Minefields and July 20th

I have a complicated personality sometimes. I am impulsive yet thoughtful. I am wreckless yet responsible. I face the most intense things in my life head on. I am a lot of other things, but they aren’t relevant to this post. My impulsive nature has led me to some of the best things in my life and into some of the worst messes. Regardless of the best or worst situations, I always learn a valuable life lesson and become more well-rounded and experienced. For 34 years old, I feel like I have already lived a lifetime, and in a lot of ways, that’s true. My dad has a really funny way of describing both me and my sister. He says if there was a minefield that we both had to race across we would finish at the exact same time, except my sister would take her time, calculate each move, tread carefully and have a meticulous plan to get her across unscathed. I, as he likes to point out, would run like a bat out of hell, with no plan, get blown up, keep running and come across the finish line missing limbs and body parts with smoke barreling off of me. What’s funny, is that, in a way that has been what my summer has been like, and oddly enough, I ended up across the finish line missing a body part. My decision to have a mastectomy was one that was impulsive. There is no other way to put it. That impulsive decision saved my life. When I heard the words, “I’m sorry, you have cancer” my whole outlook on my body and specifically my boobs, changed. I wanted that shit out of my body, so be it if it meant I had to remove a breast. There was little time left to question because there was about 10 days in between making the final decision and heading to surgery. I felt braver knowing the surgery was coming because I was going to kick this cancer in the ass. I started to become less sad and scared and more angry, like I was preparing for a fight. My journal entry from the evening of the 20^th was short. I was focused, prepared and my emotions were in check. There was no need for me to sit down and let it all my emotions flow out of me, because I had already done that over the past weeks. I knew what I had to do, I knew my and my unborn child’s risks and I was ready.

It’s the night before my surgery. I went to my first Reiki appointment tonight and feel great. I’m ready, clear headed and motivated to get this over with. I can’t tell if I’m extremely calm or if things haven’t truly hit me yet.

That’s all I wrote, but it’s not even close to what I remember, but it’s very telling on what my state of mind was going into surgery. I remember the smell, the temperature, how soft Kim’s hands were, even the temperature of her hands. I remember where everything was placed in her office. I remember the books on her shelves. I remember the tone of her voice, where she found “prickliness” in my right breast but great energy everywhere else. I remember the tears coming instantly when Kim said the baby’s energy was great and she was very healthy and very strong like her mom. I remember the snot running out of my nose because I was crying so hard when Kim pointed out the mist above me that represented all those who have passed that loved me and were in the room with me that moment to help me be strong. I remember the color of the sunset when I walked out of the appointment. I remember the light rain on the windshield and that I only had to use the wipers twice on the way home.

I did not have another journal entry until eight days after my surgery. Naturally, I was a little consumed. In those eight days, a lot happened. My next post will be to cover as much of those 8 days as possible from memory.

Musical Mess and July 19th

I have been sensitive to music for as long as I can remember. There are so many songs that will flood me with all sorts of emotions. My parents always listened to music when I was little and we would gather around the TV and watch Austin City Limits on Saturday nights. Other weekends they would play George Strait and dance in our living room. Then there were the times that my mom would put on Yanni (when she was cleaning, because that’s exactly what you need when you’re Pledging the coffee table.) The second I would hear that familiar “Signature Yanni” sound come out of their tweed orange and yellow weaved Bose speakers I would start to bawl. All of the sudden in my mind, my dog died, Nickelodeon was cancelled, my best friend lost her BFF half heart necklace, my parents told me we were moving and to really drive the knife in farther, I cut my bangs too short. THE HUMANITY! You are now getting a glimpse into my musical upbringing, so you can now imagine how confused my parents were when this scrawny awkward looking middle school white girl developed a love affair with gangsta rap. It was so relatable to me, you know, especially growing up in a rural town in Eastern Nevada. I look at is as, I am very musically well rounded. I am sure you are starting to find through reading this blog that I am a total weirdo. I don’t expect you to relate to me with the breast cancer piece, but it would be comforting to know that someone else has bawled their eyes out to Yanni, oh yeah, and maybe a little Foreigner, and maybe a little Bonnie Rait. POINT BEING, I am sensitive to music.

