A Loving God and His Infinite Mercy

In early June, I was driving down the road in Grenada and had an impression that "my health was fleeting” and “be grateful for what I have". Two weeks later I found a lump. 

That impression was the major reason why I wasn’t surprised when the biopsy came back positive for cancer, and it was the beginning of a greater understanding of personal revelation and spiritual promptings. 

A few rounds into chemotherapy I had another impression. A gentle thought was unfold in my mind that when the doctors would go back to find evidence of cancer, that there wouldn’t be any evidence that the tumor had been there. 

I was a little perplexed by this impression. Of course I wanted that, but who am I to have such a miracle? I researched scientific terms for such a thing and set the thought aside. A couple of rounds later, I thought that perhaps I should ask my oncologist about it. 

Come to find out, this little miracle is referred to as “Pathological Complete Response” (pCR). In other words, chemo worked so effectively that no evidence was left when a pathologist looks at tissue microscopically. While I would not quite say it is a frequent in breast cancer outcomes (statistics vary on how often it can occur--up to 50% in some cases), I will say that it is infrequent in my type of breast cancer. 

Even with a complete response, I would need still need the most aggressive chemo, some form of surgery (lumpectomy or mastectomy), and radiation. 

But it would be a miracle.

I knew God could perform such miracles, but was I placing my will above His? 

Who am I to receive these kinds of miracles? 

I talked about it a lot with Ryan, but outside of that I only shared it with a few close friends and family when I felt prompted.

At some point during my chemotherapy, I told my mother-in-law, Jennifer, about the impression. Later that day, she sent me a text that said, “the day you were diagnosed with cancer, I offered this as my prayer for you.” With it she had the scripture reference, Alma 15:10 ’And then Alma cried unto the Lord, saying: O Lord our God, have mercy on this man, and heal him according to his faith which is in Christ.’

Reading this scripture helped me see that if I were going to see miracles, I would need to have unwavering faith in my Savior, Jesus Christ.

The weekend before meeting with my surgeon in late October, I was full of fear and doubt. I had had this impression, but why would it happen to me? To this point in my life, I had never felt this kind doubt. Yet in that moment, Satan was working desperately to crush my faith. That was the weekend I asked openly for friends and family to fast and pray on my behalf. I needed to have unwavering faith in my Savior, and I wanted a calm, reassuring presence regardless of the outcome. 

The power of prayer and fasting is real. And miraculous.  

Two days later I went into my surgeon’s office full of hope and optimism, yet with a trace of doubt. I told her my impression, we discussed the possibility of pCR which she said she had definitely seen before. It was not just a figment of my imagination, it could happen. We talked about all of the options and plans for the post-chemo treatment and in that moment, a sense of peace and calm settled over me, overshadowing any doubt that I had felt. I was confident and full of faith looking forward to the end of chemo and a December surgery.

In November, a few days after my last round of chemo, I had an MRI to check the tumor. When the results came back, they were excellent. And, although the tumor was still there, it was significantly smaller. But, it was still there. When my nurse called to tell me the results, she read a hand-written note from my surgeon that said something to the effect of "It's still there, but that's okay because I am extremely pleased with the outcome! This was promising. 

I would be lying however if I didn’t admit that in a small way I was disappointed, but the faith and confidence I had gained through fasting and prayer overshadowed the disappointment. I knew it was only four days into the last round of chemo, and later, when I met with my radiation oncologist, he said that an MRI can only show so much, and a complete response is something that one can’t possibly confirm during and after surgery.

---

This past Friday I showed up for surgery and went to mammography. They were going to place the radioactive seed, and said they were hoping to do it under ultrasound. Well, the tech looked and looked, and the radiologist looked and looked, and they couldn’t find it. I told the tech there had definitely been something there to which she said incredulously, "I know. I saw the films."

Afterwards, I went to Pre-op. My surgeon came to discuss the procedure. She said that she would start by doing an ultrasound to find the tumor, which is when I mentioned that they had already done one and that they couldn’t find anything. She turned to look me straight in the eye, and said, “they couldn’t find it?” The silent conversation we had at that moment will stay with me forever. She knew.

After surgery was over, my surgeon discussed the procedure with my sister-in-law Erin (standing in for Ryan who was in Georgia) and said that we had clean margins (no cancer at the borders of the tissue removed!) and that if there was cancer, it was as small as the end of her fingernail. 

Miracles. 

