When I was in the initial stages of receiving this diagnosis, when it was still new and life-consuming, yet still hidden and known only by me and my husband, a friend had called to chat and catch up.  We were both having simultaneous “that reminds me of [friend]” in our separate lives and after I sent her a text one day, she responded with a call saying, “We need to catch up!” So we caught up on the day to day of our lives, the kids, work, etc.  She let me know that an author we both admire, Elizabeth Berg, would be speaking locally. She was going and I should join if I could make it. My friend had been reading Berg for years. I’d only just discovered her a few years earlier and inconsistently read her.  Every book I read though, always stayed with me. There was always something I took from her work that I didn’t expect to find. Hidden lessons, new perspectives, powerful moments, all seemed to appear and directly related to some aspect of my life that I didn’t even realize needed guidance.  Of course, the day Berg was speaking was one of those how-many-things-can-we-fit-into-24-hours days. I couldn’t make it.

While I was in the conversation with this friend, I had my first, but not even close to last, internal struggle with wanting to tell her about my cancer because she was dear to me, but not wanting to say anything because it made it real, but wanting to say something because I felt like I was flat out lying if not, but not wanting to say anything because saying it made it real and required it to be talked about, but wanting to say something because at some point she’d know that I didn’t tell her, but not wanting say anything because it was such a huge bomb to drop into what was an otherwise pleasant conversation.  

This type of internal struggle with “telling people about my cancer” has popped up time and time and time again. And it never seems to get easier. “Oh, hi [son’s friend’s mom who I really enjoy]! How was your summer? Oh me, yes, had a lot of fun.  Went camping, read some books, got cancer! And you?” And then there are the times I don’t say anything. And it never has anything to do with the person (and for those people, I do hope there are no hard feelings, it had everything to do with me in that moment). Instead, it has to do with the fact that I just didn’t want to think about cancer or I just wasn’t feeling strong that day and didn’t want to lie about feeling strong or cry because, on that day, I couldn’t find any positivity.  

So, on this day, in this conversation with my friend, I decided to try out sharing my news for the first time. It came out something like, “Hey, I’ve got some heavy news to share and I haven’t told anyone yet and I don’t know how I’m going to do with saying it, but I have decided that I’m going to start telling people and would like you to know.  I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer.” And then the conversation proceeded and was amazing and supportive and after we hung up, I cried but I also exhaled. I shared my story and I received support in return.  

I am forever thankful for that first conversation and for the fact that I decided to “go public,” even if at times I failed people or friendships in how I shared about my cancer.  The support I received has, truly, been life changing.

A few months later, while recovering from my mastectomy, this friend stopped by to visit and have lunch. Along with delicious salads, she brought along a few of her copies of Berg’s books.  The timing was perfect because I had just finished a different book the day before. The selection she brought, however, was even better.  You see, earlier that summer, back when the diagnosis was still raw, after that “first” cancer conversation with her, I had grabbed a few Berg books from the library.  My emotions then were still so fragile, so varied, so unsettled.  And everything I viewed was seen through cancer-colored glasses.  It was like those pictures that people post on social media with words written on them.  Watching my kids jump in the pool with “I have cancer” scribbled at the bottom.  Paying the bills on a Wednesday night with “There’s a cancer growing in me” stamped at the top. I had tried reading a Berg book and decided that I just couldn’t finish it. Which is actually something that I have NEVER done! I’ve never not finished a (fiction) book I’ve started, even if I hate it. I always just have to see it through, see what I end up discovering.  But, while reading this Berg book, I was getting soooo angry with this character, this wealthy 42 year old female divorcee who was so saaad because she was getting a divorce, who could afford to get back at her husband by buying place settings at Tiffany’s, who was so disgruntled that she’d have to get a jobbbb. I was like, “Screw you, lady. You should go get a mammogram and STFU!” So I closed [slammed] the book, put it in the library bag, and with a sense of righteousness, returned that book, UNFINISHED, to the after hours library bin. Take that!