Knowing my music sensitivity, I listened to absolutely nothing after I had my melt down in the car listening to City High (Thanks Katie Louk for identifying the song first in my trivia portion back at the beginning of this blog, I still haven’t sent your $5.00 yet). I mean if a dorky song by City High was going to cause a full on anxiety attack there is no way I could take a chance and hear Yanni on accident. I could not be trusted with acoustic or steel guitar noise, violins, accordions, flutes, explicit lyrics…actually any musical noise was a “no-no” because the silence was hard enough.

July 19^th

I went to Target this morning to get our nieces and nephews’ birthday presents because July and September are birthday hell months. I thought the distraction would be good for me to do something fun and to be honest, we all know Darin isn’t going to give very fun gifts to his nieces and nephews. He would be happy tying some sticks together with twine and calling it an “Earth Frisbee” to give as a gift. Then he would be surprised and bitter when his gift wasn’t welcomed with open arms. So I headed off to Target to start damage control, plus I woke up sad and wanted to go be alone somewhere and cry. I turned on some music and cried the whole way to Target. At one point I realized that I was listening to Bruno Mars’ “Don’t Believe Me Just Watch,” while crying. This is a total oxymoron. This is a song you get drunk at a wedding and booty shake to, NOT CRY. But, that was my mental state. The drive to target was a fog, I bought gifts cards, got back in the car and started crying again. I am still trying to process how in the hell this whole thing happened and it feels so good to flush it all out and cry, I just can’t do that at home because I’m trying to protect Marco from it. There is still this looming fear that this cancer has spread and I feel like I am holding my breath until I get my pathology report back after surgery. When I pull into the driveway I see Mariluz’ sister Mela in the kitchen. I quickly wipe my eyes and take a deep breath before walking in the house.

Me, Marco, Darin, Mikey and Mariluz all end up watching The Goonies. It feels good to sit and tune out. My boob really, really hurts today so a distraction helps. It’s back in the peeling, cracking and bleeding phase. It feels like I dropped a hot curling iron on my nipple, so any type of bra or shirt rubs and is painful. Plus anything I wear soaks through with blood and I can’t put gauze or anything on it because I have to dry it out when it gets like this. Marco wants to go to Mariluz’ house after the movie so Darin and I go to sushi. I wear a new dress I bought and put on a little makeup because I know I’m not going to feel sexy or attractive for a while after my surgery. Darin tells me I’m going to be just as beautiful with one boob as I would be with two. It was very sweet, especially because he never compliments me. I keep wondering if he’s going to be repulsed by me after my surgery happens? I don’t think you can divorce someone on the grounds for disappointment for losing a body part, can you?

When we get home we set up the slip n’ slide for Marco in the backyard. For some reason my lunch has motivated me with a “fuck it” type of attitude and I decide to put on a bikini top that is too small because the next two days are my rack’s “last hoorah” if you will. I joke that I’m not going to wear a bra at all tomorrow. After the slip n’ slide we all decide to go to the Peppermill and swim. YES, WITHOUT BEING A GUEST OF THE HOTEL. I get major anxiety when I sneak into pools, which is weird because when I was younger it was more of a major event when I actually followed a rule. Anyway, me and my extra small top marched into the Peppermill and bounced around. It was nice way to take them out on the town before saying goodbye. We eat dinner at Amanda’s and take Marco for a doughnut after dinner.

When we get home Darin crawls into bed with Marco and reads him part of Charlie and Chocolate Factory until he falls asleep. I stand in the darkened hallway listening to him and peak around the corner every once in a while, watching them reading and cuddling. With tears pouring down my face I keep thinking that I am too young to die and can’t imagine that I may have to come to terms with the fact the I may not being seeing many more of these sweet moments between a dad and his son. I feel sick to my stomach but stand there burning this memory into my brain.

