January 9, 2019

The Roller Coaster, the Cocktail, and the Killer Boob: Breast Cancer Gets Real

You know that moment—right at the top of a Six Flags roller coaster, just before the drop—when your entire body screams, “NOPE,” but it’s too late to get off? That’s exactly what breast cancer feels like. Except the ride doesn’t end after 120 seconds. It just. Keeps. Going.

Warning: Respite followed by a medical appointment marathon means this is a LONG READ. But I promised to bring you along, loopty loops and all.

The last few weeks have felt like that never-ending climb to the top of the coaster. You’re strapped in. You can’t see what’s coming. You’d give anything to hit eject and sprint to the parking lot. But then… something miraculous happens. You crest the top. You see the ride ahead. It might be scary as hell, but at least now you know the track.

That’s where we are.

After three weeks of poking, prodding, praying, and pathology, we’ve hit a moment of clarity. Our normal is about to change. Surgery normal. Chemo normal. Hair-loss normal. Menopause normal. (Steve is going to need a seatbelt. Maybe a helmet.)

Here’s the lowdown on what’s ahead:

🎯 Round 1: Reconstruction Consult

We met with Dr. Hutter—our plastic/reconstruction surgeon. Super kind, thorough, and a short drive from home (praise be). I went in thinking I could use my own tissue for reconstruction. Turns out my “love muffin” isn’t quite generous enough. (Shocking, I know. I’m taking it as a compliment.)

So: implants it is. He’s confident we can match the old gal to the new model, though we may need to perk her up a bit. And yes, the killer boob got its very own glamour shots for the medical files—complete with my school badge in the frame. Professionalism, always.

⏰ Round 2: Valley Medical Marathon (12:45–5:00pm)

We were hangry, overstimulated, and deeply impressed. We met the full team: breast surgeon, oncologist, radiologist, nurse navigator, scheduler. Valley brought their A-game. Dr. Ingber (oncologist) thinks I’m “very young” for this cancer (I’ll take that compliment too!) and wants a PET scan before surgery. His chemo plan is aggressive, but familiar. We’ll cross that cocktail bridge (with umbrella) after surgery.

🚗 Round 3: Overlake Surgery Plan

Despite the hour-long drive for 9 miles (Seattle traffic is a villain), we love Dr. Harrington. We signed pre-op papers. Surgery is scheduled for Tuesday, January 29.
It’s a full mastectomy on the left, lymph node biopsy, and—praise be—I’m a candidate for nipple sparing. I also get to take Xanax before surgery, so Steve doesn’t have to drag me in by my ankles. That’s love.

I still want off this ride. I still fantasize about disappearing into the warm sands of a Mexican beach with a coconut cocktail. But I’m here. Held. Seen. Loved. I’m riding this out not alone—but in community. This isn’t a solo mission. This is a full-blown miracle parade.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
You didn’t sign up for this roller coaster. You were minding your business, wearing your school badge, slinging chicken nuggets, living your life. But here you are.
You’re showing up. Asking questions. Signing scary forms.
And through it all, you are LOVED. Loudly, thoroughly, ridiculously.
Let them perk up the old gal. Take the Xanax. Wear the reindeer slippers.
You’re doing this, sister.
Love,
Me