"Losing More Than My Health" My Unforgettable Journey of Being Diagnosed

We've all had those moments when Lady Luck decides to take a vacation, but for a while there, my life was like a soap opera directed by Murphy's Law or the plot of a tear-jerking country song. Picture this: drama galore, a car that decided it preferred napping to driving, medical procedures that were as useful as a screen door on a submarine, a car accident that could win a slapstick award, surgery that was more "oops" than "ahh," a friendship breakup that was a blessing in disguise, and a whole heap of self-discovery that made me feel like I was on a never-ending episode of "Who Am I, Really?"

To begin, I had just completely recovered from having my gallbladder removed and spending a week in the hospital due to that. I had been back at work for about six weeks when my doctor mentioned that the imaging they took revealed a few spots they wanted to examine. She believed it was merely dense tissue and advised not to worry, as this was just to ensure future imaging would recognize them as benign.

I strutted into my first biopsy like a brave explorer, ready for an ultrasound-guided adventure. Ahead lay two more MRI-guided escapades in the coming weeks. The charming fellow in charge of the procedure brandished a needle that, according to my daughter, rivaled the size of the average male's pride and joy. With a grin, he promised to use Lidocaine to numb the area before navigating this colossal contraption into my cherished boob, all under the watchful eye of the ultrasound.

Hello Cancer, You Uninvited Couch Surfer

I got the notification on my phone from the doc's app before my doctor even had the chance to call me with the first biopsy results. I still had two more to go, so this wasn't exactly the plot twist I was hoping for. Right there in the report, in big bold letters (at least in my mind), it said "positive for cancer." I didn't bother reading the rest at that moment; it might as well have been written in hieroglyphics. Before my appointment, I did try to decipher the report, hoping for a Rosetta Stone moment, but no luck. My doctor did mention it was good news they caught it early, so there's that silver lining!

Over the river and through the woods to the Cancer Center we go—yippee! It's time for the first MRI biopsy, and boy, she's a real party starter. Picture this: I'm strapped to a table, face down, boob in a vice grip, and another needle is coming at me like it's auditioning for a horror movie. "Don't move," they say. Sure, no problem! Then I hear, "We're done," followed by, "Oh, we have a bleeder!" Fabulous! The results? One massive hematoma that was still the star of the show two weeks later. The second biopsy was slightly less of a circus. I was still in the clutches of the death machine with a giant needle, but at least no blood geysers this time. The cherry on top? Sitting with the surgical oncologist, who casually mentions that the places they poked and prodded wouldn't have even been on her to-do list. Classic!

Too Many Options, Textbooks and a Car That Says, "Nap Time, Anyone?"

Breast Cancer Treatment Handbook 10th Edition

After yet another epic journey over the river and through the woods, dodging farm animals like I was in some kind of agricultural obstacle course, I finally made it to the Surgical Oncologist's office. This time, I was meeting with not one, not two, but three people to discuss all my options. I felt like a kid on the first day of school, minus the cool lunchbox. They handed me a textbook—yes, a textbook! This thing was thicker than a triple-decker sandwich, complete with chapters and what looked suspiciously like homework questions. But hey, it turned out to be pretty useful, and you can see it in all its glory right next to this paragraph.

So there I was, textbook in hand, cramming for the most important test of my life—no pressure, right? I had a smorgasbord of choices and about as much time to decide as a squirrel crossing the road. The prognosis was looking peachy; no chemo or radiation needed, just a little decision-making on my part. A lumpectomy was on the menu, but it could easily morph into a mastectomy. I could just say, "Let's skip the evil lump removal and go straight for the mastectomy," or even go full Monty and remove both troublemakers. Then came the reconstruction conundrum: should I embrace the flat look, go bigger, or stick with the status quo? Depending on how things went in the OR, they could use expanders or jump straight to implants. And no, I didn’t opt for the Pamela Anderson special!

Between stuffing my brain with facts, juggling work like a circus clown, and visiting doctors who probably know me better than my own family, there was hardly a second to kick back and chill. I was clinging to my sanity by a thin thread when disaster decided to pay a visit. As I was leaving work, I jumped into my trusty car, turned the key, and she let out a sound so ghastly it could have woken a horde of zombies. I knew my dear ride was feeling a bit under the weather, so I dialed up the mechanic for some vehicular CPR. Despite his valiant efforts, my car decided it needed a vacation—just like I should have been taking all along!

While my car was on its little sabbatical, I was left scrambling, wondering how on earth I was going to get to work or the oh-so-important doctor's appointment, where I handed over all my decisions and we moved on to scheduling.

Now that my car's engine has thrown in the towel, I'm stuck with a tough choice: do I revive my beloved Civic or let her rest in peace and hunt for a new set of wheels? Meanwhile, I'm hitching rides to work and the doctor's office for those last-minute appointments before I book my surgery. Thank God for a few friends and my daughter's boyfriend during this time, they became the heroes of the story and made sure I arrived every time.