The beginning of "Thank You" and July 18th

Why is it so hard sometimes to say, “thank you?” Or to receive compliments? That is one of my biggest struggles. I am in a helping profession and I am a helper by nature. Need a jacket, here, have mine! Are you hungry? I’ll make you a sandwich! Need a ride? Hop in! I do all of these things organically, almost to a fault sometimes. But, for some reason when I am on the receiving end, it’s almost too hard for me to accept. To know that people want to help me for some weakness that I have or am experiencing, is uncomfortable. I hate to receive what is perceived as charity, however it fills up my little buckle to give it. It makes zero sense, but for those who know me well, they know that a lot of times things I do or think, don’t make much sense. Therapy time! I tend to make things around me harder for the benefit of helping others. It’s almost an illness, except I can’t take an antibiotic for it, drinking helps though. With that being said, here’s another awful part of having cancer: trying to truly express gratitude and appreciation for the outpouring of love. I know it makes me sound like an asshole,                       “ Whaaaaaaaa, too many people love me and want to help me and now I have to, dare I say it, say thank you?!”  That would actually be a really funny title to a self-help book. Whether I am an asshole or not, it is difficult to show a person how much you appreciate their kind words, their meals, their sentimental cards, their gifts to your children, their remodeling your kitchen (I’ll get to that in a bit), their rosaries, their gift cards, their phone calls, their just “being with you”…do you see where I am going with this? It became far too overwhelming to possibly say thank you when I realized that people really care about me. That my existence could possibly be coming to an end sooner than I thought and maybe, just maybe I have left a positive impression on this earth. It’s overwhelming, it’s astonishing, it’s amazing and it’s downright hard as hell to try and say, “thank you”, because truth be told, “thank you” is nowhere close to what I want to say.

 

July 18^th

I am back home. I made it! We survived the trip! I woke up early this morning and checked the Aiken Horse Rescue website to get information on Fia Mia and how I can adopt her. It’s not as easy as things seemed when I was little. I can’t just call and leave a voicemail that I need a horse and expect someone to drive her on over and drop her off in the yard. I’m going to work a more mature angle, horse adoption 2.0. I’ve decided to write the Board of Director’s an email or letter about the impact Fia Mia has had on my diagnosis and to see information on how to adopt her. Can I share something with you? It’s sort of embarrassing, so I’m glad it’s not going to go any farther than the internet. My hidden agenda is that the Board reads my letter, falls in love with my story and delivers Fia Mia to my doorstep free of charge, sort of like something Ellen DeGeneres would do or Oprah. Looks like I am suffering from arrested development of when I was trying to get my Appaloosa. See what I mean, when I say I don’t make sense a lot of the time? Imagine what Darin has to put with on a daily basis…I also called and left a message at Nevada Equestrian Assistance Therapy to set up weekly sessions with a horse. I’m still set on adopting Fia Mia.

My neighbor Mikey comes over for breakfast this morning and tells me that he can’t keep a secret any longer. Mikey has bought me a horse! Just kidding, but that’s actually the exact thing my brain thought of. Why in the hell would my neighbor (he’s actually our very, very good friend) buy me a horse and where in God’s name am I going to put it? Are you starting to see a trend with my thinking? I make no sense. But man do I love horses. As I am awaiting the secret he’s going to tell me, I am worried that my reaction is not going to be as great as it would be if he really was going to buy me a horse. I’m horrible. What he tells me is better, so thoughtful and leaves me with no possible way to say “thank you.” He says he’s building me brand new countertops as a surprise and said that I’ll need a good distraction to help me heal. I stand speechless. I want to cry, but I can’t. I want to jump on top of him and hug him, but that would be inappropriate. I stand in shock and am blown away by the amount of love and support that I have received. I start to squeal and ask when we can get started. Deep down I feel guilty because I just don’t know how to say “thank you,” because there is no way that is or will ever be enough.  

 

 

 

