What a Week!

You might have noticed that I haven't written in a while. In fact, my last post was on Christmas Day. You could say that the last five days have been a whirlwind for me, not because it is the holiday season, but because last Monday, I received a sucker punch like no other, and have been reeling from it all week.

On Monday, the 27th, I took my oldest child, Wes, in for a routine eye exam. It had been several years since he'd had his eyes checked, and he was overdue and also in need of more contact lenses. I'll admit that after all of the doctor's appointments I've had recently, I was relieved to be taking someone else to the doctor, and that I was also enjoying the "routine" nature of the visit. That is, until the end of the appointment, when the poor opthamologist (who knows that I'm in the middle of breast cancer treatment) turned around and said "well, there is a finding in the back of his eyes that I need to tell you about." Sucker punch. He proceeded to explain that Wesley's optic nerve was elevated, which is abnormal. He further explained that although he thought that this was probably the way he was born (although highly unusual), it also could be being caused by some sort of "pressure" inside the head. The next step, he explained, would be to have an MRI. Sucker punch.

I gathered my things, they went and took some pictures of the back of Wesley's eyes, and we left the office. The next day, the pediatrician's office called to say that they had scheduled the MRI for Wednesday night at 6 p.m. Eli and I both went with Wes, who manned up, as they say, and did wonderfully throughout the procedure. He had been invited to the Vandy/Marquette b'ball game at 8 that night, so Eli took him over to the gymnasium right after the MRI. I went home and fretted.

I fretted some more all day Thursday, and grew more fretful as the late afternoon approached and I figured I'd be receiving a phone call with the MRI results. At some point that afternoon, I decided that I was just so sick of being afraid of my phone ringing with all of the waiting for results we've had recently. Really, at one point, I hid the phone in a drawer because I didn't want to hear it ring, and I'd check it every 10 minutes or so to see if the light was blinking.

By 6:00 Thursday night, we still hadn't heard anything, and I decided to assume that that was a good sign; surely, I told myself, if there were a BIG problem, everyone would be scurrying around and I would've gotten a call. My sister in law and her family arrived that evening and we passed the evening with pizza and football. Good distractions.

Friday morning arrived and I knew that I would hear something today. I decided to call the office a little after 9:00, and a kind woman named Kim looked to see if the results were in. They were in, she said, and then a moment later, she uttered the words "no intracranial mass," and I thought that I was going to faint. I proceeded to tell her how relieved I was, and that I was going through breast cancer treatment, and that I had a son with autism, and that we really had so much on our plate, and that I didn't know what I would have done if the news had been bad. That poor woman deserves a medal for talking to me this morning in such a kind and sensitive way.

I then had the pleasure of descending the stairs and sharing the good news with my husband, his sister and her husband. The kids are all still asleep, and the only one who really knows anything about this is Wes, anyway, so we'll tell him that everything is fine (which I'm sure he assumed, anyway, being the cool cat that he is), and then we'll carry on with our day. And then, tonight, as we bid 2010 farewell, we'll give thanks for our health and for the love of all of the wonderful people in our lives and for all of the support and care that we've received over the past few months. And we'll look forward to a better, less stressful 2011.

Blessings to each of you, and the happiest and safest of New Year's celebrations to you and your loved ones!!

See you on the other side.

Erin

Merry Christmas!!

This is wishing each of you a very merry and blessed Christmas day with your families.

Erin

Six Down, Twenty-Seven To Go

I had my sixth treatment today. I also had my first "Wednesday" appointment. On Wednesdays, the oncologist meets with each patient undergoing radiation treatment, and they also take some x-rays to make sure that everything is still lined up like it needs to be (the radiation tech told me that my x-ray was so beautiful, she wanted to cry -- no kidding!!). In my case, I met with Dr. Rosenblatt, who checked in with me to make sure that all was well and that I didn't have any questions or concerns. I shared with him some of the feelings that I've been having this week (see yesterday's first post), and he assured me that these feelings are normal. Only one more treatment to go this week, and then a three-day weekend. Woo-hoo. I'm looking forward to the break, although I'm also anxious to get on with things so that I can put all of this behind me.

One funny note to share: I've never been a "skinny" girl. I was blessed with a "strong" body, but not one that is long and lean. Three or four times now, however, throughout this whole breast cancer process, medical professionals have referred to me as "skinny." Now it is true that I lost some weight over the summer and early fall when I started running again in earnest. But still, at 130+ pounds and only 5'2", in my mind, I definitely do not qualify as "skinny." The comment that was made today (and which definitely improved my attitude!) related to how well I was lining up under the machine, and the exact comment, I believe, was something along the lines of "it's just easier with skinny people, because it's easier to see everything, and there's not a lot of sagging." So, I suppose that compared with other folks who come in for radiation, I'm skinny. Okay. I'll take it. : )

Have a great day.

Erin

Make It Go Away

Sheryl Crow, well-known singer and former girlfriend of Lance Armstrong (also a cancer survivor), was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006. Her situation sounds very similar to mine -- the cancer was caught early, and she had a lumpectomy followed by radiation therapy. While googling her today, I found a song that she wrote about her radiation treatment called "Make it Go Away." I can relate.

Here are the lyrics:

I stare into
Some great abyss
And calculate
The things I'd miss
If I could only
Make some sense of this

And Madam Butterfly
Resounds
Over the mothership
Her lights flashing around
I float above her and
I wonder how
To make it go away
Make it go away

I crawl into my circumstance
Lay on the table
Begging for another chance
But I was a good girl
I can't understand how to
Make it go away
Make it go away

Sometimes I wonder
Which hurts the worse
The thought of dying
Or reliving every hurt
Was love the illness
And disease the cure
Make it go away

Sheryl is just one of many celebrities who has weathered the breast cancer storm. Other well-known breast cancer survivors include Christina Applegate, Robin Roberts (ABC's Good Morning America Show), Jennifer Griffin (Fox News), Edie Falco (The Sopranos), Melissa Etheridge, Gloria Steinem, Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith (both of Charlie's Angels' fame), fashion designer Betsey Johnson, Rue McClanahan, Nancy Reagan, Betty Ford, Suzanne Somers, Cynthia Nixon (Sex in the City star), Lynn Redgrave, Carly Simon, Sandra Day O'Connor, Cokie Roberts (NPR), and Peggy Fleming and Dorothy Hamill (both figure skating stars).

Quite a list, eh? This disease is rampant, but, again, very treatable if caught early. It's our job as women to make sure that we stay on top of our healthcare and take all necessary steps to ensure that if we do develop cancer, it's detected early.

Have a great day.