I honestly thought that would be it, my miracle. No evidence on ultrasound. That was pretty literal to me. 

After surgery I had a few episodes of conversion disorder again where I would pass out, but my amazing nurse (and friend!), Sarah, helped me to retrain my brain to focus elsewhere. 

Other than that, no complications. 

Over the next 48 hours I expected pain, but didn’t have any. Another small miracle. 

Tuesday I got the call. 

Carol, Dr. Tittensor’s nurse said, “you know how you wanted to be cancer free for your 30th birthday? Well, McKenzie pathology came back and there was no residual tumor.” In that moment, I understood, but I did not wanting to jump to to any incorrect conclusions. I started sobbing and fumbled the words, “I’m sorry, can you say that again with different words?” “McKenzie there was no evidence of cancer, you had what we call a Pathological Complete Response. Merry Christmas.”

In the minutes after that phone call, I found myself gazing out our back windows with tears rolling down my face as I squeaked out the words to Ryan “Pathological Complete Response”.  And as I ended that conversation, I was truly overwhelmed and fell to my knees in gratitude for a loving God and His infinite mercy and plan. 

“And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” (Ether 12: 27 from The Book of Mormon, another testament of Jesus Christ.) 

Mom, Why Do You Have Cancer?

A few nights ago in one of those rare moments of calm as I put Adrielle to bed, I asked her, "do you have any questions about my cancer?" She paused for a moment and said, "Yes, how did you get cancer and why do you have cancer?"

I'm not sure how I expected her to answer, but these sweet questions were so much more than I expected.

After pausing for a moment to think about her questions, I told her that those were good questions and started to explain.

How, how did I get cancer ...

I put one hand into an 'O' shape and said that our bodies are made up of cells (something we've discussed previously) and that each cell is an 'O' and that they multiply into other 'O's (holding up the other hand). I told her this process happens every day from before we're born to when we die, and that it usually goes perfectly, but for me, somewhere along the way, one cell snuck past the checkpoints and went from an 'O' to a 'claw" (holding up a claw). Holding up one claw I said that instead of making an 'O', that cell split and made another 'Claw' and that process repeated and that was how I got cancer.

(I was honestly shocked and humbled that I was able to so easily and succinctly describe the how to my six-year-old.)

Then we discussed the why.

I told her I didn't know why and that sometimes sad and bad things happen, but then I told her that what I did know was that through this experience I could be an example and a light to others, and that I was grateful that Heavenly Father trusted me enough with that responsibility.

As those words came to my mind and out of my mouth,  I was humbled with the weight of that realization and buoyed at the same time.

God does not allow us to experience trials without also giving us the strength, tender mercies, and miracles to overcome them, and reasons that we may or may not see.

While I have only scratched the surface of this challenge, I have received countless acts of kindness, hundreds of prayers (and fasts), and more-than-my-fair-share of miracles. They have showered me daily.

How often do you have hundreds of people praying and fasting on your behalf?

How often do you have hundreds of people, all over the world praying and fasting on your behalf?

How often do you have hundreds of people, all over the world (including General Authorities) praying and fasting on your behalf?

How often do you have hundreds of people, all over the world, from a variety of faiths praying and fasting on your behalf?

I have had Mormon, Evangelical, Non-Denominational, Seventh Day, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, agnostic, and even atheist friends tell me they're praying for me.

I have had friends (and congregations) near and far fasting for me.

And these prayers and fasts have sustained me.

They have helped me feel God's love.

They have helped me face the diagnosis, surgery, the ICU,  and chemo and its horrible effects.

And I know they will continue to do so.

Heavenly Father loves us and hears our prayers. I know he hears those on my behalf.

Today I went to church. I had made the plan of going to church one last time before the effects of chemo really kicked in and I become too immune-compromised.

As I sat in the very back, I was unaware that my congregation was holding a special fast for me, and as I listened to testimonies and prayers given and heard people mention me by name from the pulpit, I felt an overwhelming love.

Love from friends.

Love from family.

Love of my Heavenly Father.

Even now, as I write, I feel his love.

I clicked over to Facebook when a notification popped up and sure enough, another sustaining miracle.

"Just wanted you to remember that even though you're not physically here in Grenada with us doesn't mean we don't think about you! The St George's Branch relief society wanted you to know that, and that we included you in our fast this Sabbath day! Not everyone was able to make the picture but everyone prays for you!! We love you!!! ❤️❤️ (Go Get 'em!)" 