Horse Play and July 14th

My entire life when I was younger centered around my master plot of getting a horse. It was made clear to me that it wasn’t going to come by way of a real horse, so I would always pretend that I had a horse and at times I would go as far as to pretend that I was the horse, just to keep things fresh. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t put up a good fight to get a real horse though. I can remember coming home from school one day and part of my daily routine spanning 2^nd-4^th grade (as anyone’s was) was to read the “miscellaneous” and “animals for sale” classifieds in the Elko Daily Free Press. Why would I do this you ask? Well the obvious answer is that I was looking to see what horses were on the market, duh. I would compare prices, height in hands, calculate price per hand as compared to the other horses and breeds, then I would pretend that I owned these horses and I would name them. I was a total weirdo. The sad part is, I still do this, except I research the hell out of Frye boots. Ask any of my friends. I’ve become a local boot consultant. Anyhow, one particular day after school when I was perusing through the classifieds, I found a great deal on an Appaloosa Mare. She was very old and many hands tall. In other words, she was a big ole horse. I knew that she was the horse for me, so I picked up the phone and called the number. No one answered, so I left a message saying that I was interested in buying their horse and asked that they call me back. It was the perfect plan. I would set up delivery of the horse to my front yard so when my parents came home from work they would see a horse in our yard and because we didn’t have a trailer to drive her anywhere, we’d have to not only pay for her, but keep her! She wasn’t going to live in our yard naturally, because I already had researched the cost of boarding her at the local fair grounds. Screw you Gifted and Talented test for not qualifying me! I just devised a plan on how to school my parents into getting me a horse in my early elementary years. I am either extremely gifted or a psychopath, or both. Great. Things are starting to make sense now…I can’t remember when the horse owners called back, but they did. They spoke to my parents, and as you can imagine they were pretty confused, both parties. I did not end up with a horse. So, I then proceeded to pretend that I was my own horse (Plan B). I stopped reading the newspaper and started barrel racing after school. Except I didn’t have barrels (I used cans) I didn’t have a horse (so I used myself on rollerblades) and I didn’t have a score board to use to time myself (I used a stopwatch). I would proceed to “barrel race” myself I guess, up and down the sidewalk and try to beat my best time. What a gem I am.

Point being, I went to very strange realistic and imaginary lengths to try and get any time I could with a horse. I never would’ve imagined that 20 something years down the road that I would be blessed with the best horse experience anyone could ask for.

July 14^th Aiken Equestrian Rescue

We went to a horse rescue ranch this morning. I met a horse named Fia Mia. When I first walked up to her she glanced up from her trough and swished her tail. I glanced at her and walked down to see another horse whose head was peeking out of his stall. I stood there and gave him a pat and enjoyed taking in all of his “horseness.” I heard a snort and turned around. Fia Mia had her head out of her stall, so I walked down to see her. As I approached her, she hung her nose out and was waving at me in a sense. The closer I got, the farther she hung her head over the stall until our faces were about 4 inches away from each other. Our eyes locked and immediately, I had chills. Fia Mia pressed her cheek against mine. My eyes welled up with tears. I could feel a breakdown happening, so I stroked her nose and walked through the stables and out into the open field to take a couple of deep breaths.

We rode around the ranch and Marco loved feeding the horses and riding in the golf cart. When we made our way back up to the stables I stopped back by Fia Mia’s stall. Same thing happened, she walked right up to me again and layed her head on my shoulder and pressed her weight into me. It was the strangest feeling, I could feel her weight, but could also feel mine leaving me. Not my physical weight, but emotional weight was lessening. My shoulders felt lighter, my stomach and back felt lighter, my jaw didn’t feel tense. We stood in this entwined human and horse hug for what seemed like forever. Before I knew it, a rush of emotions come over me and my neck and chest feel wet. I had so many tears running down my face that it feels like I turned on a faucet. My eyes became cloudy and I couldn’t stop crying. Fia Mia would pull her head back and stare at me every once in a while, then would wrap her neck around me and pull me into her body. It was absolutely incredible. I let her hug me and I stood there and cried my little heart out, not caring who was standing around watching or what people who be saying or questions I was going to have to answer once I was done. I let all the bullshit go and stood there in public, being hugged by a horse and cried. Fia Mia absorbed all the fear, anxiety, worry, distress and whatever other toxic feelings were overwhelming me. That horse single handedly (even though she’s a large horse, get it?) let a wall come down for me and allowed me to take a real breath, not the short thick aired breaths that I had been surviving on for the past weeks.  There truly are no words that can even describe that moment for me, even reading this back over I think the writing sucks and doesn’t paint the picture of what it was like for me in that moment, and then I realize, that is the beauty of that memory, that makes it my own and unique. I can close my eyes and remember everything vividly, yet I can’t possibly put the moment into words What I can put into words though is that I did not journal any more on my vacation. I didn’t have to run upstairs and hide to release any feelings I was having, because there was none. I played with the kids on the fairway, chased Marco around the neighborhood, swam with him in the pool, smiled, laughed and enjoyed those moments that I had missing because I was too damn paralyzed with the unknown. Fia Mia gave me the gift of “being” and that is something that I will never, ever forget and something that I appreciate every morning when I wake up and see her framed face on my gallery wall. I got my horse after all.