Erin

Down on Radiation

I'll admit it, this girl with the usual sunny disposition is feeling a little down about this whole radiation thing. Having to go to the hospital every day, disrobe, lay on an uncomfortable table, have folks moving me around to get me positioned just right, having sharpie marks and pieces of tape all over my chest, and then having to get pumped full of something that folks normally avoid like the plague, is all just a bit much, truth be told. And that cancer center, despite the great folks who work there, is sad and depressing. Let's face it, it's a little grim sitting in a room with a bunch of people who have cancer. Some of them look healthier than others (I'd like to think that I look healthiest of all, but who knows). Some look downright sick. I'd love to know their stories. What kind of cancer? When was it detected? Have they had cancer before? Did they do chemo? What is their prognosis? Will they get better? Will their cancer come back? How long with they (and I) live? All of these thoughts go through my head when I'm sitting in the waiting room at the cancer center waiting for my treatment.

Folks who know me may be surprised to hear this tone from me. I'm sorry. What can I say? It's Christmas and I have to go get pumped full of radiation every day and my breast is already turning pink (something that I was told wouldn't happen for a few weeks). I'm doing fine, really; just having one of those "woe is me" moments, I guess. Perhaps it's the article in The New Yorker that I read last night about a man dying suddenly from an infection in his lung, written by his loving wife of many years. That was a really sad story.

Today, though, I'm going to look for happier things on which to focus, and no doubt, tomorrow's post will be peppy and upbeat again!

Have a great Tuesday.

Erin

Monday, and More Radiation

Well, it's Monday, and that means that I get to go back to the radiation center today. Woo-hoo. The way I see it, though, after today's treatment, I will have complete more than 10 percent of my treatment. The fact that I'll have 29 more trips to the alien monster after today doesn't sound as positive, so I think I'll focus on the percent completed instead. I only have four treatments this week and next -- the center is closed on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve. And, since this is a numbers game and a mental game, I'm already thinking about how, after the next 8 treatments (this week and next), I'll be one-third of the way through the treatments.

In other news, I have my first appointment with a trainer at the Wellness Center today. I'm looking forward to getting going on that. Hey, maybe with all this working out, I, for once, will not pack on the usual five pounds that visit me around this time each year! Another silver lining to this whole cancer thing.

I hope that this finds all of my blog readers well, and enjoying this wonderful holiday season!

Talk to you soon.

Erin

And the Beat Goes On....

Second day down. Yesterday, as opposed to Day 1, was, in fact, a breeze. And can I say how much I like the radiation techs, Tonya and Courtney? They are very cool and have a great sense of humor. It makes the whole thing totally bearable.

Today, I'll go to the Wellness Center in the hospital after my treatment. They have this great program for cancer patients (it's still very strange for me to refer to myself in that way!!!) where you can join the center for $40 for two months while you're having your treatments. Although I have a YMCA membership and love the Y, this is going to be much more efficient being able to work out right after my little zap treatments.

The kids are now officially out of school for the holidays, which is going to make getting to the treatments a little trickier than if they were in school. The folks at the radiation center have said that I can bring the kids, but the Graham factor complicates things on that front. If I get in a pinch, I'll take all three of them and put them in a room and let Wesley be in charge -- honestly, I think they'd be fine. However, since I'm blessed with so many wonderful babysitters, I'm trying to line up someone to stay home with them most days. Besides, neither Wes nor Virginia is keen on going and seeing the machine and where I do these treatments, despite the fact that Dr. Rosenblatt has invited them to come. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. I get that, and I can respect that.

Have a great day, friends, and I'll talk to you soon.

Erin

One Down, Thirty-Two to Go!

Well, I did it. I survived my first radiation treatment. I'm told that this first treatment is the "worst" of the lot because (a) you're super anxious; and (b) you're in the required and very awkward and uncomfortable position a lot longer than usual because they are taking a bunch of xrays to make sure they have everything lined up the way it needs to be lined up.

I wasn't expecting this to be difficult at all, but it was a little unpleasant, truth be told. I breezed on into the Dan Rudy Cancer Center with a bit of a bop at 2:00, only to emerge an hour and forty-five minutes with a headache and a good dose of stress. Really, it was no big deal, but it was sort of a weird mental thing being in that contraption for 30 minutes while a bunch of people were looking at x-rays of my insides. I'm tired of being scrutinized.

I'm told that by the fourth treatment, I'll relax and it won't be bad at all. The good news is that the treatment itself lasts all of about three minutes. The bad news is that I have to show up 32 more times and climb up onto that table and into the strange and uncomfortable contraption. Without question, though, this beats the heck out of other cancer treatments, so I'm not complaining.

Here is a photo of Dr. Rosenblatt and me standing in front of the radiation machine, which I think I'll dub "the alien monster," as well as a photo of the monster itself. I thought it might be nice to post some pics....

Cancer Lingo: "Rads"

In cancer lingo, I'll start rads (short for radiation treatment) tomorrow. As I mentioned last week, I went last Thursday to get measured and set up for the treatments. Evidently, this is quite a science and very high-tech, and a lot goes into designing the treatment and getting everything just right. Of course, with rads, we are treating cancer with something that can actually cause cancer (seems a bit strange, doesn't it?), so they have to make sure that they only target the areas they want to treat, and not other parts of the body (like your heart, lungs, etc). And so, as part of the initial set-up appointment last week, I had a CT scan during which they evidently measured all of my insides in order to make sure that the beams of radiation only hit the breast tissue and not my internal organs. That would stink.

They also "marked" me, so I look a little freakish now with big blue and black markings on my torso with plastic tape over them. The tape already came off once (thanks to profuse sweating during one of my workouts over the weekend), causing me to have to go back in yesterday to be remarked.

The great news is that I'll start treatments tomorrow, which means that I should wrap up the 33 treatments right at the beginning of February. The folks at the Dan Rudy Cancer Center who run the radiation department are more than delightful, so if I've got to go someplace 33 times, I can't think of a better place (well, on second thought, I can think of better places to go repeatedly, but if I've got to go for this kind of thing, this is the place for me).

I saw Dr. Rosenblatt, my radiation oncologist, again last week, and on the off chance that he's reading this, let me reiterate how much I like and admire him!! : )

Okay, that's it for now. Off to finish addressing Christmas cards. Am I the only person around who does this anymore? I get fewer and fewer cards each year, but religiously send my 150 cards out to friends and family. It's a tradition I'm not willing to give up. Call me crazy.

Happy Holidays!

Erin

Elizabeth Edwards

I was in Paris when Elizabeth Edwards died earlier this week. I caught only the headline and did not have the opportunity to read much about it. Since I've been up since four a.m. this morning due to jet lag, however, I had some time to read up on her battle with breast cancer and her untimely death this week. She really was an amazing woman. I have read in the past that she could be very difficult to deal with, but the things that she accomplished in her lifetime, and the storms she weathered, were remarkable.