I know the road ahead is steep, and demanding, and ugly, but I am grateful for the prayers. Please continue to pray as I battle physically and mentally; I will need them.

They will be my strength, tender mercies, and miracles that will help me as I face this trial.

One Month

I saw my family doctor today. It's been a month since she said "cancer" over the phone as I paced on the front walk. 

We hugged. We laughed. We cried. She is so much more to me than just my doctor. She is my advocate. My caretaker. My friend.

We talked a lot about what I need... Anti-anxiety Drugs? Therapy? Help coping? Textbook grieving? Affirmations? Permission? Validation?

Permission. 

Permission to feel. To truly feel.

All of it. 

Validation. 

Validation of all of the feelings. 

All. Of. Them.

The good. The bad. The ugly. 

Validation that it is sad that this is happening to me. 

Hearing her say those words took my breath away a little. Is it? Is it sad? 

Is it okay for me to think that? 

Should I allow others to feel that.

Her saying those words gave me the permission. The validation.  

And as I lie here, I feel so "normal" like maybe I'll wake up from this strange dream...

Like maybe I won't lose my hair.

Or maybe I don't have cancer.

I know that sounds foolish, but I feel good. 

Really good.

But as each day creeps closer to the next treatment I become more and more anxious. More and more worried, fearful, resistant to my fate every other week. 

Thank goodness for small miracles and guardian angels. 

It will be bad.

And ugly. 

But it's okay to feel, and to struggle.

Because the struggle is real. 

People will forget, and move on, and that's okay. 

But here's to the small miracles and guardian angels that have buoyed me to this point, and the miracles and guardian angels that will carry me when it is bad. 

And ugly.  

My Pink Peak

On July 8th, 2016, at age 29, I was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, grade 3 (stage TBD).

Also known as Breast Cancer.

And I'm going to kick its......... butt.

I have known my body is trying to kill me for less than a week and a half and I have received more love and support than most people in their entire lives. Friends, family, framily. I am so grateful for your love and support. I have felt your prayers and comfort and I will forever be in awe of the buoy that is my village (#thesearemyvillage).  

I've revived our blog to write about my fight and I've dubbed it "My Pink Peak". Some of the experiences will be raw and full of emotion and others will be sacred and personal, but I want to remember and in a way help others too. I'll be posting under the label #mypinkpeak and using that tag on Facebook and Instagram (@ryan_kenz_adi_ellis). (Make sure to start at "Part 1" if you want to know the whole story.) 

I will try, try, try to respond to texts, Messenger, iMessage, WhatsApp, phone calls, and emails as soon as possible and please, please, please don't hesitate to reach out, but don't be offended if it takes me a while. Don't worry about not knowing what to say, #cancersucks and all you have to do is say "I'm sorry," or "I'm thinking about you," or "I'm praying for you," or "What do you need?" This can't be fixed, only time and treatment will cure. 

I do have one favor to ask however. If you're a woman, do a breast exam. If you're a man, encourage your wife or mother to do a breast exam. If you're either, encourage those around you to do a breast exam. 

I am lucky that I found my lump and got it checked out. 

I knew I was not immune to this mortal body and that anyone, at any age can get breast cancer. So do a breast exam. Do one lying down and one standing up. Have your doctor do one. 

Do not wait to have the peace of mind or a fighting chance... yesterday.

(*I am keeping this post at the top for a few weeks despite it not being the actual most recent.) 

Attitude

After Ellis took a bottle at Erin's house, I made the mistake of feeding him for thirty seconds on each side while we heated up a bottle that night. 

He wasn't happy about the bottle. 

Square one. 

Dr. Tittensor had told me to be finished by Tuesday, but along the way I had learned that my Saturday 8am MRI would prevent me from nursing because of the radioactive dye. 

So, despite the deep sadness that it evoked, I decided that I would quit cold turkey just before the MRI. 

I nursed Ellis through the night from Friday to Saturday--it made it less sad if it wasn't a big "oh this is the last time"--and left at 7:30am before he woke up for the day. 

I headed to the hospital for the MRI and arrived before the receptionist. 

I sat around for a while before I realized hmmmmm... maybe no one is around. 

I knocked on a door that had some light shining underneath it and a tech came out and directed me to the before-8am receptionist. 

When I got to the desk the absolute first thing I saw was this gem! 

Last summer, between years in Grenada, I worked as the iCentra intern for Corporate Communications at Intermountain Healthcare and this was one of the ideas our team came up with to help with translation to the new system. 

