The moments that followed were eerily clear for me. I felt my husband, Nic, beside me and heard him say, “What does that mean?” Calmly and terrified, I responded, “I have cancer.”
At this point, I had no idea what anything else meant, what this cancer was, how bad it was, or what I had to do. One of the first thoughts may have been, “Not my fucking hair!!!!” but there is no transcript to review for that one.
Thoughts were swirling-
Do I have BONE cancer?
Am I going to die from this?
I wish I could call my mom.
Will I have to go through chemo?
Is everyone who thought I was being a little bitch about my back pain going to regret their assessment?
The PA (who I’m sure has her own equally horrible version of this story) told us that they assumed it was breast cancer, even though a primary tumor had never been detected at any of my OB appointments. Breast cancer commonly spreads into bones, and based on the path this wild one took, it seemed like the most likely culprit. They wanted to immediately admit me for more testing at the hospital next to the clinic.
Somehow, my calmness (or, more likely, shock) sustained for the next hour or so. I called my mother-in-law and told her what was happening and that she needed to turn around and come back to Austin. I called our babysitter to let her know we couldn’t come home, but my mother-in-law would be there as quickly as possible to take over with the boys. Then, I called my dad. I didn’t want to call my dad because finding cancer had not previously led us to a positive place. But I called him and told him what we learned, what was happening, and asked him to come to Austin immediately.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I can’t come. I have COVID. I can’t risk giving it to you, especially now, or the boys.” My heart sank. Remember that feeling of wishing I could talk to my mom? Now it had reached full-blown desperation. Of course, I understood that it was irresponsible and impossible for him to come, but there was something in my soul that needed someone there who had known me since birth, and both of those options were not feasible. Somehow, it felt like I could make a deal with the universe- if someone who has known me from day 1 is here, I can’t die. It was not precisely sound logic, but fear started kicking in.
We left the doctor’s office, and I (again) hobbled over to the hospital with my broken back and the awareness that my life would never be the same again. Because this is how things work, getting admitted was an absolute circus. We waited for an hour, maybe more, until they called us to my room. This was a Friday afternoon, so it was unclear what all could be done and who would be there.
The shock stayed with me as I was settled into the hospital room. Everyone knew what I was in for, and no one knew what to say. Finally, a hospitalist (and an angel) came in to talk to us. He did an exam and found the primary tumor, which led him to diagnose me with metastatic breast cancer. They would do more scans that night to see if the cancer had spread anywhere past my bones. Then this young, wonderful man sat down to talk to us.
Neither Nic nor I will ever forget what he told us, and one of the reasons I’m still alive today might be because it was the first message ingrained into my subconscious on the worst day of my life. He told us simply to “always have hope.”
He continued to tell us that he was the first responder at a car crash his fiance was in, and she died in his arms. He wasn’t telling us this to one-up the tragedies, but he wanted us to know that the only thing you can have in horrible times like this is hope. His humanity was everything we needed, and I will be grateful and reflect upon it until my very last day.
At this point, it’s the end of the day. And the end of visiting hours. It’s also COVID times, so visitors aren’t even allowed at the hospital. A nurse came in, bless her heart, to tell me that Nic had to leave. This is also the exact moment that the shock wore off, and I fully realized the gravity of the situation.
I am 33.
I have a newborn and a 2-year-old.
I thought I was healthy yesterday.
Now I have “Stage 4” cancer- which doesn’t sound great.
AND NOW YOU TELL ME MY HUSBAND HAS TO LEAVE 20 MINUTES AFTER RECEIVING THIS INFORMATION?!
I screamed. I wailed. I sobbed. The sounds that came out of me were full of fear, sorrow, and devastation. We both begged and pleaded with the nurses. I told them I had just experienced the worst news of my entire life, I could barely walk, and I absolutely cannot spend the night here in the hospital alone. I could see on their faces that they understood and probably didn’t think the best idea for my mental health was to be there alone. They ran it by the charge nurse and let Nic stay but made us swear on everything that no one would see him. They even moved us to another room that was off the beaten path so that he couldn’t be discovered.
Once that crisis was resolved, the tests began. The only funny part of the day was when they couldn’t get an IV started anywhere in my arms. They brought in multiple people to try, but no one was successful. Finally, they brought in the guy they swore could find any vein. This man did find a vein. So successfully, in fact, that blood started squirting up in the air like I was in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. He ran out of supplies and, at one point, had Nic putting pressure on the squirting area while he ran to get a bandage. Nic was not amused, but given the other events of the day, I was laughing so hard that I was crying. I mean, what are the chances?
The tests came back that the cancer had spread from my right breast to the base of my neck, all the way down my spine, into my hips, and my liver. As my favorite PA later said, “There was just a lot of cancer.”
They did medicate me to help soften the blow of the news. Somewhere before I zonked out, I gave a text update to my friends (I will forever be so sorry I did it this way, I am the worst at delivering bad news) and called a former manager. You see, Texas Oncology was previously a client of mine at an ad agency. I remember they would help proverbial “friends of the family” find the right oncologist and take advantage of scheduled openings. I told her what was happening; probably sounded as if I’d been lobotomized, but asked if she would help me figure out who could save my life. I had decided that if there was any time to call in a favor, this was it.
I was focused on myself and my problems, but I will never forget my husband fielding calls from his friends and family. He thought I was asleep at one point, but I heard him let out a sob, unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him, while on the phone with his brother. That’s when I realized just how scared he was, how scared I probably should be, and that I wasn’t ready to die.
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