I read this morning that by the time Elizabeth discovered her lump, it was the size of a plum. That's big. She also admitted to not having gone for routine mammogram screening like she should have. By the time she was diagnosed in 2004 (the day after her husband and Kerry lost the presidential election), she was Stage II. Her cancer was treated and seemed to be gone, but then it returned, and it later returned again.

It makes me very sad to think about all that has happened to the Edwards family through the years (the death of their beloved son, Wade, the difficulties of political races, John's infidelity). But perhaps most tragic of all is the fact that Elizabeth's life could have been spared or at least extended had she done a simple thing -- gone for her yearly annual mammogram screenings. This is, of course, how my cancer was detected, and I consider myself incredibly blessed to live in a time when we have access to technology that can detect this disease before it has a chance to cause extensive harm.

I would implore all of my female friends to learn a lesson from Elizabeth Edwards' death, and to be vigilant about your annual breast screenings. May Elizabeth Edwards rest in peace, and may her family know the love of God during what is bound to be an incredibly difficult time.

Erin

Paris!

I've just returned from four glorious days in Paris. Yes, that's right, this breast cancer patient got a reprieve from the good doctors here in Nashville to take the trip that Eli and I had planned a while ago, and to begin radiation treatments upon my return. So, the dichotomies of my life continue: the great privilege of spending four days in one of the most amazing cities on earth followed, within 24 hours, by heading off to the cancer center this morning at 10 a.m. to get started with my radiation treatment. Today is the "measuring" day; not sure what that entails, but I will post a report when it's all over with. I do know that once I begin treatments (which I'm guessing will be early next week), I'll be required to show up there 33 consecutive days (excluding weekends) for a little blast of radiation. I'm expecting this to be fairly easy, but we'll see. Hope you are all well, and talk to you soon.

Erin

My Trip to the Oncologist's Office

I had my first appointment with my medical oncologist, Dr. Nancy Peacock, today. She was great. Granted, I was highly annoyed because I had to wait nearly 45 minutes past my appointment time to see her, but once she entered my room, you would never have known that she had other patients to see -- ever. I almost had to rush HER out of the room at the end of our 45-minute meeting. Seriously, this woman was NOT in a hurry with me, which was so nice, since I had a ton of questions for her. The upshot of the meeting? No chemotherapy for me!! Whew!! We will proceed with radiation treatments, beginning in December, after which I'll start a five-year course of a drug called Tamoxifen. Tamoxifen, which studies have shown can cut recurrence risk in half, somehow binds to estrogen before it can move around in the body and cause things like breast cancer.

Dr. Peacock and I talked quite a bit about recurrence risk and the things that do and do not contribute to that risk. Unfortunately, studies have shown a connection between alcohol consumption and breast cancer, so I'll be cutting back a bit on my wine drinking (the studies show that seven or fewer drinks or glasses of wine per week is fine; more than that can increase your risk). I don't think that I drink much more than seven glasses of wine per week, but it depends on the week, I suppose. Personally, I find this whole alcohol/breast cancer thing highly annoying and incredibly unfair. If any group of folks deserve to drink wine to their hearts' content, it's all the ladies out there who have had and beat breast cancer, but we have to deal with reality and if the docs are telling me to limit my alcohol consumption then you can bet I'm going to do it!

So, on this Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I'm feeling beyond blessed to have received such good news from the oncologist. You can imagine that Thanksgiving will be particularly special for me and for our family this year. I hope that it is for each of you, as well.

Have a wonderful, safe and blessed Thanksgiving with your families.

Erin

Dr. B

Had a great appointment with Dr. B yesterday. She said I'm healing up fine, and that I can start running again. Yeah!! She has the nicest office staff. Those people have been incredibly kind, polite, caring and respectful to me through all of this. If anyone lives in Nashville or close by, and is ever in need of a surgeon (Dr. B is a general surgeon, although she does a lot of breast surgery, and is widely regarded as one of the best breast surgeons in town), I really and truly cannot say enough about Jeanne Ballinger and her staff. Highly, highly recommended.

Next up: meeting with the medical oncologist next Tuesday. Not sure whether I'll post between now and then, or not, but if not, I'll try to post something about the appointment before we leave for our Thanksgiving in Evanston, Illinois with Eli's family. Really looking forward to getting out of town and enjoying some time with family.

My best to everyone.

Erin

One Month Later....

What a difference a month makes.

On October 15th, I was seven days out from having received my biopsy results, and went to my first appointment with a breast surgeon. It was an absolutely awful appointment. Eli and I showed up, pretty happy-go-lucky about the whole thing, and I left there, more than two hours later, a nervous wreck.

I've alluded to this appointment in past posts, but didn't say much about what happened there, so here's a short synopsis. Most of the appointment was spent with the doctor's nurse practitioner who, while well-meaning, said a few things to me during the course of the appointment that completely freaked me out. Her worst transgression, in my view, was the completely unwarranted comment she made about my lymph nodes. During her exam, she decided to do a breast ultrasound, during which she took a quick look at a few lymph nodes, and then proclaimed "well, those look pretty good and normal, but the doctor may want to do a needle biopsy just to make sure everything is okay." Huh? My lymph nodes had not factored into my worries at that point, and honestly, I just looked at her and said "Well, I'm sorry, but I can't deal with that." The doctor came in a few minutes later, looked at the ultrasound picture, tried to assure me that the nodes looked fine, particularly given that I'd just had a biopsy eight days earlier, and told me that no biopsy was necessary. His efforts to calm me were effective, but rather short-lived; I spent the rest of the day and much of weekend (which our family spent at a cabin on Center Hill Lake, by the way) obsessively worrying about whether the cancer in my breast had already spread to my lymph nodes. An unfortunate turn of events, to say the least.

The following Tuesday, I visited a second surgeon, Dr. Jeanne Ballinger, and decided to have her do the surgery. Tomorrow, one month after the upsetting visit with the first surgeon, I will have my 2-week post-surgical visit with Dr. Ballinger. It's hard to believe how much has transpired in such a short period of time. I am so happy and relieved to be on this side of the surgery, and to have received such good news about the state of my disease. I am guessing that Dr. Ballinger will be pleased with my healing process. I've had almost no pain, and only a little discomfort under my arm where she removed two lymph nodes.

I am on the road to recovery. I know that radiation will be long and tiring, but I'm ready to move forward with that, too, so that I can get all of this behind me.

I'll be in touch soon. Thanks again for reading and following my journey.

Erin

What's Next?

If you're wondering what the next steps are for me, you're not alone. I'm a little unclear, too, but based on the wonderful pathology report from last week, it seems virtually certain that I will not have to do chemo. I do, however, have an appointment with a medical oncologist on November 23rd, presumably to discuss whether or not I should start taking Tamoxifen, a drug that has proven effective in reducing recurrence of breast cancers that are estrogen receptor positive (which mine was). I suppose we'll also talk about chemo, although my surgeon seemed to think that it was not in the cards for me, given the fact that the pathology report showed that the cancer was completely contained in the milk ducts.