It was so cool to see it and it set my mentality differently that morning. 

I got checked in for the appointment and Paula, the MRI tech helped explain everything to me. 

I changed into XXL scrubs and gowns and sat down in the seating area to wait my turn. 

One unique thing about me is that I go into shock easily and it presents in my teeth chattering and my body shaking uncontrollably. 

It had started to happen when they placed the clip, but I breathed deeply and the procedure was over before my body went to far. 

The morning of the MRI however I started chattering like crazy, but sweet, sweet Paula asked if I wanted a warm blanket and brought me a couple (that an warm saline are really the only two ways that it can be helped.) 

When they were ready for me, Paula walked me into the room with the MRI. 

It. 

Was. 

Huge.

She explained and reexplained the procedure. 

"Squeeze this if you need something. Do NOT squeeze it after we've released the contrast unless you are dying."

Right. 

We got all situated chest-down on the table with my breasts in individual compartments. We also put in a set of earplugs and another set of ear protection over my ears because I have tiny ear canals. 

Paula gave me the squeeze ball and told again me again squeeze the ball at any time except after releasing the contrast dye. Only squeeze it then unduly are having trouble breathing... 

In other words: going to die. 

Okay. Do. Not. Squeeze. Ball.  

The MRI started and it was sooooooo loud. Like I'm pretty sure that one set of ear plugs didn't do anything, so I was grateful for the extra protection. 

The machine made these loud beeping noises and whirred a lot... It's kind of hard to explain, but before I knew it Paula told me that she was going to release the contrast, to hold very still, and to not squeeze the ball unless it was an emergency. 

Okay, here goes nothing! 

She released the dye, ran more scans and before I knew it the scans were done and I could get dressed again. 

Before leaving I asked if I could see the scans and sure enough there was the rumor swirling around in the dye. It was like a quarter on the screen which seemed big and Paula said yep, it's big in comparison to a pencil eraser, but she reassured me again that Jennifer Tittensor was the best and that I was in excellent hands. 

Then it was time to go home and confront the weaning head on… 

Ellis seemed to be doing better and had taken another bottle which was a miracle--thank you, thank you, thank you to all those who were praying on his behalf. 

Like always, Ryan had studying to do, so we drove to Jimmy Johns to grab some food before really buckling down for the day. 

When we got to the window, the teenage guy there said, “So do you guys have awesome stuff going on today?” And after a momentary hesitation I said dryly, “Yep, breast cancer.”. 

Needless to say he was a little stunned but remained upbeat nonetheless.

As we drove away I broke down into a ridiculous giddy laugher and Ryan laughed too but while simultaneously saying, “That was so mean! That poor kid!” To which I responded, “oh no! Was the mean?! Really!? How sad! We have to go back!” 

I drove right around in a circle and went through the drive thru again and apologized, but the kid said, “you just gotta keep a positive attitude.” 

I wanted to cry because he was right. 

Attitude is everything. 

Liquid Gold, Paying it Forward

Friday was a free day. No poking or proving  so I decided that it was going to be a pampering day. 

My oh-so-talented sister-in-law, Erin spent a large portion of the day making me look fabulous. 

I actually really liked my grown-out ombre look, but thought that I might as well go blonde one more time for family pictures before I have to shave my head. 

She also gave me a super-cute, beach mani. Oh how I miss Grenada! 

At this point last week, I was trying to taper nursing, but it wasn't going very well, especially because Ellis refused to take a bottle.

I nursed him for a few minutes...

but after just a couple minutes he was naturally still hungry and inconsolable. But, after doing hair and nails, a miracle happened...

Let's backtrack though to January.

No, November. 

When Ellis was born and in the NICU, his amazing nurse, Kasey, asked if I wanted to try Pasteurized Human Milk (aka breast milk that had been donated and pasteurized). I said, sure, why not! (Let's give this baby a fighting, fighting chance!)

It worked. He started eating everything by mouth and it helped him be released from the NICU that much faster (only after 6 days despite being born at 34 weeks 1 day).

When I was discharged, the lactation consultant gave me a pamphlet on the Mother's Milk Bank and I thought, "Oh wow, how cool would it be to donate milk to the milk bank to pay it forward?"

And, I did!

Fast forward to January... On January 30 I posted on Instagram, "When #ellisjames was in the #nicu, he was the beneficiary of milk from the Mother's Milk Bank. Yesterday, as a way to say thank you and to help save other babies, I donated a 40 lb box full of hundreds and hundreds of ounces of milk. Hopefully this helps #preemies get home just a little bit faster."