Well, wouldn’t you know it, that book was in the bag my friend brought.  And just a few days earlier I had been thinking about that character, wondering whatever happened to her, and had made a note to check it out from the library again. (It was inevitable. The book couldn’t sit there on the shelves unfinished by me.) So I found the part [in the pathetic woman’s life] I left off on and started reading. And kept reading. And started thinking. And started seeing. This [ahem, now, transitioning] woman was dealt a blow in life she didn’t expect and hadn’t prepared for and now she was forced to deal with it while caring for her son, managing her home, maturing in her early 40s, and maintaining a role in her social circles and community.  Suddenly, this woman’s transformation had a bit of a different appeal to me than it had a few months prior. She was still slightly pathetic in some of her actions (dude, Martha Stewart is not where it’s at), but she was finding her strength when she was weak, finding her voice when she felt silenced, and allowing change to cause growth. Good ol’ Berg. She got me again.

It happens in the strangest of places, if you look at it right.

There are so many ways to describe the variety of emotions that surfaced when I was going through the diagnosis stage of this cancer.  In reflection, one that stands out now is that of feeling dazed. How I processed everything slowed down because in every thought, in every action, in the background of my mind was the floating question and then statement: I have cancer? I have cancer.

My breast biopsy on July 17th was also my 14th wedding anniversary and while the cancer was not confirmed until two days later, I was informed that based on the scans, it was pretty likely going to be cancer. Because of the way my vacation had fallen in coordination with my mammogram and biopsy, I had been wondering for two weeks if it was really going to turn out to be cancer. Every thought, every activity, was jammed with cancer on the brain.

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I recall watching my kids and friends’ kids swimming in the pool on vacation and finding myself dedicated to every single second of that magical pool time, wondering if in the future cancer would take moments like that away. I recall sitting at the top of a ferris wheel, remarking on the view, wondering if cancer was growing inside me, and then really seeing the view [and, of course, taking a selfie]. I recall grocery shopping with a chatty check-out clerk and smiling back, wondering if she’d ever dealt with this. I recall then looking beyond her, at all the beautifully diverse people in the check-out lines, and wondering who else was grocery shopping with cancer, and then, who else was managing a silent struggle while still getting the groceries done. 

I recall going through this odd period of doing every normal, summer day-to-day thing, while silently fostering a running dialogue. “I’m filling my gas tank and might have cancer.” “There’s cancer in my breast, but the laundry is the same.” “I’m driving in a car and going home and I have cancer.” “I’m sitting at the beach with cancer.”

I recall seeing everything just a little bit differently, too. It’s hard to describe, exactly. And it wasn’t like my own personality changed and I just saw LIFE and BEAUTY and NEVER SWEAT the SMALL STUFF everywhere, but there was a tweak of positivity, or was it of possibility, to everything I was experiencing.

Simultaneously, with the confirmed diagnosis, along with the continued daze, were all of these all-consuming emotions. Fear, crying, anger, disbelief, shock, shock, shock, confusion, urgency, the list could go on. Then, the emotions moved into acceptance, acknowledgment, action. And then they’d move back again. And so forth.

At some point in this, I’d been doing a dazed scroll through Facebook. Someone had posted a quote from the Grateful Dead’s Scarlett Begonias, “Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”  And I paused and stared at that post. I read it over a few times. I sang it. I tried it on for size and it fit. And I felt the daze lift. [And the true irony here is that it was while reading lyrics by the Dead that a daze lifted rather than ensued. I know.] 

With the lyrics on repeat, I saw what had been so foggy for the past few weeks in a new light.  I realized that all of my tangled emotions in this were related to being angry with having the disease while being elated that it was discovered so early, being distraught at what it would do to my body while being relieved that it was only in one part of my body, being so sad that my life would forever be impacted while being so thankful that my life would go on. 

How I looked at this disease, and this diagnosis, was my choice.  Regardless of what I chose or thought or felt, the disease was not going to go away and the course of treatment was not going to change. I could choose positivity and gratitude or I could choose anger and resentment. I wouldn’t be foolish enough to think I could control my emotions, because those all needed to come and swing and be felt and processed, but I could choose which to hold and which to let move along and when to do so for each. There were so many choices I couldn’t make about cancer, but how I chose to approach it was up to me. 

In this very strange place of being diagnosed with cancer, I could see the light and I could feel gratitude, if I allowed myself to really look at it just right.

And so, this blog titled, “If You Look At It Right.”