 

 

July 11th and Pamela's Introduction

July 11^th

My first day in South Carolina I wake up sick to my stomach. I make it down the stairs and head into the hallway where I hear my mom, sister and aunt up talking. I assume my mom has already told my aunt (she was not aware of what was happening) what was going on and it seemed way too early to tackle that subject so I hied in the hallway like a weirdo debating whether I am going to go back upstairs or head into the living room and get it all over it. I take a deep breath and decide to face the music.

Luckily no one mentions anything to me about it and I’m thankful. We eat breakfast on the porch and I tell my mom that I’ll talk to Linda (my aunt) when and if I’m ready. My mom says that was fine and she feels hesitant saying anything because she doesn’t want to ruin our vacation. I agree because I haven’t seen this side of the family in almost 9 years and I’m not sure if it would be worth it now to say anything, even though Linda is the only person in my family who has ever been diagnosed with breast cancer and it would be helpful to speak to her, but I’m not sure about the timing. I mean, when is the correct time to slip that information in? “Hi Linda, I’ve missed you, it’s been so long. Sure, I’ll take some French toast for breakfast. By the way I have Breast Cancer. Do you have any orange juice?” There is no way to approach this without it being incredibly awkward. Lord knows I would drop the bomb on her then offer to make her a sandwich since that seems to be my M.O.

The day goes on and we take the kids to the pool and it becomes a great distraction. After dinner my sister takes the kids on a walk down to the pond and my mom takes her wine (lucky bitch) out to the porch. Linda and I are alone in the kitchen and the timing just seems right. Each time I attempt to ask her to talk, my stomach fills with knots and I start sweating. Finally I suck it up and ask if I can talk to her about something. I start rushing through and fumbling on my words because I want the words out just as fast as I want this cancer out of my body. I think that I am secretly hoping that the faster I say it, the faster I will beat this thing, like it’s a magical correlation of a cure. Insurance companies would sure hate that hidden cure! As my verbal vomit continues to happen I see tears well up in her eyes and then something happens in terms of her response that has not happened to me yet. We both just start hugging, then laughing. It feels so good to laugh. I used to laugh really hard almost every day, one of those days seems forever ago now. Linda totally gets it. She starts telling me all of these funny stories that happened with her prosthetic and people’s reactions to awkward situations with it. She shares her experience with telling those around her, their responses and her treatment. It was in this interaction that I received something that no one else has been able to give to me…understanding. It was so relieving to hear someone else talk about their experience, and to sit and listen instead of having to beat a dead horse about it. Where does that saying come from by the way? “Beat a dead horse?” I would never do that, for one it’s creepy. Why are we beating something if it’s dead? Isn’t that a diagnosable mental disorder? And second, why a horse? Horses are the best, if we have to beat a dead animal, why can’t it be something like an armadillo or a snake?

Our conversation was like a surge of energy for me, I was laughing, listening and actually enjoying talking to someone rather than trying to pretend to enjoy myself. Linda gave me a gift that no one else has been able to give me…I now feel 100% ready to move forward and get this shit cut off of my body.

Let’s go back when I mentioned my aunt telling me funny stories about her prosthetic. She assured me that they, too, would happen to me and boy they happen on a daily basis. Rewinding to her though, she tells a funny story of being a teacher and pulling up to school in her car. She was wearing a turtleneck that day. She gets out of her car and goes around to the other side to get her books out and as she leans back up after bending over she notices that her prosthetic has crept up into her turtleneck and left a huge lump in her neck. She frantically was trying to push it back down into its rightful location as school was ready to begin. She also dove into a pool in Mexico and her prosthetic ejected out of her suit across the water. Sure enough, when she guaranteed that the same would happen to me, she was right…and now I would like to introduce the comedy portion of this entry called “Darn you Pamela!”