This journey and my treatment are not quite over, though. I will have to do radiation, and although I know that this will be a nuisance and tiring, etc., radiation is a completely different beast than chemo, and much more tolerable, from what I've heard and read. I will begin the treatments in December, and the bonus is that my radiation oncologist is Dr. Rosenblatt whom I like very much (I wrote about him a few posts ago). I will receive 33 treatments over the course of about 6 weeks. When combined with a lumpectomy, radiation dramatically reduces the chance of recurrence, so I'm all for this being a part of my treatment plan, even if it is inconvenient and not exactly the way I'd like to spend the holidays.

As I process through things this week, it is hard for me to believe that the really hard part of this journey is behind me. Needless to say, the month of October was difficult. It was scary and stressful and even gut-wrenching at times. I clearly, however, am one of the really fortunate women who had their breast cancer detected at an amazingly early stage (I haven't received my official "stage" of breast cancer, but I'm guessing it will be a Stage 0 based on the pathology report). My hope is that my story might motivate other women to take charge of their health and be vigilant about getting their annual mammograms. Doing so might just save their lives, as it did mine.

As I was checking out at Kroger yesterday, I saw, sitting next to a trash can, some of the cardboard breast cancer awareness advertisements that had been up in the store during October. They were folded up, crinkled, and clearly bound for the dumptster. It made me kind of sad. I had just seen a friend in the store who has been battling breast cancer for more than a year -- chemo, mastectomy and all. The two of us are living proof that this disease doesn't go away at the end of October. If only we could fold up our diseases like those pieces of cardboard and toss them in the trashcan. Wouldn't that be wonderful. But, the fact is that this disease is very real, and affects the lives of millions of women and their families all year long, not just in October (or as one disgruntled breast cancer blogger calls it "Pinktober").

I'll be in touch soon. Thanks again for your love, support and encouragement.

Erin

Forty Four

Today marks my forty fourth year of life. It's hard for me to believe that I'm in my mid-forties. It seems like just yesterday I was graduating from high school, going to college, starting law school, getting married, and having babies. But it wasn't yesterday. Those things happened many years ago and a lot of "life" has happened since.

One thing I can say about my most recent experience with a potentially life-threatening illness is that it has drastically changed my outlook on birthdays and getting older. It wasn't but a few months ago that I was really starting to fret about the lines around my eyes and about my impending "mid-forties" birthday. Not now, though. Quite to the contrary, in fact: I can hardly think of anything better than turning 44, expect, perhaps, for turning 45, 55, 65, 75, and if I'm really blessed, maybe even 85 and 95. Getting older is now something I view as a pure gift, and I am beyond grateful for this changed perspective.

It's a busy day at the Richardson household. Eli and Wes have gone to the Vandy/FL game and then Wes will go to a recording session this afternoon. Virginia has two performances of Les Mis today, and I will go to both of them. There will be no party for me today, no hoop-la, no fanfare. Just another day in our little family's life. If you had asked me what I wanted for my birthday last weekend though, before this past Monday's surgery, this is exactly what I would have asked for: just a normal day with my family. After so many days filled with fear and uncertainty, normal is beyond wonderful, and something for which I am extremely grateful.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Erin

The Surgery

If you've been following my blog, or are a close friend or family member, you know that I had surgery on Monday to remove a cancerous lesion from my breast. One of the things I really like about blogging is that it is, for me, a form of journaling, which is something I've regrettably never had the discipline to do. This blog will serve as a record of my experience with breast cancer, and so, I wanted to write about my experience on Monday, mainly as a way of preserving my memory of the day. If you are squeamish or just grossed out by things involving needles and doctors in white coats (or, in this case, scrubs), do not read on. If you are interested in hearing about what is involved in a lumpectomy and sentinel node biopsy, feel free to proceed. But, by all means, please do not feel compelled to read this post.

Eli and I left the house around 7:40, for an 8:00 arrival at the Breast Center at St. Thomas Hospital. We were actually early, which is unusual for us. This gave me a few extra minutes to sit and fret, although, in actuality, I was surprisingly calm and at peace that morning (more grace from God, I suppose).

The procedure was scheduled to begin at the Breast Center so that the radiologist could insert a wire into my breast to mark "the spot" that the surgeon was to remove. On Oct. 7, I had something called a core biopsy, during which my friend, the radiologist (she really is my friend; I'm not being facetious) removed a portion of the suspicious area. At the conclusion of that procedure, she inserted a small (very small, apparently) metal clip into the area from which the tissue was removed so that they would know where to go if I had to have surgery. Obviously, the biopsy came back showing cancer, so surgery was required.

So, back to the Breast Center. I was called back, and Diane, who has been my radiology tech throughout all of my visits to the Breast Center over the past five weeks, walked me back and joked about how she was hoping to see me outside of the Breast Center one of these days. As it turns out, my friend, the radiologist, was not working that day, and so I had a different doctor, Dr. Earthman. Cool name, huh?

Warning: next part not for the faint of heart.

I put on the lovely smock they give you and was taken into the "torture chamber." (Read on; actually it wasn't that bad, but it did look like a torture chamber). I sat in a nice comfortable chair and was rolled up to the mammo machine, where they proceeded to take some films of my breast to see where the clip was. Then the fun began. I had my eyes closed during most of this, but I believe that it was Dr. Earthman who gave me a lidocaine injection, intended, of course, to numb my breast before the insertion of the needle that would go in and through which the wire would be inserted. They said the lidocaine would feel like a bee sting, and I must say that it was milder than that. At this point, I've got my eyes closed, and am holding Diane's hand (God bless that woman!) and about a minute later I could tell that the activity around me had stopped, and I opened my eyes. I asked when the needle was going in and they said that it was already in there! Whew. That wasn't bad at all.

Then, they had to take another "picture" of my breast to ensure that the needle/wire was in the right spot. At this point, we encountered what Diane referred to as a "minor complication." It seems that my little lesion was pretty far back in the breast (lovely, eh?), and that Dr. Earthman needed to "advance the needle." These are not words that one in my position really wants to hear. Advancing the needle, indeed, sounds pretty awful, especially when it comes to ones' breast. I must say, though, that Dr. Earthman took his time studying the pictures and even asked the tech for my old films to compare to make sure that he got the wire in just the right spot. Based on the overall success of the surgery (i.e. clean margins, etc.), I'd say that the extra time that Dr. Earthman took in getting the wire in just the right spot, and even the advancement of the needle, as scary as that sounded, were well worth it!

