Throw the Book at it

Sometimes an event can forever divide your life into two halves: life before, life after.

A few weeks ago, after what seemed like an unending series of procedures and tests, I sat next to Stephan in a second-floor office overlooking a sun-lit steeple while our doctor handed us one of those life-dividing moments. I have invasive breast cancer accompanied by a nasty spread to quite a few lymph nodes. Due to the aggressive nature of the cancer, my care team put the giddy-up on a treatment plan. Tomorrow I begin chemotherapy followed by surgery, then radiation, then more chemotherapy, all topped off with a dollop of hormone therapy. In terms of time, a year. In terms of everything else, a steep climb. Last Thursday, my uber smart, oncologist said, “If we throw the book at it, we can reduce the chance of cancer coming back from seventy percent to thirty.”

We took that to be really good news.

Ok, I’ve gotta say it is genuinely weird for me to write the words, “my oncologist.” I had to type it three times, backspacing it out, and rewriting, it before I could own it. But friends, I am in very good hands. After some searching, trying, failing, and trying again, and a little help from wise friends, we feel really good about the all-star cancer care team coming together here. Our oncologist is a genuinely beautiful human being. All I wanted was a cancer doc that was a human treating a human not just a medical god diagnosing a mortal machine gone wrong. And lucky me, that is exactly what I got. Dr. Gribbins is full of humility, empathy, experience, and excellence. Same is true for Dr Caughran, my surgeon, an angel with a scalpel. What kind of docs shed tears with their patients? Drs Gribbons and Caughran must cry a lot.

Then there’s Katie, my nurse navigator who guides me like Gandalf through the forest of tests, diagnosis and meds. And we’re only just reaching base camp. Katie is a rock star.

Some of you know I love to climb mountains. I’d much rather summit a crazy peak to honor my friends in Congo or Lebanon. Or my new American sisters here in Grand Rapids. Their suffering and strength is so real and yet so hidden. I know how to prepare for a trek for my sisters. Just not one for myself. I can be self-reliant to an ugly fault, a dyed-in-the-wool boot-strapper. Cancer is forcing me to face myself in new ways—new levels of honesty. Humanity. Mortality. Vulnerability.

I cannot climb this one alone.

My climb begins early tomorrow morning with an MRI biopsy to check for cancer spread to my other breast.  I thought MRI’s were easy. Until one week ago. Being immobilized face down for 45 minutes with your body sandwiched between two steel girders, all while they dig deep into your chest for a cell sample with an 8 inch needle that might just as well be 16…well, let’s just say it was more intense that I imagined.

Tomorrow I get to take another swing at it.

Then we begin the first round of chemotherapy at the Lacks Cancer Center at St. Marys. The first one is supposed to be “a doozy” — 4 to 6 hours long with constant monitoring for my body’s reactions to what seems to be an intensely toxic cocktail. “Throw the book…”

When the boys were young, we used to call days like this “A BIG DAY!” I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say both Stephan and I need your prayers starting tomorrow at 8:30 am. 

The last month has been overwhelming to say the least; our emotions have been all over the place. But we’ve also been overwhelmed by the presence of God and the love of friends willing to hold this space with us. Feel free to drop your email address into the box blow and we’ll let you know when we post an update.

To all you beautiful brave souls who have offered to climb this one with me: thank you. Your presence gives me strength.