First off let me introduce you to Pamela, my prosthetic. I have two sizes:  C cup and a D cup. Darin has named my C cup Pamela and my D cup Dolly. Pamela was worn while I was still pregnant and after delivery I had to put her up on the shelf and pull out the heavy artillery, Dolly. Let me tell you that these things look like giant cotton balls and in no way resemble the shape of a breast. When I don’t wear it, it’s obvious (one side C/D cup one side 4^th grade girl), but when I do wear it, I have a very strange sized boob competing with the natural one. Either way, it’s a circus. Pamela is a trouble maker. She doesn’t like to stay in one spot and is constantly getting in trouble for roaming about the cabin. She is a gypsy prosthetic. For six weeks after my surgery I couldn’t wear anything on my phantom boob side, well I wasn’t supposed to wear anything. But I found ways around it (more to come in another blog). I would pick Marco up from preschool, run my daily errands and just hang around with one boob and a big pregnant belly. I was very attractive. On the day I got Pamela, I popped her in and went to pick Marco up from preschool. When he saw me he comes flying up to me and in front of his teachers and classmates be shouts, “MOM! You got a new boob! Hey guys, my mom got a BOOB!” Was I embarrassed? No. Was I mad that my 3 year old just called me out? No. Did I find it hilarious? YES! Plus, what an observant little guy. His teachers started laughing and his friends peeked up from playing and looked at me unimpressed. On another day, I went outside to Marco’s playground to get him. He comes flying off the slide clearly with an ulterior motive. I squat down to hug him and he reaches down my tank top and pulls out Pamela quicker than I can grab her and holds her up above his head and takes off running. Pamela has just been mugged at a preschool. Marco shoves Pamela up his shirt and starts running around yelling that he just got a new boob. This time, his friends are impressed and they all start chasing him. How in the hell is a piece of gross lopsided cotton more fun to play with than playground equipment? I am helpless against this gang of thugs and watch poor Pamela get smaller and smaller in the distance.  

In my first post I talked about letting things go. These experiences have helped me let go of any sense of normalcy that I wanted. Besides, being normal is boring. Plus, if I am in the .01% of people that will be diagnosed with Paget’s while pregnant, my life is going to be anything but normal. I should’ve starred in Pure Luck. More to come on “Darn you Pamela!” but coming up next is the most incredible experience with a therapy horse that you can imagine…

Doesn't it Sound Great? and July 10th

July 10^th

There is something to be said about lessons learned when we push ourselves out of our comfort zone. I can’t blame myself for not wanting to go to South Carolina and feeling uncomfortable about the trip. Here’s how I hear it in my head when the Gods were planning my trip: let’s take a healthy young lady, give her breast cancer, oh yeah, let’s make sure she’s 6 months pregnant too. Then, let’s send her on a trip. But make her go with a 2 year boy who is half cheetah, half lunatic. Let’s make her trip long, like a few 4 hour flights, then a really long layover in between the flights. I think we’re taking it too easy on her…what could we do that would really bring her to her knees? Got it! Let’s make sure she can’t drink any alcohol or sit near her sister on the plane. I’m not dramatic. I’m not dramatic. I’m not dramatic. The lesson learned, as you will read over the next few blogs is that something absolutely incredible happens to me on this trip. Yes, this trip that I so eloquently described as a ball full of fun earlier. Going out of my comfort zone provided me with a pivotal moment that I will never, ever forget and that I will forever be grateful for. I can’t wait to write about it. But, it’s not in today’s blog. SORRY!

I flew to South Carolina today. Marco was unbelievably good on the plane. It’s been a very long day and I am drained. We left at 6:00AM and arrived in Aiken, after driving for an hour after we landed around 9:00pm. Marco has been a serious trooper, entertaining everyone with songs about “Papa’s beer” and other interesting creations. I’m tired, edgy and just want to sleep. There were numerous times where I started panicking on the plane and I felt like I was going to explode. I know at some point a public meltdown is going to happen and I am trying my best to avoid it. I don’t know what exactly won’t let me put my guard down around people, but once I get around people I refuse to let on what’s truly going on. The panic attacks still happen, the constant outbreaks of sweat- especially in my left armpit (WHY?) and all these jumbled up emotions, but I repress all of it once I leave my house and am in public. As I was sitting on the plane, Marco was asleep and I started to write in my journal. Just starting to write,  I could feel the vomit creep up my throat, I start sweating and shaking. A fucking full blown panic attack starts. I look back and my sister and mom are sleeping. I look next to me and Marco is asleep. I look across from me and Maddie and Jack (my niece and nephew) are watching a movie. I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME! I am just getting ready to lose it, tears fill my eyes and some person in front of me turns around and glances at me. That one glance, thank god, snaps me out of it and I smile at them. They smile back and I am saved by the bell. Now, if only a less bloated younger Mark Paul Gosselar was sitting near me…It’s hard to explain, but I have no idea what is going to happen if I melt down in public, which is why I’m scared. I think it’s because I won’t be able to control it and I don’t want to answer a bunch of questions or to have people feel sorry for me.