Finally, that procedure was over, and they taped a small styrofoam coffee cup (no kidding) over the wire sticking out of my breast, and put me in a wheelchair to take me to the OR. Out in the hallway, I was joined by Eli and his parents, who had come down for the surgery from Chicago. Diane pushed me and they walked with me up to the "holding area" (again, very scary sounding -- perhaps someone could work on some of this medical lingo) for the operating room.

In the "holding area," I had my own little bay (Bay 18) where Eli and his Dad and stepmom hung out with me for what seemed like an eternity. I think that I used the bathroom about 8 times in a little over an hour. A nurse in the prep area said that I had a "nervous bladder." She was right.

Finally, my turn was up, and someone came and got me in another wheelchair and took me to the prep area for surgery. There, I was put in a bed, had an IV line put in, and had warm air pumped into my beautiful blue hospital gown (weird, but a very nice touch, I must say). I had some lovely ladies attending to me there, and one very nice and cute nurse anethetist named Derek. My surgeon stopped by (was glad she could make it!) and met my anesthesiologist, Jane Thomas. Dr. Thomas asked me if I'd found a lump, and I said no. Dr. Ballinger then chimed in, and told Dr. Thomas that my cancer was caught very early on routine mammo and that I was going to be "fine." A vote of confidence that I desperately needed at that moment.

So, the best part of this story, other than the outcome of the surgery, involves the prep for the sentinel node biopsy. In addition to having my lesion (or whatever it should be called, seeing as how it was all in the milk ducts) removed, I had to have what is referred to as a "sentinel node biopsy." This is a procedure that has been developed through modern medicine in order to avoid having to do an axillary lymph node dissection, which involves removing all of the lymph nodes under the arm (and which can have some potentially very serious side effects). Someone came up with the bright idea that if they could determine where the "sentinel" or first node was, they could check that one (and maybe one or two nearby), and if those were cancer-free, then the other nodes didn't have to be removed.

In order to find the sentinel node, though, they must inject into ones' nipple a creepy, radioactive blue dye. The mere thought of this nearly sent me over the edge, and it was one of the things about which I was most nervous. I had read on the internet that the pain from the injection can be excruciating. Well, as it turns out, at St. Thomas, they actually knock you out for 2-3 minutes while they do this procedure. Dr. Ballinger came up to the side of the bed with some scary-looking tube, and I began to panic, realizing that this was the moment. The next thing I know, Derek, the nurse anesthesist, is telling me that my hand may sting a bit from the "medicine" going into the IV. My hand started to throb, and I told him so, to which he responded, "you're being a wimp." The next thing I know, I was waking up from what felt like a deep and wonderful slumber, only to learn that I was out for just a few minutes, and that the dye had been injected. Now, that's what I call compassionate medicine! (Note to anyone having this procedure done: some hospitals allow this and others don't; I believe that St. Thomas is the only hospital in Nashville that does the knock out thing for the SNB, so you may want to consider having your surgery at St. Thomas if you have to have this done, which of course, I hope you don't!!).

Since this is most of what I remember from the day, I'm almost done. After the dye injection, I hung out in the prep area for another 10 minutes or so, and then they wheeled me into the OR. The last thing I remember is moving myself from the wheeled bed onto the operating table, and the next thing I remember after that is being wheeled down the hall after surgery and hearing Dr. Ballinger's voice, and asking her about my nodes. She said that they were "clear," and after that, I was simply overjoyed. My Dad says that I was "glowing" when they pushed me back into the holding area, to which I joked and said that of course I was glowing because they had injected radioactive dye into me. But seriously, aside from the birth of my three children, I can hardly remember a time when I have been happier than after that surgery was over and I had been given, at least preliminarily, good news. After having a Coke and having my vital signs monitored for a little while, I left the hospital about an hour and a half later, went home, sent Eli out to get me a Jersey Mike's sub, opened a bag of Fritos and celebrated having completed yet another step (we'll call this a big one) in the process!

Am I Dreaming?

I keep pinching myself today to make sure that this is real and that I'm not dreaming. I am just so delighted with the outcome of Monday's surgery, and with the pathology report (about which I wrote last night). It is just such a tremendous relief, for which I am immensely grateful.

I will write more later about Monday's procedure, but for now, please know how much I appreciate each of you reading this blog, supporting me with your prayers and thoughts, and for supporting my family through this stressful time.

God, indeed, is good!

Love,

Erin

Doing the Happy Dance

Well, on this election night, we're doing the Happy Dance over here at the Richardson household, not because our favorite political candidate is winning, but because I just got my pathology results, which were better than I could have hoped for!! My lymph nodes were CLEAR, my margins were CLEAR, and all of the cancer was CONTAINED in the milk ducts. Needless to say, this is a tremendous relief after 35 days or so of uncertainty.

I need to work on dinner for the kids, etc., but wanted to share the good news. I will write more tomorrow about what all of this means (at least what I think it means) in terms of my treatment, but please feel free to raise a glass tonight in celebration of my good news.

I am eternally grateful for the many prayers from so many people over the last few weeks. I am blessed, indeed, to have such an amazing network of friends and loved ones.

Blessings,

Erin

Home, Sweet Home

Well, it's 2:12 CST, and I'M HOME! The surgery went well, I bucked up and acted like a big girl, and right at the moment, anyway, I'm not in too much pain. Overall, I'd rate the experience a 6 out of 10 on the "scary" scale, but really the good folks over at St. Thomas took great care of me. And those meds. Can I say how thankful I am for drugs? The part I was most worried about other than the results was the injection they have to put into your, er, nipple, with the dye that shows the surgeon where the sentinel lymph nodes are. For some reason, this freaked me out more than anything, and I gotta tell you that my rocking nurse anesthetist (sp?) Derek gave me some truly wonderful drug that literally knocked me out for about 3 minutes while they did that. Now that's good medicine!

Dr. Ballinger feels good about the surgery, and the preliminary report on the nodes was that they are cancer-free. I should have the final pathology report tomorrow.

Thanks for the prayers, the meals, the cards, the well-wishes, the e-mails, the text messages and all of your support. I am blessed.

Erin

Off We Go

Feeling surprisingly calm and positive this morning. Just wanting this to be over with. Thanks again for all of the prayers and support.

Much love,

Erin

Prayers, Please

I know that many of you will be praying for me tomorrow, and I am so grateful for that. I believe that God hears our prayers and further believe in the power of prayer. I feel that I am great hands with Jeanne Ballinger and that she will do all she can to achieve a postive outcome tomorrow, but I also know that God will be there giving my family and me the strength to get through the day.

I hope to have good news to share with you all tomorrow evening.

Blessings,

Erin

Longest Month Ever

It feels like ages ago that I was at the breast center having my second set of mammogram films on Oct. 1. That was my Mom's bday and Eli's first day as a partner at Bass, Berry & Sims.