It was very rewarding. 

Then. 

I say then because with the stark reality that I faced of having to wean my baby (who was refusing the bottle and formula) I was angry at myself for giving away my baby's milk when he so desperately needed it. 

I had a few spare bottles of frozen milk left, but couldn't bring myself to try them because there was no way for me to get more and I didn't dare waste the precious milk. (But seriously though, any breastfeeding mother knows that the phrase 'don't cry over spilt milk' is laughable.)

Enter my sister-in-law Erin whose son was born just days after supporting me during labor when Ryan was away in Grenada. 

She saw that Ellis was angry and hungry and reaching the point of inconsolable and asked if I wanted to try some of her breast milk. 

Oh, really!?

(As an aside you have to look at this from our two different perspectives... I didn't want to waste any of my precious few ounces that I had left with the thought that he might refuse them, and while precious, she was happy to let him try even if he didn't take it because she could always pump more.)

Those four ounces made all the difference.

Liquid gold. 

He immediately latched onto the bottle and started eating furiously.

I burst into tears.

He was eating! From a bottle!

I cried and cried. And cried some more.

But that wasn't the most amazing part.

Erin started to scurry around. She went to and from from here to there, and a few minutes later there I was, standing in her kitchen sobbing into her shoulder as she handed me three grocery bags heaping full of frozen breast milk.

Essentially the same amount of milk as I had donated.

She told me that both she and Tyler had felt like she should continue to pump. That they felt that the milk was going to go to use, but just didn't know how.

She was my angel that day.

Heavenly Father is a god of miracles. Of tender mercies. Of angels.

The words of a children's hymn ("A Child's Prayer) come to mind:

Heavenly Father, are you really there?

And do you hear and answer ev'ry child's prayer?

Some say that heaven is far away,

But I feel it close around me as I pray.

God is good. 

And he is there.

Lifting Hearts

After spending the day with Adrielle, Ellis, and Jennifer, I took the kids home to let them spend the evening with my parents while I drive to Lehi for a special support group meeting. 

As I drove to Lehi I considered turning around, but the comment from the nurse about "her" kept me going. 

Maybe, just maybe, I would find someone like me ... 

As I pulled into the parking lot at the gardens, the ever-present pit in my stomach returned and I had the same tightening in my chest as I walked (sloooowwwly) to the building. As I open both sets of double doors I started to hyperventilate and after standing just inside the doorway for about five seconds, I started sobbing and turned and darted out the door. I didn't think I would go back.

But I did. 

Slowly. 

Again, I opened both sets of double doors and stood just inside and I started to cry and cry from behind my sunglasses. 

I stood there crying until the sweetest woman came and gave me a hug. She asked, "What's wrong?" a couple of times, and when I could finally squeak out "I have breast cancer." I was sobbing. 

She held me.

A perfect stranger.

Then I learned she was Candace, a fellow survivor.

Survivor.

How humbling is it that after diagnosis and as you are going through treatment and after you're in remission, you're a survivor … 

I am a survivor. 

Candace talked to me a little about the group, helped me get signed in, and introduced me to Lori, to get my information.

Lori is a survivor. She’s 35, a mom of six, and "five years out". She was so awesome to talk to and so positive and between Candace, Lori, Sonya, and Collette I knew I was in amazing hands. 

They gave me a pink ribbon to wear as a survivor and I felt this great camaraderie. It was really special. 

After everyone got there and got settled, the founders welcomed us all and we started walking the gardens. 

I didn’t really know what the even was, something at the Thanksgiving Point gardens. I didn’t RSVP because I wasn’t sure if I was actually going to have the nerve to attend. 

It was more amazing than I could have ever imagined. 

First of all, I had never been to the Thanksgiving Point gardens before… but first let me take a #selfie… 

Little did I know that this experience would be one of the most memorable spiritual experience I have ever had. 

After walking a bit, we crossed over a construction fence and a tall brunette woman was shaking every survivor’s hand. 

My hand. 

She said it was an honor. 

Her name was Angela Johnson and she was the sculptor of the “Light of the World Garden” at Thanksgiving Point. 

We circled around a huge sculpture of Christ walking on tumultuous water after which Angela sang “Abide with Me” (she had studied vocal performance), bore her testimony of Jesus Christ, and explained her works of art to us.