When we arrive in Aiken all the kids plug in and recharge their batteries I’m not talking technology here. Marco goes into full blown crazy mode and when this happens there is no off switch. Everyone is drinking, hugging and laughing. I am watching everyone else’s vacation start and I just want to sleep. I am the luckiest one on this trip because I get the pleasure of staying sober and sharing a room with a 2 year old, 9 year old and 12 year old. It’s almost midnight. I am in a really pleasant mood with each second that ticks by with no sign of nighty nighty time yet. These kids are prime college student party candidates and I am the old cranky lady that calls the police on their house party because it’s interrupting my Murder She Wrote. By this point I almost use every offensive word I can think of to make these kids go to bed, because everyone knows that cussing and yelling makes kids sleep. Before “cuss fest 2015” erupts, Marco comes and lays with me. He curls up and tells me I am his best buddy. My first reaction is to start crying out of guilt because of all the bad words I was associating with him in my head, then I just start laughing because this is what makes a 2 year old awesome. I close my eyes and wake up in the morning to Marco wrapped around my neck like a cat. I don’t recall having any nightmares but my sheets are soaked in sweat and my whole body is tense and sore. All I want to do is go home.

To Go or Not to Go and July 9th

July 9^th

I have kept two running journals. One on my computer because I can type a lot faster than writing by hand and then another journal in a spiral bound notebook. Sometimes the dates backtrack because I would alternate back and forth depending on what I felt like doing at the time.  

For a few months prior to my diagnosis my family had a trip planned to South Carolina to visit my aunt, uncle and see my grandma for her birthday. She’s turning 90 something. The reason why I don’t know her exact age is because I don’t ever see my extended family. Plus, once you hit 90 I feel like anything after that could be called at any point so why keep track? I just say that because I feel bad that I don’t know how old my grandma is. But, I do know that her name is Ellen and that she used to be good at baking pies, so take that you judgers!

Anyhow, this trip was planned and just happened to land on the week before my surgery. My surgeon said that she wanted me to go on my trip and enjoy myself. One last boobie hoorah before I was getting rid of that piece of junk. That is not a direct quote from my surgeon. Pretty soon, my entries will be much more light hearted and not so dark and intense because an unbelievable turning point happened in South Carolina, but for the time leading up to my surgery things were crummy. Without further ado…

I was up until 3:00AM this morning worrying. I can’t sleep. I’m afraid of the nightmares I keep having so I am going on strike against rest. I’ll show you, stupid sleep! I haven’t had any in 2 years anyway, so just watch me go another few weeks! Plus, I am feeling overwhelmed with my own worries and taking care of everyone else and worrying about how my friends and family are handling everything, especially Darin. Marco wakes up at 4 AM so I stay awake the rest of the day.

Today was really hard. I’m not sure if being exhausted sparked everything but I’ve cried most of the day. I think things are settling in and the enormity of the situation is becoming clear. I have fucking cancer and I can’t believe it. I am pregnant with cancer and that to me just seems so unfair. I am young and healthy. I don’t have any family history of breast cancer except for one aunt. I am a hardworking, honest, kind person. Why the hell is this happening? I feel like I can barely function. I try to hold it together in front of Darin and Marco. I go the laundry room to “steam clothes” and I just close the door and cry. I start steaming clothes that don’t need it, just so I can hide in the laundry room and cry. The upside is, our clothes look brand new. Tears keep coming and I feel exhausted. When I try to talk I start crying, so I just say that I have more clothes to steam.

I’m supposed to leave for South Carolina tomorrow (with newly steamed nice looking clothes mind you) and the thought of entertaining Marco for hours on end on the plane and in the airport, getting up at 4 AM, trying to be patient and nice to everyone and being in a very loud and busy environment for the next 4 days sounds miserable to me.

My parents come over and they can tell something is wrong. We are sitting outside and I just sit and stare off into the yard like a zombie. My dad asks if I still want to go and I can’t lie. I say, “no”, but I feel obligated because he’s already bought me a ticket and there isn’t a way Marco would understand why we aren’t going. My parents sit quietly and tell me that I don’t have to go. I tell them that I’ll think about it and decide later, even though I know that I’m going to have to suck it up and go…