We've come a long way since then. More in an effort to document the critical happenings of October, and less as a way of boring you all to death, I wanted to chronicle the events leading up to tomorrow's surgery:

Oct. 1 -- go for second set of mammo films; radiologist says that she thinks the calcifications look like dcis.

Oct. 7 -- stereotactic biopsy

Oct. 8 -- receive pathology report from biopsy; 1.2 cm area of dcis with a small focal microinvasion

Oct. 15 -- meet with first surgeon; have ultrasound; consent to testing for BRCA 1 and 2 mutations

Oct. 19 -- MRI and meeting with second surgeon

Oct. 26 -- meet with radiation oncologist

Oct. 27 -- schedule surgery for Nov. 1, meet with surgeon again, and receive my BRCA test results which were negative

Oct. 28 -- go for pre-admission testing at the hospital

In between all of this, talk with countless breast cancer survivors and friends, and spend lots of time on the internet researching breast cancer, dcis, treatments, etc.

In between all of this, still manage to enjoy the month of October (my favorite month) by spending tons of time at the Warner Parks, having lunch with friends, hanging out at Hume-Fogg rehearsals for Les Mis, and enjoying time with my family.

Crazy times, indeed.

Erin

Letter to Cancer

I've seen a few cancer survivors write "letters to cancer" on their blogs, and I think that it sounds like a wonderfully cathartic thing to do, so I thought that on this beautiful Saturday morning, I'd let cancer know how I feel about it:

Dear Cancer:

I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't like you. You have really disrupted my life, and I didn't have the time or inclination to deal with you. But, you know what? Once I knew you were there, I put almost everything else aside in an effort to ensure that you leave my body and never come back. And I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that you are eradicated completely from my life.

The other thing I want to tell you is that you have not ruined my life. You don't have the power to do that because you are just a disease. God is in control of my life, and I have so many wonderful blessings from Him in my life. You are just a cluster of cells and while you may think you're so high and mighty, I've got news for you: you're not.

So, on Monday, my surgeon, who is a butt-kicker, will remove you from my body. And then, after that, depending on what we find out about how sneaky or not you've been in my body, Dr. Rosenblatt and any other needed doctors will come up with a plan to treat my body so that we can make sure that you never rear your ugly head again.

I hate you. I really do. I want you gone from my body, and I feel confident that soon, very soon, you will be. Good riddance cancer.

Oh, and one other thing. Because you've tried to mess with me, I think that you should know that I plan to spend a part of the time I have left on this earth working towards your overall demise. Yes, that's right. I'll get involved in organizations that work towards finding a cure for cancer, and I'll give money to those organizations and others. I will hold the hands of other women in my shoes, and will run in runs to raise money for breast cancer awareness and research. I will pour myself into these activities with great enthusiasm and joy. As I said, I really dislike you, and thus I will be elated and honored to engage in activities designed to destroy you.

Goodbye cancer. I'm sorry that this letter was so unpleasant, but as those who know me know, and for better or for worse, I'm nothing, if not direct.

Erin

Why a Lumpectomy?

On Monday, my wonderful surgeon, Jeanne Ballinger, will operate on me and try to remove the cancerous portion of my breast along with what surgeons refer to as "clean margins." That means that they want to remove the cancer and enough non-cancerous tissue in order to be sure that they've gotten all of the bad cells. If this is successful and if my lymph nodes do not contain cancer, then I most likely will graduate to radiation treatments, which will take about 6 weeks, and which, I understand, are very tolerable (and which do not make you sick or make your hair fall out, like chemo does).

Having talked with so many women who have traveled this road, I have decided to try for this breast-conserving approach, not necessarily in an effort to spare my breasts, which truth be told, I could take or leave, but because this surgery is so much less invasive and frankly just makes more sense. If, as has happened to other friends of mine, they go in and do not get "clean margins," or see that the cancer is more extensive than expected, or find anything new, then I suspect I'll be scheduling a double mastectomy in order to have the sisters removed from my body for good so that they can cause me no additional harm. But I feel that I owe it to them, and to myself and my family to at least try a more minimalistic approach first and just see how that goes.

So, we'll see. The big things we'll be looking for on Monday are margins and nodes. We want clean margins and clean nodes. Clean, just about anyway you look at it, is good. So pray for clean, if you will, and for strength for me and for Eli and for my parents, and for wisdom and skill for my surgeons.

So glad to call each of you "friend."

Love,

Erin

Surgery, and a Big Thank You!!!

Well, it's done. I've decided on a lumpectomy, and I'm scheduled for surgery on Monday, November 1st, which also happens to be All Saint's Day. More later on why I've chosen that particular surgery, but I did want folks to know that I will be having the surgery on Monday. It is scheduled as an out-patient procedure, and I expect to be at the hospital most of the day.

I also wanted to say how grateful I am for all of the wonderful notes and email messages I've received from so many of you. I am doing my best to respond to each one individually, but my days have been so crazy and I'm trying to get a lot of sleep at night, and that just hasn't left enough time to get back to each one of you yet. Please know that I've received all of these touching notes, and that they mean more to mean than you can imagine. I am blessed beyond measure to have so many wonderful friends and family members who have been so loving and supportive through all of this.

Have a great Thursday, and I'll write again soon.

Love,

Erin

My First Visit to the "Cancer Center"

I had an appointment with Dr. Paul Rosenblatt today. He is a radiation oncologist, and he practices at the "Dan Rudy Cancer Center," which is located at St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville, TN. First, a thought about having an appointment at a cancer center. It sucks, to tell the truth. Wow. You really feel like you've arrived in terms of having health problems when you pull into the parking lot for the "cancer center." Walking in felt creepy, and I honestly felt like I did not belong there. The other people in the waiting room were older and appeared to be in poor health. Not me. Young. Healthy. Fit. But still, a patient at the "cancer center."

More on Dr. Rosenblatt later, but let me just say that this dear soul from Linden, NJ is one of my new favorite people. I didn't like everything he had to say (particularly the bit about how even if my lymph nodes are "clear," I may still have to have chemo), but this man literally sat with me for 2 hours explaining and diagramming everything he could about my cancer, the radiation treatment and its side effects, and listening to me deep breathe from time to time. He really was a dear person with a funny sense of humor, a wicked intelligence and a clear passion for stamping out cancer. He's gonna be a member of my cancer-fighting team, for sure!!