The spirit was so strong and an overwhelming sense of peace settled over the whole area. 

It was another experience in which I felt the spirit whisper, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

For the next two hours, she led us through the yet-to-be-completed gardens telling us about the pieces, but the one that stuck out the most was the story of the woman who touches Christ’s robe (Mark 5:25-34). The sculptor noted that the only way she could portray a sick woman in sculpture was through a scarf and lack of hair and that when the final in-person approval for the sculpture came, the Garden’s founder, being treated for cancer, showed up wearing a scarf to cover her chemo-affected head. 

While I can’t yet relate to this scenario, I felt the love of the Savior and it was humbling to be surrounded by women who had traversed this path and already grown closer to their Savior through their trial.

My goodness Thursday was emotional, but in the end I felt the same peace that had enveloped me through the days following my diagnosis. The support group’s name is Lifting Hearts, and that day, that hour my heart was lifted.  

The Day the Water Broke - Part 1

I honestly don't know what it was about Thursday (July 14th), perhaps it was that things were 'getting real' when appointments started, but I was not the verge of tears... a lot.

It may seem like my appointments encompass the whole day, but ironically they're an hour or two here and there. What makes them seem long is that every day is the same. Home with the kids, home with the kids, Ryan studies, Ryan studies, I got the doctor, I go to another doctor. With so much unknown still, each day is a new experience with another poke here and another prod there. Luuuccckily, the only bad experience (fingers crossed) was with that one radiologist.

Ironically, Thursday started out with having to stop by his office to get a disk of the ultrasound. Apparently the hospital called for it multiple times and they said they didn't have one. Finally they spoke with someone else and burned me a disk.

When I stopped by to pick it up on the way to my mammogram appointment, I was lucky enough to catch a quick glimpse and smile from my friend Jenn as she pulled into the same parking lot for work, then as quickly as the smile began, we both drove off in opposite directions.

After I dropped Ryan off at BYU to study, I headed to the hospital and because of some construction ended up walking in the main entrance.

At that moment I finally understood why most people don't like hospitals. The thought entered my mind, "So this is how most people feel about hospitals." For me hospitals have always been a place of safety, calm, healing. Maybe that was me just being naive.

As I approached the desk, my emotions gave way and I started tearing up and choking out words to the receptionist. It actually caught me a little off guard and I laughed nervously (something I find myself doing a lot of recently).

The hardest part is seeing the realization on people's faces when they are checking me in, look at my chart and realize ohhhhhhhhh, you have breast cancer.

Then they don't know exactly what to say.

Especially when they're young. My age.

The girl at the desk was friendly though and we tried to make light of the situation.

Then I sat down.

I oh so badly wanted to post about my feelings to Instagram, but just took a photo instead.

This was when I think it all started to hit me. I only say started because I don't know if this will ever hit me. Surgery day? Chemo day? Hair-loss day?

Maybe never.

Throughout it all I am receiving many, many comforting miracles and recognize that this challenge is an opportunity from Heavenly Father to testify of the Gospel, His Son, Jesus Christ, and the fact that this mortal life is a gift in which we are given challenges to learn empathy and other things, grow closer to our Savior, and really grow... that thought often comes.

I can't remember which day it was, but I had the fleeting thought of "why me" and my spirit immediately responded with "why not me?"

I know the Savior will continue to buoy me throughout this experience, and I am witnessing that every day.

Anyway...

When the tech said my name, I froze.

Me.

She called me.

She called me?

I'm having a mammogram?

How did this happen?

I got up slowly and made my way towards her.

She smiled and motioned me back through the door.

I took a dozen steps or so, felt a tightness in my chest and as tears came to my eyes again, I became paralyzed and unable to walk.

At that point the tech had already walked about ten steps ahead and rounded the corner. She must have realized I was not walking directly behind her, because she rounded the corner again, saw me, placed her hand on my back and said, "It's okay, it's going to be fine."

That's when I started to cry.

I'm young! I exercise! I don't smoke! I don't drink! I don't even drink soda!

Those were the thoughts as I babbled out, "I have breast cancer."

Jackie was her name. She was kind. She said it was going to be alright and I believed her.

After talking to her a little bit, laughing, crying, etc. and about what they were going to do, she had me get changed.

The emotions often take me by surprise. I see something or hear something and I come face to face again with my new reality.

It happened again in the dressing room.

That part of the brain that is having a hard time believing this is always the one that puts up the red flags and I imagine the one that is the culprit of the emotions.

