you would like people to know about your lymphedema experience?

 

 


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Head Bowed, Heart Heavy

“It doesn’t escape me for one moment that so much joy in my life is thanks to so much pain in someone else’s. ” -Lupita Nyong’o in her Oscar speech

There are some days when something happens that snaps you back to reality.  A chance meeting with someone that lets you know how good you have it.  A story in the newspaper that reminds you that you are loved and have others to go home to tightly hold.  On Thursday I had one of those days.  Boy, did I have one of those days.

If you haven’t noticed from my posts in the last few months, I have been in a survivorship slump.  People often think that when treatment is over, life goes back to normal but I have been dealing with anxiety and depression due to what I have experienced over the last year and also from the side effects that I have.

I was in the waiting room this past Thursday morning to see my therapist.  While I was waiting, I needed to use the restroom.  Both were occupied but quickly one of the doors unlocked and I noticed something was banging against it.  My therapist is in the ambulatory care hospital so it’s common to see people with canes, walkers, wheelchairs and in stretchers.  I went over to the door and offered my help.  The man accepted.  He was in a wheelchair and thanked me for opening the door.  “It is so hard.  It is so hard,” he said to me.  “It looks like it’s really hard.  I can’t believe they don’t have a button for people in wheelchairs to press that automatically opens the door!  It’s ridiculous!”  He agreed and began to tell me his story.  He is a stroke victim and this has caused him to lose a good deal of his mobility on his left side.  Then after his stroke he got hit by a car and lost his right arm.  The only extremity that works as it should is his right leg.

We talked for a good ten minutes.  He really needed for someone to hear his story.  I was humbled that he trusted a stranger like me with his life’s tragedies.  “If I want to wear jeans, I have to leave an extra hour to get ready because I can’t zip and button the pants.”  “I don’t have a home care attendant anymore.  No one comes to help and take care of me.”  “I’m working hard.  I can’t do much but God has spared me.  But I try.  Do you want to see me walk?”  And up he stood, walking carefully close to the wall to brace himself.

I don’t know how in the face of such challenges he can remain so positive.  My challenges in comparison are small, they are real but small, and it has plunged me into depression.  I live every day in fear of my future.  And uncertain of it.  But his eyes were bright and hopeful.  He was going to walk again and be free of that chair.  That he promised me.

Right after that I took my seat in the waiting room again.  I opened facebook to pass the time until my therapist came out.  And just as she did and said hello, I saw some terrible news.  A cousin of mine, who I don’t really know but who I recently connected with on facebook died in a car crash.  He married his beautiful wife just three days before.  They were on their honeymoon and for some reason he swerved his SUV out of his lane and hit a bus.  I found this news to be devastating.  Again, I barely knew him but it’s funny how social media makes you feel closer to someone than you actually are.  I watched in photographs as he made a beautiful box for his then girlfriend in which to put the ring that he proposed to her with, and as he excitedly prepared for his wedding, their beautiful wedding day and pictures from their honeymoon that were posted in real time.

You know when you see something or read something and it’s so shocking that it makes no sense?  This was one of those things.  And upon understanding and clarity there is fear, sadness and that feeling in your gut and hands that make you sick with confusion of life’s uncertainties.

Not long after this, there was the shooting on a college campus in Oregon where a shooter entered a classroom and killed ten people.  Another national tragedy at the hands of a person with a gun.  Ten families were changed forever.  Ten families were whole just a few hours before and now they aren’t.

I just wanted to go home and crawl under my bed and hide from this day.  At the same time I just wanted to hold my family tight and be grateful for their lives and my own.

Why does it take tragedies like this to be reminded that we have so many good things in our life?  Even though we struggle, there is so much to be grateful for.  I hate that it has to happen this way.  That my joy and my gratitude are because of the pain and suffering of others.  But grateful I am.


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Motherhood Mondays: Dealing With Sadness

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I am, by nature, a person of extremes.  When I’m happy, I’m really, really happy.  When I’m sad, I can really get down in the dumps and think the worst.  I don’t do anything half ass and I do emotions all the way.  But still, nothing has compared to the sadness and, dare I say it, depression I felt when I was first diagnosed.  It was so encompassing of my body, I was not sure I could care for Oliver.

Here is what I experienced as a result of being diagnosed with cancer.  These feelings and symptoms(?) lasted two weeks until I got a complete diagnosis.

  1. Constant crying (constant!!!)
  2. Shaking or trembling
  3. Loss of appetite
  4. Trouble sleeping (well, I could fall asleep but I’d wake up by 5:00 am)
  5. Dark, dark, dark thoughts
  6. Unable to get out of bed or off the floor
  7. Apathy
  8. Loss of focus

I have experienced some of these things as a result of sadness or fear before but never all at the same time and I found that particularly frightening.  I was most worried about Oliver seeing me like this so I went to see a therapist.  

I think talking to someone who was objective helped because I knew he had my best interest in mind but never sugar coated anything.  When I would tell friends or family my fears of dying or losing my breasts or chemotherapy, they would try to make me feel better.  Of course they did!  Why shouldn’t they?  That’s exactly what I would do for them.  But it wasn’t helping.  A therapist just listened and nodded and often repeated my fears back to me.  I felt acknowledged.  The fears did not go away but I felt heard.  

My depression did not end that day but I think it helped me to be a little less fearful and more present on each day, each moment and each piece of information I received about my sickness.  And when I became more equipped to handle these extreme emotions, I stopped crying in front of my son, began playing with him again and getting back into our routine.

I am far from expert in dealing with any kind of depression and would never, EVER give any advice, at least at this point.  I think it’s just important to acknowledge that this happened to me because it is likely that it will happen again sometime in this year of hell.  I think I’m going to be sad and scared a lot.  But I’m also still going to be a mom and I have to figure out how I can do both.


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Mommy Mondays

The day after Oliver was born.

The day after Oliver was born.

Something else I’d like to focus on in this blog is another unique issue many young women with breast cancer might be facing; living with breast cancer and motherhood.  Maybe you are a mother already.  Maybe you have been thinking of starting a family.  Maybe you are like a mother to someone else’s child.  It doesn’t matter.  We need to figure out how we are going to live with this diagnosis, go through treatment and live beyond this while still parenting.

When I found out two weeks ago that I had breast cancer, my first thoughts went to my son.  Will I be alive long enough to see him go to kindergarten, college, get married, have his own children?  Will I die soon and will he remember me if I do?  How will this diagnosis affect his life?  More than worrying about myself, I worried for him.

The first week of my diagnosis I could barely get out of bed.  Every time I looked at Oliver, I cried for his potential loss and the fear he was going to feel.  I cried because everyone said that he would be taking care of me and lifting my spirits during this journey.  But that’s not his job.  He’s a baby.  He’s my baby and I want to take care of him when he’s hurt, sick, or sad.  Not the other way around.  More than anything, this has been the hardest part for me.

I don’t know what everyone else’s experience has been but I can imagine that many mothers have thought and gone through the same thing.  When you were diagnosed, what were your biggest fears?  How did you handle it and still give your child the attention and love they need?