One more note about my morning. Along this road, and I plan to write about this in more detail later, God has shown himself to me at different times and in different ways. After my deliriously happy week of "denial" since last Tuesday (i.e. no doctor's appointments, and lots of domestic bliss -- well, okay, I'll admit that I didn't enjoy the laundry, but the rest of the stuff was okay), the rubber hit the road this morning and I had to drag myself over to the hospital for this appointment. I pulled into the hospital grounds, circled around to the "cancer center" parking lot (ugh), and just as I started to pull into that parking lot (with my special parking code -- aren't I lucky??), I looked out my driver's side window and saw.... a rainbow. It really wasn't the kind of day you'd expect to see a rainbow, but there it was, right outside my window. Not to be overly dramatic, but my eyes filled with tears, because I knew -- I just knew -- that this was a sign of hope from God. After parking and getting out of the car, I walked out of the garage to see if the rainbow was still there and it wasn't. But it had been there for me in that moment when I needed it most, and I was ever so thankful for that grace.

As we used to say every Sunday morning at the start of our worship service at Prospect Presbyterian Church in Maplewood, New Jersey, "God is good all the time, and all the time, God is good." Granted, I went through periods of time -- namely, around the diagnosis of our middle child with a chromosomal abnormality and autism -- when I could barely get those words out, but I do believe that God is good, and that he loves us, and that he is there for those of us who are open to receiving his Grace. And I believe that He'll carry me through this trial, like He has all of the other trials I've been through in my relatively short lifetime.

Thanks again for caring enough to read my blog.....

Erin

The Kids

Many of you have asked about how our kids are doing. They are fine. There are many ways of dealing with sharing a cancer diagnosis with your children, but Eli and I decided not to delay this step, and to tell our kids two days after I got the diagnosis. My primary reason for taking this approach was that I had told several friends and family members about what was going on, and I didn't want the kids hearing about this from some well-meaning person who might have accidentally said something to them. I wanted them to hear this news from me and in the safety and comfort of our own home.

So, on Sunday, October 10, we sat down at the kitchen table with Wes and Virginia. Graham was in the room with us, but was watching a video. We are a pretty straightforward bunch, so without much fanfare, I just said that I had found out that I had breast cancer. Before I could get out my next sentence, which was going to be "but I'm so lucky that they found it really early, and I'm going to be fine," Virginia had bolted out of her chair and up the stairs to her room, and was hysterical. Such a girl. Wes just sat at the table smiling, apparently trying to figure out if I was joking or not. Once I assured him that I wasn't joking, I asked him why he was still smiling, and he said, "I think that's pretty cool, Mom. You're going to be a Survivor like all those ladies we saw yesterday." (a reference to the Komen Race for the Cure). About this time, Virginia was coming back downstairs, and was still upset, but was starting to be open to hearing the "good news" about how it was detected so early and that I was going to be just fine. As she was calming down, Graham walked over to me and just gave me a big bear hug. I have no idea whether he was processing what was going on, or not, but if I were a betting woman, I'd say that he was, and that he knew that the thing I needed most was a hug.

I love my children. The thought of not being around for them is horrifying and I, like so many other women who have faced this diagnosis, will do everything I can to ensure that I'm around for a long, long time. Surgeries and radiation and even chemo seem a small price to pay for the gift of being able to live a long life with your children and grandchildren. My kids will be a big part of my journey through this experience, and I thank God every single day for blessing us with three very special little human beings.

Go have a fabulous day.

Love,

Erin

October

Let me start by saying that there's nothing quite like being diagnosed with breast cancer during October, which, unless you've been abducted by aliens over the last few weeks, you know is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I must say that we definitely do things up in terms of breast cancer awareness in this country. Honestly, literally everywhere I turn, there's a cereal box, or a TV show or a commercial, or someone on the radio, or something in a restaurant about breast cancer awareness. It's remarkable.

In my former life, I did't pay a lot of attention to all of this hype. However, given the fact that I had my second set of mammogram xrays on Oct. 1, a biopsy on Oct. 7 and that I received a diagnosis of breast cancer on Oct. 8, it is fair to say that my awareness level this October has been high.

Twelve hours after hearing my radiologist tell me that the biopsy came back showing ductal carcinoma in situ, Wesley and I participated in the Komen Race for the Cure here in Nashville. That was an experience I'll honestly never forget. Being surrounded by so much pink, and so many folks so enthusiastically supporting the cause, and by so many butt-kicking Survivors, was inspiring, to say the least. And, just to brag on Wesley's school, Montgomery Bell Academy, we had the #1 fundraising team for the event. The whole football team showed up at the race, and there were countless other students and their families there. I hadn't told anyone about my diagnosis at that point (other than Eli and my parents), so it was "my little secret" as I ran the 5K and nearly made my goal time of 30 minutes (I was slowed down a bit by a little pain from the biopsy two days earlier; that's my excuse, anyway).

Let me back up a minute and say that one of the very first things I did after hearing from my friend the radiologist that I likely had DCIS was to make a list of all of the women I know who have had and beat breast cancer. My original list was about 14 women long, and it continues to grow everyday. I call this my "Hero" list, and it encourages me so much when my mind begins to wander to the "what ifs." What if my cancer is worse than the original pathology reports show? What if I have to have chemo? What is the cancer is in my lymph nodes? While I know that these scenarios are unlikely, I, like any person dealing with health-related unknowns, worry about them from time to time. And every time I do, I can see the name of someone on my list who actually dealt with that situation and is still here to talk about it. And that, my friends, is one of the things that gives me so much hope and courage.

I'll also say that since making my first "announcement" about my situation on Oct. 11, I've learned of four friends/acquaintances who had breast cancer treatment while we were out of the country. I've spent lots of time talking with them on the phone, and talking to other friends I know who have battled this disease, as well. There is nothing quite like being in the trenches with folks who have been there themselves.

The Monday after the Friday when I got "the phone call" with "the diagnosis", I started the process of lining up appointments with potential surgeons. Dealing with a cancer diagnosis, as far as I can tell, is a bit like being your own general contractor on a house you're building. You kind of get a sense that you'll need a surgeon, and possibly a radiation and/or medical oncologist, maybe even a plastic surgeon. But do all of these people practice together in one location and with a "team approach?" No, that would be too easy. Instead, the process seems to involve going to the surgeon and talking about surgical options. The surgeon may then refer you to a radiation oncologist or a medical oncologist, depending on your circumstances. If you opt for a lumpectomy and then radiation, that's great, but in all actuality, you have to wait to get your final pathology report from the surgery to determine whether the one lumpectomy was sufficient, or not. If not, then many women go back for what is referred to as a "re-excision." Lovely. Even after two excisions, some women end up with a mastectomy (or a double mastectomy) in the end. And, of course, some women choose a mastectomy from the start. These are all decisions that have to be made based on each person's own unique circumstances and preferences. It's a bit like trying to find your way in the dark, though, if you ask me.

