January 8th — After everything I’ve been through, I thought I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. But, no, cancer just had to bring me back for more fun. Today, Greg and I visited with a radiation oncologist to discuss possible radiation therapy. If I had five or more lymph nodes involved, I would definitely need radiation. If I had none, I wouldn’t. But, of course with God’s wry sense of humor, I wind up with 3 and 4 lymph nodes. In the gray area, according to the radiation oncologist five out of ten physicians would recommend radiation and five wouldn’t. So, I have to decide and live with the consequences. I knew the doctor would have to convince me of the radiation’s necessity. After examining me and reviewing my medical history and pathology reports, the doc said the words I dreaded hearing, because it was the only possible argument that could persuade me. According to a clinical study from years ago, chemo followed by radiation significantly improves survivability if the patient makes it to the 15 year mark. Sigh. How do you walk away from that? To strengthen the case, one of my tumors was close to the chest wall and thus the surgeon never got a “clear margin” of 2 cm when removing it. So, the likelihood of microscopic cancers sitting in one cell under my new breasts waiting to attack is relatively high. And radiation has long been proven to reduce local recurrence. While the doctor assured us of the safety of the radiation and how improved the field is even within the last few years, the reality is that radiation will burn the skin of my new lovely breasts, forever leaving marks and scars, tightening and disfiguring the skin. I can’t get my new nipples until six months from now too and might have problems with the implants in general and have to have a replacement surgery depending on if the skin tightens and encapsulates the new breasts. Sigh. All I hear from friends who’ve had radiation is that they won’t ever wear a bathing suit again. Or a strapless gown. Or appear naked in front of their husbands. Greg told me the decision was completely mine to make but his two cents worth is that none of that matters to him, he would like to have me around as long as possible.

January 7th — Each year, we attend friends’ New Year’s Day party where we write the year’s concerns on a piece of paper and consign them to a fire. A few days after the party, Daniel was in the car with me and randomly asked about writing down our worries and throwing them into the fire. He was busy playing at the party and never got around to worry-burning. I asked him if he had wanted to do this at John and Janet’s party and Daniel’s reply shocked me. He said, “oh, but my worries are so long they wouldn’t fit on one page.” And this is from our happy-go-lucky kid! I turned off the car radio and almost pulled over to hug my precious 5-year-old who shouldn’t have a worry in his head, let alone enough concerns to fill a piece of paper. But I knew that drastic action would only add to his worries. Instead, I calmly asked him what worries he had. Daniel replied that he didn’t want to talk about them. Of course, he is male and wouldn’t want to talk about his feelings, would he? So, using my conversational skill honed by years of dealing with taciturn men unable or unwilling to express themselves, I casually asked Daniel if he was worried about my health. Daniel immediately unburdened himself and said yes. I reminded him that I’m finished with the medicine that makes me sick and the doctors think the cancer is gone and I’m feeling fine. Daniel’s voice got soft and he said, “and are you feeling fine Mommy?” Yes, yes, yes. Even if I were still sick and exhausted and feeling like chemo-crap, my answer to my little boy would be yes. I assured Daniel with the words that have proved so comforting to me in my moments of distress, “everything is going to be just fine.” Damn cancer. A 5-year-old with a list of worries so long they wouldn’t fit on one page? Damn it to hell.

January 2nd — As we ask the kids the best thing that happened to them in 2009, I reflect on my own blessings and gratitudes for the past year. If you ask me to be humorous and snarky, I would say that I’m grateful I didn’t die in 2009. That’s a conversation-killer of an answer. But behind the dark humor is more than a grain of truth. Another way to express my gratitude is to say I’m glad the doctors found my cancer in 2009. Without that diagnosis and the subsequent treatment, I might not be here right now, or at least not in the good health I experience today. Left untreated, the cancer would have spread to my liver or my lungs or my bones and I would have serious complications. When I first saw my oncologist, I asked him, “how exactly is this lump in my breast going to kill me?” because it wasn’t painful and I felt great. The doctor explained how cancer likes to spread and breast cancer likes to find soft tissue in the body, which leads to organ failure and other complicating issues like that. So, the worst and best things in my 2009 were the same: the doctors found cancer in my breasts. If that’s not a philosophical conundrum, I don’t know what is! Happy New Year!