I have to laugh. I spend so much time with my students working on how to vary word choice when writing, but all I can keep saying in my text these days is “thank you.” Thank you a million times over. And a million times over that. 

Your messages, cards, meals, flowers, care packages, errands, pick ups, childcare, coffee, thoughts, emojis (for real, the emojis!), gifts, drives, books. Even the milk!! It all means so much. I am humbled by your thoughtfulness and generosity. 

In the early days of this diagnosis, and even in the most recent healing days, there were many tears shed for how this cancer would forever change me, would forever impact who I am. I find new tears now in realizing that some of those forever changes will be in my memories of these beautiful, selfless gestures of care and how they have shaped me.

I’m healing well from the mastectomy and moving forward slowly but steadily. I’ve been able to wean off the pain meds and am only using Tylenol. I get out for a slow walk every morning and try to set a few tasks to accomplish each day. I continue (although I know I shouldn’t) to be shocked at how easily I become exhausted and how much I need my couch! I’m still limited on mobility, weight lifting, driving, and aspects of daily living. 

I’m also scared about the upcoming chemo. My pathology is still pending and the results will inform me and my team of the plan and timeline for treatment. I deeply believe in the idea that knowledge is power. And I look forward to having an understanding of what to expect as a way to aid in calming my nerves.

It also still really hurts to laugh. Like, really bad. But, I also deeply believe that laughter is the best medicine. So, I’ll choose to smile and chuckle or crack that joke. I’ll try to find the humor in all this.

And in those tough moments, when I can’t laugh, I will allow the harder emotions, but I will also find the gratitude. I’m still so thankful for this early detection and I’m so thankful for all of your support.

I’d never say this to my students, but you know what, to hell with varied word choice. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!

When you turn 40 as a female, it is recommended that you get a mammogram.  When I turned 40 in November 2017, I didn’t even think of it.  When I visited my (amazing) ob/gyn for my annual appointment in April of 2018, she kindly and directly told me it was time to schedule a mammogram.  She took the time to explain the procedure to me, reassured me that this was standard “you are now 40” protocol, and presented me with a tidy and informative card with all the directions needed to schedule the mammogram.  She also reminded me that I had “dense” breasts and that, because I was young and because this was my first mammogram, I would likely be called back for a second look.  It was standard procedure and best practice.

I took that card and added it to my pile (oh, the never ending pile!) of to-do paperwork.  The card surfaced at the end of June, when I was done with my teaching school year, when I had been reminded of the mammogram after my annual PCP physical in mid June, and when I had time to think of things other than my work as a special educator and parent.  So, I made the call and I made an appointment for two days later.  It would be June 29th at 7:15 am.  I’d be able to get to the appointment and get home before my husband had to leave for the train.  (Check that off the to-do list!) I was out with a friend on the evening of June 28th and I remember saying that I felt old because I was going in for my first mammogram.  I remember returning home from the mammogram with sore and reddened breasts, exclaiming about how, in the year 2018, could that be the best way to build a machine.  

On July 2nd, I received the call telling me that I was, in fact, young and my breasts were, in fact, dense, and that because this was my first mammogram, it would be helpful for me to come back in and have a second set of scans done.  I made the appointment for 9:30 on July 5th.  I hinted at my concerns at a 4th of July party with friends.  We all agreed that this was standard procedure and I was lucky to have a diligent medical team.

On July 5th, I was prepared for the pain and squeeze.  I wasn’t so prepared to be so kindly brought to the waiting room and offered coffee or tea while the scans were being read.  I wasn’t so prepared to be brought, gently and compassionately, to the the ultrasound room to  look more carefully at my left breast.  I wasn’t  prepared to speak with a competent and respectful radiologist.  I wasn’t prepared to schedule a breast biopsy.  

I will also add here that, although I should have known this, I didn’t quite understand how much of a rock star my ob/gyn was.  I had barely returned home from the appointment when she called me to check in and see how I was doing, what this all might mean, and to reassure me that even if this was bad news, I would be okay.  She also  reassured me that going on my planned vacation for the following week was still okay and that I should enjoy myself.  This woman cared for me during both of my pregnancies.  I was already so grateful for her role in my life.  I’ll forever be grateful for that call of reassurance, of compassion, of guidance that day.