I have met with two surgeons, and felt much better about one of them than I did the other. I won't go into the details of my visit with the first surgeon, but suffice it to say that although I've never been a pill-popping kind of gal, I left that office with a prescription for Ativan and Valium because they had scared the living daylights out of me, and realized how freaked out I was. In between the two appointments with the surgeons, I had a breast MRI. Talk about petrifying. I don't know if I was more worried about being in the tube for 40 minutes or about what they might find, but I gladly swallowed the 10 mg of Valium that the first surgeon's office had prescribed for me, and that seemed to help somewhat. (Eli also was there with me and held my hand throughout, which also helped tremendously!) The good (well, great, actually) news was that although they took something like 3000 photos of my breasts (both), they apparently found no other areas of concern. Hours after that event, I met with the second surgeon, and perhaps it was due to her good fortune of being able to share good MRI results with me, but I honestly felt like hugging that woman at the end of our meeting. The choice of which surgeon to use was a no-brainer.

I will meet with the radiation oncologist this Tuesday to seek his "blessing" on the lumpectomy + radiation route. If he disagrees, then I'll have to consider a mastectomy, and I can tell you right now that if I'm getting one chopped off, I'm doing them both, and I'm doing reconstruction, too, and getting myself a new set of perky breasts. If all goes well this week, I'm hoping to have surgery on Nov. 1st or 2nd. And by my 44th birthday which is on Nov. 6th, I am very hopeful that I'll be done with surgery and looking at a November and December full of good food and cheer, lots of time with friends and family, and, last, but certainly not least, radiation treatments (oh, and throw in a short trip to Paris with Eli that is already scheduled, but which, for me at least, may be a bit up in the air at the moment).

Thanks for caring about me and for following my journey.

Love,

Erin

Howdy Ya'll!

Virginia and me with Katarina Durisova, one of my favorite "Babushkas" (see below for explanation)

Here I go again. This is my third blog, to date. I love blogging. I love writing. I love being in touch with people and sharing my thoughts, joys and fears with folks. I am disappointed, though, that I have another topic to write about now -- breast cancer. Yep, you got it. I, like so many other women in this world, was diagnosed with breast cancer not quite two weeks ago. It stinks, but it is what it is, and my hope is that this blog will be an effective way of keeping friends and family informed on my progress.

My story goes something like this:

I am a healthy 43 year old woman. I ran a half marathon the day after my screening mammogram, and despite having trained for only five weeks, had a better finishing time than I had in both of my previous half marathons (three and five years ago). I have no family history of breast cancer or any other cancer, for that matter (except my Dad's prostrate cancer 15 years ago). I did not have a lump. I went in for a routine screening mammogram on September 25th, two months after returning from having lived overseas for 17 months, and the day after my husband returned from having been overseas for two additional months past the time that my children and I returned in late July.

Five days later, I received a call from the breast center asking me to come back in for some "additional views." This didn't sound particularly good to me, but not terribly ominous, either. Luckily for me, I have a friend who has a friend who is a radiologist at the breast center I went to, and I called her and she was able to get me in two days later for the additional xrays. I bopped in there that Friday morning (October 1st -- my husband's first day in his new job, and my Mom's birthday), and did the do. The x-ray technician (a lovely woman by the name of Diane) showed me what they were wanting to get a better look at, and it was this little area of tiny white dots. She explained that there was no lump there, but that there were these little "microcalcifications" that had begun to "circle the wagons," as she said, which is not always a good thing. After waiting a few minutes for the results, my friend the radiologist came and got me, took me to her office, and said that I would need a biopsy. Damn it. She also, in response to my very direct question as to her best guess at what was going on, said that she thought that I probably had a malignancy that was contained in the milk ducts. I took some comfort in thinking that if this was cancer, it had been detected long before any lump even had the chance to form, and started to wrap my head around this notion of me -- healthy me -- having breast cancer.

The following Thursday, I bopped back to the same office (this time with a bit more trepidation), for something called a stereotactic biopsy. This is NOT a fun procedure, but it is survivable. Basically, you lay on this table with your boob hanging down through a hole, they squeeze your boob between two pieces of plastic and look at it through the mammogram machine, find the spot they want to biopsy, and then they numb you up, put this big honking needle (I never saw it, but I'm guessing it was big and honking) and suck out tissue. Now, they told me that this would not hurt, and not to scare those of you who might eventually have to go through this, but it hurt like heck for me for some weird reason. I guess I'm in the small minority of women who experience some pain during this procedure. Lucky me. The procedure went well, though, and I was told that they got a good sample. My friend the radiologist said she'd call me the next day.

And so the anguishing "waiting game" began. I was fine until about 4:00 the next afternoon (October 8) when I realized that within the next hour, I was going to receive news that was sure to change my life and the life of my family in a rather substantial way. Sure enough, I got the phone call around 5:00, and my friend, the radiologist, confirmed that I had what we thought I had -- ductal carcinoma in situ, otherwise known as "DCIS."

In an effort not to make this first post too long, I'll write about what's happened since that Friday afternoon in my next post. Just a word about my blog title and background, though. First, the title. One thing I've learned since this whole process started is that the journey from detection to diagnosis, regardless of how quickly it moves, involves many steps, each of which involves waiting and agonizing and fretting and worrying. Folks like me who haven't been down this road before simply have no way of knowing how difficult the process is, and how, just when it seems like you've gotten the "full story," there are more tests, and more doctor's appointments, and more pathology reports to be had. It is a multi-step process, and for that reason, I thought that the title "Every Little Step" might provide a decent overall description of the journey.

As for the background, I was thrilled beyond belief to find these little babushkas on shabbyblogs.com. Having lived in Eastern Europe first in 1993 (Romania) and more recently for the past year and a half in Serbia, I have an affinity for little old ladies in scarves. I just love this graphic, and think that it speaks to my situation, in particular, and to the topic of breast cancer in general in the following ways:

1) one of the meanings for "babushka" is a head scarf, and as we know, scarves become friends to women going through chemotherapy;

2) one in eight women will have breast cancer in their lifetimes, and this graphic, I think, illustrates how random and non-discriminating breast cancer can be;

3) another meaning for "babushka" is "elderly Russian woman," and although I guess I'll never be Russian, I fully intend to be elderly one day, and so the thought of one day being a babushka myself is encouraging;

4) the graphic shows women standing together, which is a powerful symbol, I think, when it comes to breast cancer, because as women, we do come together over this disease and help one another through it (and much love and thanks to my bc survivor friends who have already helped me so much over the past few weeks!!!!);

5) finally, I love, love, love Eastern Europe and its people, and am so happy that I can have these sweet and beautiful depictions of women from that wonderful part of the world on this blog. You might have wondered about the photo at the top of this blog post. Well, that's Virginia, my daughter, and me with a wonderful babushka from Serbia who also happens to be an amazing artist. I have one of her pieces in my kitchen, and I consider it a gift to have something so special from such an amazing babushka!

So, that's all for today. More later, friends, but one final note: if you are overdue for a mammogram, please, please, please go get one!!!

Erin