Invasive Ductal Carcinoma diagnosis

"How did I spend my Summer Vacation?"

I know, I'm a grown ass woman, and I don't "get" summer vacation. In fact, I haven't had a legitimate vacation in nearly 10 years. Impossible? Hardly. I work a lot, and I travel for work. Therefore - the thought of packing a suitcase, paying for my own flight and hotel, standing in the security line at JFK or LaGuardia, being stuffed into an airplane, unpacking at the destination and trying to relax seems like an awful lot of work. Vacation for me? That sounds like watching a movie on my couch - or better yet - in bed with a big bowl of home popped popcorn and my family. And sleeping in. Maybe ordering sushi  and having it delivered.

Anyway, this past summer I was out of town for work. I worked 6 days a week, and had one day off. That was my schedule - and one would think, just one day off a week? But to me - it sounds like heaven. Unfortunately, the day before I left, I had a mammogram and sonogram. No biggie - I have been getting these awful tests done since my 20's. Having a strong family history makes the doctors furrow their brows and tell me what a shame it is, and back when I was in my early 20's and barely knew anything about the world, I was advised to consider a prophylactic double mastectomy with reconstruction. It was the thing to do back then, for women like me (well, at the age I was, I was more of a girl). Somehow, I decided I wouldn't, even though I remember one doctor telling me that it was like getting a boob job and tummy tuck. My breasts are not porn-star quality, and they are uneven, and I didn't workout at that age, so yes, that all sounded really intriguing. But still, I never did it. I like to think that I was smart about it, but really, I was petrified.  No matter, it was all for the best.

Fast forward 20 years. I was at work (yes, one of the 6 days of the week that I was working out of town), working VERY long days, some days were 14 hours. Busy days. Lots to do. My phone on silent. I'd look at it, and see several missed calls from my doctor. And the diagnostic radiology joint. No time to call back, I had to find lunch, or dinner, or a bathroom.

I finally picked up the next day, excusing myself. It was my doctor, sounding worried. Something suspicious on my mammogram. Yes. Every mammogram seems to have something suspicious for me. Every year. But they're not usually this aggressive in calling, and I am not known for picking up my phone. I told her my deal. I plan on coming home on my one free day a week - to do nice things. Do some work for my own business, go to the gym, get a massage, spend time with my daughter after her day camp lets out, and eventually have some time with my brand new husband who was also away on business my first week out.

But now my plans changed. Now I had to go back and get more tests. Seriously? Can this wait?

So each week, I ran home from a busy job just to get flattened, squished, felt up without having a glass of wine first, and eventually, biopsied with a horrible needle the size of a small missile with an equally horrible noise. And, true story, I nearly passed out during the biopsy. They didn't get the little chip inside to mark my spot because I turned the color of one of those Goth Kids and nearly fell over. Imagine if that missile tore through my breast - I guess the cancer could have spilled out of the hole, but I'm also guessing that I wouldn't be that lucky. Anyway, they safely got the needle out, luckily having sucked out all the tissue they needed, and laid me down so that my lips would once again turn pink, and I no longer looked like Dracula's wifey.

That was right before my last week out of town. Hubby went with me for that visit but wasn't allowed in. I'm glad. I was a hot mess. And by hot I mean disgusting. Pale, sweaty, tear stained, and with the word "YES" written on my left breast, random pen markings, and a fresh hole taped up. Not my finest hour. The nurse walked me out to my husband when they were certain I would live, and said "Feed this woman!" We had the best burgers, fries and beer of our lives. Normally health food freaks, I needed a damn burger. And a few sips of beer - yes, he got himself a cheap date.

So I waited for results. They guesstimated 2 days.  2 days later, no results. 3 days later, no results... until my doctor called in the afternoon. I figure since I already spoke with the office that day, that it was safe to pick up the phone that afternoon while I was watching Breaking Bad on the elliptical at the gym. I was keeping it mellow, with the new hole in my boob and with it being all bruised and taped up. So I picked up - thinking maybe they needed info, who knows... but instead, I learned that I have Invasive Ductal Carcinoma while gliding on an elliptical, and decided that 45 minutes was long enough. I took my phone call to the locker room. Thank goodness it was empty.

I cried. I ended up talking in a stall because I was such a disaster. We lost signal, and so I cleaned up my face, put on my sunglasses, and hoped for the best as I rushed to the exit, and did some bad-ass speedwalking like the ladies do out in Long Island. (They do, right?) Got back to home base without seeing anyone I knew - thank goodness I wasn't in my real neighborhood.

I called my husband. I cried. I cried when I hung up. I couldn't stop it. I had to go back to work in a few hours. I couldn't not go! Somehow I made it through with big puffy red eyes. I cried during intermission, but luckily my false eyelashes didn't fly off my head. I cried as soon as I walked in the door to my summer apartment. And I cried myself to sleep, and possibly during, judging by the way I felt the next morning. But I made it through the night. And my husband arrived late that night, and we cried.

But we also went to a party. I didn't say much, but he was the very masculine Belle of the ball. And I watched him, listened to him, and smiled. He was happy. We were together. We left at 3am and walked 20 minutes back to our apartment. We looked at the stars, we talked, I cried a little, and I'm pretty sure there were more tears when we got back to my temporary home.

The last day, we went to a barbecue. We ate, made friends, got to know others better than before, ate, laughed, ate... and after my last gig, we headed to the last bus to take us HOME. So we could cry some more, and figure our shit out.

When my daughter came home, I couldn't get enough of her. Her stories, her mannerisms, her laugh, her excitement, the sound of possibilities in her voice that make a mom melt. And I knew, I was going to be ok. She needs me and I need her.

I've only been back less than a week, but we met with a surgeon today. A real breath of fresh air. He's an older guy, and I thought, he's probably stubborn and does things one way and one way only. WRONG. He explained absolutely everything we know up to this point, in a way that was smart but easy to understand without being dummied down. We took another look on the sonogram. We inspected the huge pile of images we brought from my previous month long adventure. Looked more like a planetarium to me, but it all started to make more sense.

And, although we won't know until Monday's MRI, he thinks I'm not a ticking time bomb. Sounds good to me!

Popped by Fish's Eddy to get some glasses for the mister, and Sephora to buy some eyelash glue for me.  I have Cancer, but I'm still going to be me.

I have a good life. And cancer. I know many who are not lucky like me.