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