And then it all took off in the direction no one expected.  I had no family history of cancer.  I met none of items on the checklist of “potential causes of breast cancer.” I had no genetic mutations or genes that were predisposed to cancer.  However, I had cancer.  I had a single stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma tumor which was estrogen+ and HER2+.  I had a biopsy on July 17th to prove it.  I had a consultation with a breast surgeon team on July 20th to explain it.  I had an MRI on July 23rd to further examine and isolate it.  I had a second opinion consult on July 26th to validate it and continue to understand it.

Then, I sat with it.  I cried with it. I got angry with it. I got informed about it. And I moved forward with it.  And an amazing thing happened within this process.  For maybe one of the few times in my life, I could clearly see the positive in the negative, the good in the bad, the light in the darkness.  Oh, it could be so much worse! It could be so much further along.  I could have never gotten that mammogram.  I could have had an initial diagnosing team that ignored the mass due to it being a first mammogram.  It could be so much larger.  There could be multiple tumors.  I still cried.  I was still angry, distraught, shocked, confused.  I still found myself sitting, staring, unable to really be productive with anything.  But there was a level of gratitude with me at every step.  I was lucky.  I was also unlucky.  But, really, I was lucky.

I proceeded with a lumpectomy and lymph node biopsy on August 8th.  The day surgery left me in relatively little pain; more irritating and annoying than anything.  I was functioning and back on my feet and in my daily life within 24 hours.  The proposed plan was that chemotherapy would begin in 3 weeks.  Radiation would follow 12 weeks after that. That was the plan. (And I like plans.)

The lumpectomy pathology came back on August 21.  Again, I was lucky.  It had not spread my lymph nodes.  It continued to be contained to my breast.  But, I was also unlucky.  An abundance of of stage 0 cells were found in the margins of the normal tissue, with a small amount of stage 1 having also been seen.  The likelihood of getting it all with another lumpectomy would only be 50 percent. Chemotherapy would continue to be necessary, but a mastectomy was now recommended.  I scheduled a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction for September 7th and 12 weeks of chemotherapy began October 2nd.

All of the emotions of the initial diagnosis returned.  Including the shock.  Including the fear.  And, to a degree, the acceptance.  And, amazingly, throughout it all, the gratitude. It still could be so much worse.  I am still so lucky.  I am still so thankful. I only went in for my first preventative mammogram because I was 40.

In the beginning, it was blank lined newsprint paper with solid and dotted blue lines, which smudged when erasing #2 pencil marks.  Shortly after, the dotted lines disappeared and were replaced with wide ruled blue lines on stronger, white paper. The paper sometimes had margins, sometimes was loose leaf, and sometimes was bound in a metal spiral, which left a sprinkle of paper behind if torn out.  Over time, the wide ruled changed to college ruled, the spiral bound pages became perforated along the edges and pencils were replaced with pens of a preferred ink color and tip style. Bound journals were chosen with inspiring designs on the front and kept secretly within the piles of the teenage bedroom.  Spiral 5 subject notebooks were chosen based on color and texture and filled the various compartments of the LL Bean backpack. Loose leaf pages with 3-hole punches on the side were passed from the front row to the back in the high school and college classroom. For a short period of time, the paper was white and blank, and fed into a typewriter.  Not long after that, the blank paper was replaced with a blank screen and an attached keyboard and mouse replaced the pencils and pens. In time, the screen became attached to the keyboard and the device became portable. It became as easy to reach for and use as that dotted-lined newsprint paper had been way back in the beginning.

And every time, every single time that the blank paper, the blank journal, the blank screen presented itself, the same sense of anticipation, wonder, and desire was activated.  What journey could unfold on those pages? What could be explained? What could be imagined? What could be understood? What could be processed? What could be?

What could become?

That blank paper represented an opportunity to attend to those musings that appeared in the mundane moments.  It allowed for a place to react to the thoughts, the conclusions, that surfaced during the long car rides, in the shower, while doing the dishes, when folding the laundry, in the midst of a run, or along a mountain trail.  Those thoughts were ever present in the subconscious. When the page appeared, they had a purpose.

And so, a blog.