I will be forever grateful to the doctors at Mayo
because, although they frequently noted, “You’re too young; this is almost
certainly not cancer” and “It would be very unusual for it to be cancer when
you’re young and pregnant”, etc., they still took the time to send me from
primary physician to ultrasound to biopsy when I found a lump during
the 3rd trimester of my pregnancy. They were thorough when they
could have easily disregarded it as just another odd pregnancy symptom.
Though 1 in 8 women will develop breast cancer, the risk of it developing in your thirties
is just .4%* and its even more rare to be diagnosed during pregnancy.** I am used to being a bit of a unicorn in some ways, but usually it’s
something more pleasant, like having all sons after having only sisters, or being both ginger and blue-eyed (interestingly, we
make up just .17% of the population***). Being a rarity in the cancer world
seemed somehow more frightening, especially at first. I didn’t know how to
react when I first received the phone call from the doctor:
“The tumor tested positive for breast cancer.”
I think I was in shock. “Whoooo.” It was more the rush
of air from my lungs than any audible word.
“How are you doing?”
In my little Midwest Nice voice, I managed, “Good”
because that’s what I always said.
I almost heard a smile in his voice. “I’m sure you’re
not, but that’s okay. You may feel a lot of different things in the days to
come, and all of that is normal. Do you want to ask any questions at this time,
or would you rather I tell you a little more about what we’ve found?”
I let him tell me a bit more because my voice had
disappeared. He cautioned that he didn’t want to overwhelm me and that there
would be a nurse calling to set up an appointment with an oncologist soon. The
oncologist would be able to answer my questions and get me started on a
treatment path. When I hung up, all I could do was sink to the floor and call,
“Eli, help!” As always, my husband came running over.
It was a terrifying paradox to imagine both life and
death being created inside me at the same time. I couldn’t help but imagine the
cancer as black sludge slinking through my tissue. Pictures that I’d seen of
oil spills in the ocean crossed my mind. Here I was minding my own business,
judging myself to be a fairly healthy person (and heck, I was growing a tiny
human again; wasn’t my body supposed to be strong?), when a dangerous force that I couldn’t
control slipped in. This lack of control was also frightening-- not that I’m a
control freak, but the idea that I could make good lifestyle choices and still
have something like this happen at age 32 threw me off. Although friends and
doctors cautioned me against this line of thought, I still couldn’t help but
wonder, “What did I do wrong?” I forced myself to a more positive line of
thinking, taking each day one step at a time. This has been helpful, but
cancer is an emotional rollercoaster, and some days are better than
others.
The oncologist insisted on induction and forbid me from
breastfeeding-- two things that alone were tough to deal with and combined felt
disheartening, but I knew it was for my own safety and the baby's. He also answered all of my questions, explained treatment options
clearly, and confidently told me that I’d get through this. “You’re stubborn,”
he said. “My stubborn patients do well.”
After Corey was born, there was a whirlwind week of
testing to determine how far the cancer had spread. This was the most difficult
time because I’d been warned of how aggressive the tumor was, and any time I
dared to research online, I was greeted with the heartbreaking statistics that
younger women most often were diagnosed with the worst and most advanced breast
cancers and had the least promising prognoses. Did we catch it soon enough? Any slight headache or pain had me
panicking. I took deep breaths and focused on my two kiddos and new baby.
Family and friends were praying and sending me positive thoughts daily, all of which helped to keep me centered.
Finally, we got probably the best news we could get in this situation: the
cancer was localized to the left breast and hadn’t spread beyond one axillary
lymph node.
 |
| Corey and me, strong together. |
“It’s curable,” my oncologist said. “Yes, you will go
through the treatment, and chemotherapy, surgery, radiation-- none of that will
be easy, but you will finish it and go on with your life.”
It’s true. It won’t be an easy process. As I look ahead
to months of aggressive chemotherapy to shrink an aggressive cancer, I can’t
help but feel nervous and wish I wasn’t in these shoes. Still, I keep my mind
tuned to what one of my nurses said after Corey’s delivery: 80% of how you feel
is your mind set. In a way, this process may be like labor: each time, I relied
on my own focus and breathing to reduce the pain, and, each time,
I made it through just fine. I figure I can do other tough things, too. I will
get through this, and I will hopefully be stronger for it.
*Cafasso, Jacquelyn. “Everything you should know about breast cancer in
your 20’s and 30’s.”
Healthline, 17
Sept. 2019, https://www.healthline.com/health/breast-cancer/breast-cancer-
**Keyser, Erin, et. al. “Pregnancy-Associated Breast Cancer.” Reviews in Obstetrics and Gynecology,
***Smith, Sam Benson. “This is the rarest hair and eye color combination
in humans.” Reader’s
