On January 31 2017, at the age of 30, Liz was diagnosed with stage IIIb breast cancer. Already a caregiver to her husband with mesothelioma, she had this to say in response: "Real cool of you, life. Real cool."
Sunday, Jan. 29, 2017
I'm supposed to be on a plane to Wisconsin. Instead, I'm still in Buffalo popping Xanax and adjusting cold packs in my bra.
The trip to Paul's family home was planned as a breather after a grueling chemo trial. It was more than grueling—it nearly killed the poor guy. A fact that might offer something in the way of an explanation as to why it took me until mid-January to even notice there was a massive lump in my right breast. I had been preoccupied. Slightly.
When I make the appointment with my gynecologist I'm not hugely concerned. Lumps happen.
She writes me a script for an ultrasound and mammogram. I beg for the earliest appointment they can give me (because: Wisconsin.)
I get a big fat "F" on both tests. I'm stunned. The radiologist classifies me as BI-RADS 5, meaning a 95% chance of malignancy. Meaning I needed a biopsy. Meaning traveling out of state was not in my best interest.
During my biopsy, the radiologist and I chit-chat amicably, and I'm all mellow and cooperative and bending my arm this way and that. And they're all "you're so stoic and pleasant and calm."
That's it then. Now we are that odd-looking, young-ish bald couple, strolling (ever so slowly) down the bike path with our (possibly disheveled) toddler. Life keeps moving, the way it does. And we just keep on keepin' on.
I'm supposed to be on a plane to Wisconsin. Instead, I'm still in Buffalo popping Xanax and adjusting cold packs in my bra.
The trip to Paul's family home was planned as a breather after a grueling chemo trial. It was more than grueling—it nearly killed the poor guy. A fact that might offer something in the way of an explanation as to why it took me until mid-January to even notice there was a massive lump in my right breast. I had been preoccupied. Slightly.
When I make the appointment with my gynecologist I'm not hugely concerned. Lumps happen.
She writes me a script for an ultrasound and mammogram. I beg for the earliest appointment they can give me (because: Wisconsin.)
I get a big fat "F" on both tests. I'm stunned. The radiologist classifies me as BI-RADS 5, meaning a 95% chance of malignancy. Meaning I needed a biopsy. Meaning traveling out of state was not in my best interest.
During my biopsy, the radiologist and I chit-chat amicably, and I'm all mellow and cooperative and bending my arm this way and that. And they're all "you're so stoic and pleasant and calm."
But when it's over, I get a familiar look. One that says "I'm so sorry. This is bad." They tell me their team will cocoon me with care. And I feel my lips tremble and all that baloney about calm stoicism flies out the window.
Paul and I have decisions to make, but we mostly cry that first night (it's pitiful). Eventually, we discuss travel plans, and I decide to stay behind until I get an official yea or nay on the matter. I keep texting Paul and his family: "Don't worry. I'll join you guys when my results come in. Can't wait to party in Wisco!" But I don't believe it.
My biopsy was done on a Friday, which meant a loooong weekend of lying to everyone, over and over: "It's probably nothing."
Paul and Ingrid fly to Wisconsin. I spend the weekend at my sister's place. We get drunk on Moscow Mules and cry about stupid cancer messing up my nice life. We laugh about cheesy bands and "Crutchy" from Newsies—not the fact that he's a disabled kid, but I don't know—his name is Crutchy and we haven't thought about Newsies in ten years and it's hilarious and we love the '90s. We even hugged.
Paul and I have decisions to make, but we mostly cry that first night (it's pitiful). Eventually, we discuss travel plans, and I decide to stay behind until I get an official yea or nay on the matter. I keep texting Paul and his family: "Don't worry. I'll join you guys when my results come in. Can't wait to party in Wisco!" But I don't believe it.
My biopsy was done on a Friday, which meant a loooong weekend of lying to everyone, over and over: "It's probably nothing."
Paul and Ingrid fly to Wisconsin. I spend the weekend at my sister's place. We get drunk on Moscow Mules and cry about stupid cancer messing up my nice life. We laugh about cheesy bands and "Crutchy" from Newsies—not the fact that he's a disabled kid, but I don't know—his name is Crutchy and we haven't thought about Newsies in ten years and it's hilarious and we love the '90s. We even hugged.
Tuesday Jan. 31: "I'm sorry. It's cancer."
From there it's a perfect storm of appointments: MRI, echocardiogram, a second biopsy, bone scan, CT scan, bloodwork, meetings with a surgeon, a plastic surgeon, an oncologist, a fertility specialist, a genetic counselor...Within a week I have my Mediport surgically placed. By week two, Paul is back from Wisconsin and it's time for his first immunotherapy infusion at Roswell.
That's it then. Now we are that odd-looking, young-ish bald couple, strolling (ever so slowly) down the bike path with our (possibly disheveled) toddler. Life keeps moving, the way it does. And we just keep on keepin' on.
Thanks for sharing a great thing about health. Keep sharing.
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