I'm too young for a mammogram, right?!

I shouldn't be exposed to this radiation at my age, right?!

After getting changed, Jackie did the mammogram and honestly it was no. big. deal.

Geez louise why do people make such a big deal about them? But... maybe Jackie was just that good or that nice or I'm young... but seriously people, be your own advocate! If you are uncomfortable or it hurts say something!?

After the mammogram, I had to wait a little while for the radiologist. Because it was a diagnostic mammogram, I would get the results that day in person rather than a couple weeks later.

I asked if I could grab my phone and I could...

I documented my incredible style as well as the "Okay, I'm fine. It's fine. Brain work! I'm fine."

After grabbing my phone, I sat down to wait again.

It was at this point that my logical brain started to work a little harder and notice how comfortable Intermountain Healthcare makes patients. (Side note, last summer 2015 I did an internship with Intermountain's Corporate Communication office in Salt Lake, but at that point I hadn't really been a patient with them. After having Ellis at IMC and this, I've started to look at things differently.)

The waiting room had a built-in water cooler. It was tapped to the wall. That took foresight. How pleasant.

As I waited, my family practice called. They were checking in to see how I was doing and were reporting back that my routine, yearly-physical blood work had come back.

I. am. in. great. shape.

Oh, except for the my-body-is-trying-to-kill-me part.

They wanted to know how I was doing and told me "we're praying for you."

How often does your doctor tell you that?

Another tender mercy.

When the nurse finally came to get me for the clip placement, I was in a good place. We chatted and I expressed my frustration that the first radiologist had not place a clip during the biopsy -- something that apparently is standard practice. 

Go figure.

Oh well, I won't name names, but over the past two weeks, I've heard, "Ohhh, he used to work here ..." and, "He's an expert, but has no bedside manner."

Looking back, I was happy he didn't place the clip because the radiologist at the hospital was an expert in breast care and mammography and was the. nicest. man.

He talked to me about the mammogram and said that because it was mostly dense tissue (because I'm young) it's very difficult to read, but it's a baseline, so that's good.

They placed a clip (have I mentioned that I positively loooooovvvve lidocaine?) to mark where the tumor is (because Dr. Tittensor foresees that when we go in to remove it after Chemo that it will most likely be gone based on the fact that chemo works very effectively on grade-3, fast-growing tumors) and even though I wasn't supposed to... they let me snap a shot of the ultrasound with the clip placement. Apparently without the collagen that surrounds the clip (that will ultimately dissolve over time), one wouldn't even be able to see the clip on ultrasound.

We did one last mammogram image of the side with the tumor for a baseline, an that was that.

But before leaving, I broke down once more to the nurse.

My baby.

My baby that needs me and has only nursed for seven months has to bottle feed cold turkey. He won't take it.

In desperation and for advice had looked for people like me. Women with breast cancer who had had to emergency wean. I couldn't find them.

She looked so sad for me and said "Oh. I wish I could give you her name."

It gave me hope! And I said, "maybe I'll find her."

It gave me the boost that I needed that maybe, just maybe I should go to that support-group meeting scheduled later that night.

---

After the appointment, I made my way to where my mother-in-law had the kids at the park. 

It was peaceful. 

It was slow and calm. 

Ellis refused the bottle, but at least he was happy. 

Hormones and the Small Things

Wednesday was pretty uneventful.

I spent a large portion of the day trying to find neutral curtains for the room my brothers and dad put together for me. Four trips to TJMaxx and two returns later I had some blackout curtains to add a 'finished' feel to the room. I'll definitely post final photos when all is said and done.

I did however get a phone call from the surgeon;s office. the additional pathology came back. Hormones. My tumor is Hormone positive for both Estrogen and Progesterone which the nurse told me is a good thing! I'm still not quite sure as to why that's a good thing, but time will tell I'm sure.

It's the small things, right?

As for the HER2 receptions, the pathology was equivocal so it needed further testing at IMC every Wednesday, so we wouldn't hear back for another week.

The Turning Point

Getting to Tuesday was agony... I just wanted to meet with her already!

Lucky for me, friends and family were there to take our mind off of things. 

My cousin Melissa showed up with an adult coloring book and gel pens. 

I mean who doesn't LOVE an adult coloring book?

And our dear, dear friends, Erin and Mark and their little girls sent Adrielle some beautiful roses and daisies! 

They truly brightened our day! 

