December 27, 2018

This morning, I got a phone call—from my first-ever BFF, the one from back when we were two little Texas girls playing down the block. We cried. We laughed. We asked, “Why us? Why now?” And then we laughed some more. Because that’s what we do.

Fall down. Get up. Look for the good. Cry. Laugh. Repeat.

She told me I had to share the MRI story. So, here it is. Because when cancer shows up in your life, laughter might just be the best IV drip.

I’ve done the MRI rodeo before—I’m not claustrophobic, so I usually just zen out and think about weird stuff, like how spotless those machines are. (Seriously, no dust? Is there a magical MRI Swiffer fairy?) Or whether a full-sized Seahawk could fit in one without becoming an MRI burrito.

A breast MRI is its own beast. You lay face down, your face mushed into a cradle, with your boobs nestled into these odd little padded hammocks. Honestly, someone needs to rig a GoPro in there. I’m convinced my squished-up face could be meme-worthy.

You have to stay perfectly still for 25 minutes while the machine bangs, barks, and blares like you’re being chased by robot wolves. Midway through, my right hip started twitching to the beat of the machine. I panicked: “Am I moving? Did I just ruin the whole thing?” But maybe it was just the machine shaking me. Existential MRI dread. The struggle is real.

And then—the phone rang. 8:00 AM. A Bellevue number.

I froze.

Dr. Harrington, my breast surgeon, was calling with the MRI results.

Good news: My right breast is clear. Lymph nodes still look good.
Not-so-great news: My tumor brought friends.

What I originally thought was one lonely jellyfish is actually a 2cm tumor under a 4cm mass, with two more masses discovered on either side and another unorganized one elsewhere. Apparently, my cancer is just as social as I am.

What this means: more biopsies. If they can’t spot them with ultrasound, I’ll have to go back in for MRI-guided biopsies. If these are indeed separate tumors, a lumpectomy is off the table. A mastectomy becomes the only option.

Today, we also met with radiology and oncology at Overlake. It was information overload. Steve and I are now in the stage of asking: What do we really want? What’s the best course for me—not just medically, but emotionally, spiritually, logistically?

Here’s what we know so far:

• Hormone-positive
• HER-2 negative (a win!)
• High Ki-67 = aggressive, fast-growing
• Genetic testing and biopsy results still pending
• Likely path: surgery mid-January, 6 months of chemo, then 40 days of radiation

It’s a lot. It’s rare for someone 47 with these mixed markers. So, true to form, I continue my reputation as a medical unicorn. My body refuses to do “normal.”

But here’s the hope.

We’ve got a trip booked to Puerto Vallarta for summer. We had no idea when we planned it how much we would need it. But we do. We really do.

And the love you all keep sending? It matters. Every prayer, every comment, every word—it’s oxygen.

Please keep my sweet family in your prayers too. Jenna and the boys are incredible, but watching your mama go through chemo isn’t easy. They need the village.

When cancer multiplies, so must our community. More tumors? More love. More fear? More truth-telling. We don’t get to choose what shows up. But we do get to decide who we show up with. And I am surrounded.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
You didn’t ask for this party of tumors. But you’re still the host. You’re the one holding space, holding hands, holding your breath, and somehow still laughing. You are allowed to grieve and still believe in healing. Keep showing up. Keep telling the truth. Keep wearing those slippers like armor.
With love and deep breath,
Me