DAY FOUR.

“My dad told me none of us make it through life without having to fight a few battles along the way.”

He said that yesterday, on Day Three, and he would know, as he’s fought more than a few difficult battles of his own. And if you know me, you probably know my dad’s story so I won’t bore you with a repeat…just these two photographs of him, from before he lost his eyes and after.

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When I told him that having cancer felt surreal, like something that happens to other people, not to you, he laughed and said, “Yeah, I get it. Kinda like going blind.”

“Yep,” I replied, and laughed as well. “Exactly that.”

Today is DAY FOUR. Day One I spent mostly in tears, trying to process something that I very much doubt anyone is ever able to reconcile oneself to. Day Two was spent in a quiet daze, still crying, just a little less so. But yesterday, on Day Three, I had to get up, get dressed, and take myself to my Breast MRI. For anyone who doesn’t know, MRI stands for magnetic resonance imaging. It uses radio waves and strong magnets to make detailed pictures of inside the body. Typically women get Breast MRI’s when they’re at high risk for breast cancer, or if they already have it. Basically, it gives a much clearer picture of inside the breast than a mammogram or an ultrasound does.

Later on in the day my husband, Sean, and I met with a Genetic Counselor who took samples of my saliva for testing. Genetic testing is important because, along with the results of my MRI, it will determine what sort of surgery and/or treatment I’ll need to have — think a lumpectomy with radiation treatment v. a bilateral mastectomy. Neither sound particularly appealing, but I have cancer, so unless my Fairy Godmother appears and waves her magic wand, some form of surgery and/or treatment is inevitable.

So far this is what I’ve learned:

1.) The type of Breast Cancer I have is Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC). It’s cancer that began growing inside a milk duct and has since invaded the breast tissue outside of the duct. It’s also the most common form of breast cancer. (However, I don’t yet know if my cancer is hormone positive or negative. Still waiting on that, as well as what stage cancer I have.)

2.) The area of cancer detected in my breast is small, approximately 1cm. The MRI results will tell me if it’s spread to anywhere else in my breast, or to my lymph nodes.

3.) That’s it. I won’t know any more until Monday—DAY SEVEN.

Back in 2004, during her battle with breast cancer, my mother had genetic testing done. This was before insurance covered it and she paid upwards of $3000.00 to know if there was a possibility her children may be at risk. Her test results were negative, much to everyone’s surprise. However, yesterday, after speaking extensively with my genetic counselor, if my mother were to be re-tested today she might have very different results, as genetic testing has since evolved. Our family checks off a lot of the boxes that determine whether or not our genes play a part in our multi-generational breast cancer diagnoses. Not only have multiple people on the same side of my family been diagnosed with breast cancer, but two of us were diagnosed with early onset, and one of us was diagnosed with Triple Negative — a specific type of breast cancer directly linked to a genetic mutation.

If I end up testing negative, it’s either a genetic mutation that hasn’t been discovered yet, or our family has some seriously shitty luck.

*sigh* These last four days have been an absolute whirlwind—an exhausting tsunami of information and emotion, leaving me feeling wrung out and ready to sleep for a week.

Funnily enough, I used to hate sleeping. Sleeping meant five to eight hours before I could carry on with life. It felt like an inconvenience, and quite frankly, a mood killer. Because once upon a time, I was traveling through life at 120 mph without brakes, utterly unconcerned about the possibility of a head-on collision…maybe even subconsciously wishing for one.

For a little while I was a wild child. I sought thrills from wherever I could find them. I was addicted to the butterflies in my stomach. To defying whatever I could, however I could, be it my parents, school, society, or the law.

Some would have called me fearless. Others, reckless. Idiotic, even. A little bit damaged. As a grown woman looking back on her life thus far, I recall a girl so determined to feel alive, on a quest for literally anything beyond the shallow boxes we are all born into, that she didn’t realize she was slowly killing herself.

Living, really living, isn’t found running at full speed into brick walls, sleeping off your concussion, and doing it all over again the next day. Really living is found in the cracks and crevices, in-between the big, memorable moments, inside the places you’d least expect it to be.

Really living isn’t the bungee jump itself but who you’re grinning at when you’re standing on solid ground once again. I’m talking about you, Lindsay!

Really living wasn’t the Friday to Sunday partying, fueled by drugs and alcohol. It wasn’t the reckless abandon of in-the-moment lust, or spinning around the inside of a club. It wasn’t jumping off a bridge without the knowledge of how deep or shallow the water beneath was. It wasn’t driving 90 mph without a seat-belt on.

Really living was curling up on the couch with Shannon after school, Lifetime movie marathon on, chips in one hand, dip in the other. And gossip for days at the ready.

Really living was Sunday nights at the gas station on the corner. Aaron and I sitting on the counter-top, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, talking books and music and life, and whatever else came to mind.

Really living wasn’t the day I married Sean, it was the day I realized I wanted to marry Sean.

I guess that’s how I’m going to try and view this next stage of my life. It isn’t the cancer that’s important, but how I live my life around the cancer.