Ryan studied with the littles in the front yard, and soon enough it was time to go. 

Utah summers are really wonderful! 

The drive to American Fork was peaceful, but I wanted to be there early and was a little anxious to just get a jump start. My left brain was still pulling most of the weight at this point.

We got to the office in great time, spoke with the receptionist and sat down. Right about that time, my college roommate, Jillian, called me out of the blue to wish me well. I wish I'd had more time to chat (as I feel with every person who reaches out).

As we waited, my left brain gave way to some emotions as a woman, perhaps about 40 years old came out. She was wearing a hat. She was bald. I started crying. I could never have anticipated that that would be a trigger, but I tried to hide it from the other people in the room and Ryan (although I know he saw me). The moment passed pretty quickly, but it left me feeling a little less sure, a little less secure, a little more vulnerable. It made it all that much more real.

We waited a little longer, and before the nurse came to get me, we flipped through some magazines and overheard the receptionist say that "the earliest available appointment with her is August 13th."

Over a month away.

I was speechless.

I knew God answered prayers and I knew that the prayers on my behalf heard from all over the world had been answered.

I will be forever grateful to Dr. Bruce Hill and his willingness to reach out to a colleague. It may appear to be a simple thing, but considering the pace at which my tumor is growing, another month could be my fighting chance. 

---

As we headed to the back, it all became so real. Breast cancer pamphlets in pretty little pink piles caught my eye and took my breath away slightly... could this possibly be real?

Ryan and I went and sat in the exam room and soon the nurse and nurse practitioner came in for the routine history.

Any family history of breast cancer?

Um... nope.

Smoker?

Nope.

Any risk factors of any kind for breast cancer in general?

Nope.

Well okay then. 

They had me change so Dr. Tittensor could do an ultrasound, and then she came in. 

She was immediately friendly and kind. She introduced herself as Jennifer which made me stutter a little bit... oh, oh is it okay to call you Jennifer? 

I told her that our family friends, Tracy and Joeen Hill said hello "when did you see them!?" and handed me a gift from the Lifting Hearts support group. 

She was so nice. My kind of doctors are knowledgable, extremely competent, and kind. 

She was even better than the eight (eight!) independent recommendations. 

We talked about about the tumor, how I found it, but most importantly how we were going to kill it. 

I went from thinking I was going to have a double mastectomy within days to Chemo first, then surgery, then radiation if needed. 

The hardest point at this part? Weaning. Within the week. 

When we left, we felt confident, in control, and interestingly enough, happy. Truly happy. We could do this. We would do this. We will beat this and it will be a thing of our past. 

 Before we left, the nurse, Carol, gave me a stack of papers with appointments leading up to a port-placement and sentinel-node surgery on July 22nd. 

Mammogram, clip placement, MRI, Echo, Genetic Counseling, and Oncology... not to mention any pre-op instructions. 

It's going to be a busy week and a half. 

Kneaders lunch after the appointment. One of my favorite photos of us, ever. 

And So It Begins...

Yes. I am a cancer patient. And this week has been crazy, but I'm going to try and take it one day at a time. 

Monday morning (July 11th) I woke up and said, "Let's go!" Expecting to meet with the surgeon sometime that day and to prepare for some life-changing surgeries, I wanted to make sure we could make it in time if we needed to (we were in Farmington at the time). I fully anticipated an aggressive, double mastectomy and Ryan had moved his board exam because that was the kind of thing we were anticipating. 

Pretty early Lori texted me. She said that her dad had arranged for an appointment with Jennifer Tittensor! 

Ah-ma-zing. 

What a blessing. 

I called my family practice the moment they opened and let them know about my appointment. I appreciated their help and they were already on the ball, making arrangements with Dr. Tittensor's office, so I was double prepared. 

Tuesday we would meet with the surgeon. 

Tuesday we would finally know more. 

Tuesday we would make a plan.

What we didn't fully anticipate was the response from the clinical placement office. Because Ryan had moved his test, Georgia was no longer an option and that once he had taken his test (which he rescheduled for the first available date: July 20th) they could give us a new plan.

Well that sucks.

And really makes me feel great considering I already just learned I have cancer.

I tried to be positive via iMessage to Ryan, and I know it will work out, but when we finally talked about it that night we both expressed frustration and disappointment.

So much for the southern charm but who knows what Heavenly Father has in store for us.

Tuesday we would meet with the surgeon. 

Tuesday we would finally know more. 

Tuesday we would make a plan.