Surgery Dates, Accidents and Everything Changes

Today's the day I hand over the reins of my life to my doctor and let them gallop away with it! I've opted for a double mastectomy because, let's be honest, I don't want this pesky villain sneaking back and trying to take me out with my other boob. We'll be doing some reconstruction work too, but that involves a few decisions for my doctor to make, depending on how the surgery circus plays out. They gave me a surgical date about 3 to 4 weeks away, which seemed like plenty of time to get my ducks in a row. Little did I know, my peace of mind was about to pull a disappearing act!

So, picture this: I'm strutting around, all confident, thinking we've got this plan nailed down for three whole days. Yup, three glorious days! Then, bam! The call comes in like a plot twist in a soap opera. "Remember how we said your surgery was set for mid-December?" they say. "Well, surprise! We've had a change of heart, and now you're booked for next week, five measly days and just two days before Thanksgiving!" So much for my turkey feast dreams—guess I'll be celebrating with hospital Jell-O instead!

My bedroom looked like a construction site hit by a tornado—more on that chaos in a future episode! My brilliant master plan? Yeah, it crumbled faster than a cookie in milk. I needed at least a week to reclaim my room's sacred serenity and escape the madness! That plan was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Fortunately, a friend offered me a royal invitation to crash at their palace while I recuperated, since I needed more help than a cat in a swimming pool. I grumbled and accepted, because even though it was my last resort, it was the only lifeboat in this Titanic mission timeline.

With just 3 days left on the countdown clock, I was in a mad dash to snag an extra day off work for prep. I crammed all my beloved crafts and other boredom-busters into my bag. I borrowed a car, hoping to zoom around faster than a headless chicken, grabbing all those last-minute essentials while my friends prepared the recovery room for me. Meanwhile, I was plotting my course to tackle two appointments 45 minutes away—because, of course, they had to happen before the big surgery showdown!

T-minus 12 hours until the big event! I'm calling up friends and family like I'm a celebrity on a farewell tour, assembling a reading chair like it's the final piece of an escape room puzzle, and pondering my "last meal" like I'm a contestant on a culinary game show. Tomorrow morning, I'm off to follow the yellow brick road to the hospital. Knowing I wouldn't catch much shut-eye, I decided to stay up until midnight, turning into a snack-gobbling gremlin and devouring every comfort food in sight.

T-minus 3 hours until liftoff, and it's time for one last shower extravaganza! I know it'll be ages before I can indulge in a hot, steamy shower with my beloved Bath & Body Works soap again. After my spa session, I get dressed and finish packing my hospital bag like a pro. We pile into the car, ready to evict this cancer once and for all. Everything's smooth sailing until—BAM! Just 5 minutes from the hospital, we get rear-ended at a red light. My daughter, in her debut accident performance, is upset and dialing the police like a seasoned drama queen. Meanwhile, I'm on the phone with the hospital, giving them the play-by-play and assuring them I'm still en route.

It felt like this journey was determined to teach me that life is a chaotic comedy show and planning is just a punchline. After a little fender-bender, I had to summon a cab to rescue me from the scene, while the grumpy cop acted like I was abandoning ship. He couldn't quite grasp that my surgery was more pressing than dealing with a lady who thought she was auditioning for a role in "Fast and Furious" because she assumed the light would magically turn green. I finally arrived at the hospital fashionably late, 30 minutes behind schedule, and got the VIP express treatment through pre-op. The usual one-hour prep was turned into a speed race, with nurses double and triple-teaming to get it done in under 20 minutes. Before I knew it, I was whisked away for surgery, feeling like a human doodle pad with all the pen marks on my body!

Surgery went off without a hitch... or so we thought! They told me my lymph node was as clean as a whistle, so they only removed one instead of the planned three. Since I was cancer-free, they skipped right to the implants, meaning fewer surgeries for me—woohoo! My silver lining? Fewer surgeries, less mooching off other people, and a quicker return to my fabulous normal life. I was thrilled to leave the hospital and finally enjoy some peace and quiet while I recovered.

It didn't take long for me to realize that crashing at my friend's place was about as healthy as eating ice cream for breakfast every day. The constant bickering and drama made it clear that this was not the spa-like recovery retreat I had hoped for. To make matters worse, one of my so-called friends seemed more interested in playing the role of Florence Nightingale than actually helping me. It was like being in a soap opera where I wasn't even the main character! Needless to say, that "friendship" crumbled faster than a cookie in milk. So, I packed my bags and headed back to my own personal construction zone, ready for the next plot twist in my life's sitcom. Spoiler alert: the other shoe did, indeed, drop!

They missed Cancer in my Lymph Node so my whole treatment plan was going to change. And there you have it, folks, the epic saga of how I journeyed from diagnosis to treatment! Stay tuned for part 2: Adventures in Chemo Land—where every doctor’s appointment feels like my new 9-to-5!

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