Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

I didn’t die, I know the suspense was killing you.

Once I found out that my cancer was not life threatening, information relayed to me by a gastroenterologist who looked like my HUGE celebrity crush, country singer Toby Keith, I took a deep breath and relaxed, but quickly things got chaotic.

One thing I learned about cancer is that everyone has an opinion about it. I became inundated with advice, from family, friends, and my house cleaner ( the one who tried to dry her wet pack of cigarettes in my microwave), the “you should’s,” came flying at me like bugs towards a trucker's windshield.

· Get a mastectomy.

· Get a double mastectomy.

· See my doctor, he/she is the best.

· Get chemo.

· Avoid chemo.

· Get a lumpectomy.

· Have positive attitude.

· Be grateful it’s not worse.

· Avoid soy.

· Never use a microwave. (Obviously that one was not from my house cleaner).

Under the guidance of an amazing breast specialist my mom found (apparently she wasn't having Dr. Toby the butt doctor operate on her daughter’s breast), I opted for lumpectomy and six weeks of radiation. Due to my age, and the fact I was, as my radiologist Dr. Lee put it, “a skinny white woman,” my physical recovery process went quite smoothly. But emotionally it was a challenge.

I was overwhelmed with all the advice, worrying and scurrying and offers for help. It just felt too chaotic and it made me anxious and I didn’t like (and still don’t) people worrying about me. It was difficult for me to ask for help but the hard fact was that physically, I needed some. With a toddler still in a crib, a doctor prescribed heavy lifting ban, and daily radiation appointments, I just couldn’t realistically manage it on my own. I felt helpless and that feeling of helplessness frustrated me.

Not only did I not ask for help, I resisted it. I told my family I didn’t need anyone to come with me to my radiation appointments and I went alone, I refused my mom when she tried to come over to help me lift Brennan from his crib and instead I rigged a system where I could do it myself, I told my friends they didn’t need to bring me food, to which my friend Polly said “whatever, I’ll be there at three to watch the boys and I’m bringing you chicken fajitas.” She can be bossy like that.

With my family at my sister's wedding just six weeks after surgery and well into radiation treatments. Nice to have something else to think about during that time.

I also told my husband to go back to work. So, he did. Yes, he did. He was restless being home and his impatience made it hard for me to relax, so I told him I had everything covered. That left me, just days after surgery, to entertain, change, and bathe two toddlers, to arrange childcare while I went to radiation treatments, and to manage people who popped in to check on me. I felt alone, even with all of the love and support swirling around me, not to have my husband just be there just hurt. But then again, I didn’t ask him for help, I never said, I’m scared, I’m tired, I need you, please stay with us. I felt I shouldn’t have had to ask, he should just want to do it Then again maybe I should have just insisted he stay home and help me but instead I just turned further inward, determined to prove to myself, and those around me there was no need to worry, I had everything under control all the while, I was unconsciously laying the groundwork for what was about to come next.

Must Be A Mistake

Life loves to throw a curveball. Which is an issue for me as I’m a planner. I like structure and routine, and I don’t like surprises, unless it is a tropical trip or jewelry, (I’m over controlled not crazy). Back in 2005 the tension between Marc and I over his drinking left me feeling very shaky and uncertain. In trying to control his behavior, I felt out of control in my own, and I was focused on trying to find some balance, so focused in fact, I never saw what was coming, a surprise wrapped not in a little blue box, but rather in the shape of a phone call.

NOTE: Instead of rewriting this part of the story, I am including an excerpt of a piece I wrote in 2017 while treatment for anorexia as I tried to figure out how, as my treatment team suggested, this diagnosis was related to my eating disorder.

“Hi Sherri, this is Dr. Broms,” my doctor announced when I answered the phone, “is this a good time for you to talk?” I was instantly on alert, as his medical assistant was always the one to call with test results.

“Of course,” I answered despite having a backyard of four year olds splashing in a plastic pool and my friend about to disclose the latest neighborhood gossip.

“I hate to have to tell you this over the phone but your biopsy came back. It shows a malignancy.”

I was caught off guard. The ultrasound I had the week before was just a precaution he had told me, probably another benign cyst in my breast. I had many over the years and being only thirty six years old with no family history of cancer, I wasn't concerned.

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“What does that mean?” I asked trying to keep my voice steady, hoping this was a misunderstanding.

“You have breast cancer.”

It was a warm, sunny afternoon and I could feel the perspiration run down my back, but it had nothing to do with the weather. My legs felt weak and I collapsed into the chair nearest to me.

“Mommy come watch me,” I heard Dylan’s little voice calling from the backyard.

“Are you sure of this?” I asked the doctor, holding out hope he could be wrong.

“Yes.” He responded solemnly.

“What stage of cancer?” I asked, not ready to resign myself that this was even true.

“I don’t have that information,” he patiently replied.

The real question was on the tip of my tongue. It was what I really wanted to know and was trying to muster the courage to ask.

“Am I going to die?” I croaked, my throat so dry as if I hadn’t had water in days.

A long pause that seemed to last for ten minutes but in reality, was probably closer to ten seconds hung in the air like a heavy fog.

“I have scheduled an appointment with a specialist on Monday at four, he will be able to tell you more, this is just out of my area of expertise.” WTF, Monday?! I have to wait until Monday?! I screamed silently to myself.

I dreaded the end of the call, as if the finality was a way of accepting I had cancer but there was nothing left to say. I thanked him and hung up the phone and allowing the fear to burst forth in a flood of uncontrollable sobbing tears.

My friend generously offered to stay and watch the kids while I tried to maintain some composure. I called my husband, my mom and my best friend, then I did what any rational person with fifty-five hours to sit and think about the fact they have cancer would do. I Googled. The “what if’s” ran through my head all weekend, the biggest being, what if I never see my kids grow up? What if they have to go through life never having me as their mom?

With my mom and grandma on Mothers Day, a month before my diagnosis. What if, what if, what if? (2005)

I stood in my bedroom later that evening, staring at my face in the dresser mirror. The vibrant laughing woman, whom just hours before, was playing in a plastic pool was gone and the woman in the mirror looked old and tired. Hair askew and bags under her eyes that could carry a lifetime of worry. I starting imagining the cancer inside me growing by the minute, like a little dried sponge that was being exposed to water and expanding with every drop. I wanted it out and out now. A flip switched inside me and I felt a little burning ember starting to flame and I said, “God, I will do whatever it takes to survive this. Anything. Just let me live through this so I can raise my kids. Please let me be with my kids.” Those words are etched in my memory. I have never wanted something so badly.

I'm Fine

The gut is commonly referred to as our second brain. It’s true, our brains and our gut share some of the same neurons that can influence mood and decision making. In fact, according to the publication, Scientific American, ninety five percent of our serotonin, aka the “happy chemical”, is found in the bowels Our Second Brain. A fun fact for the office lunch room today. You're welcome.

That being said, I have always functioned in my first brain.

There we were, six years of marriage, a lovey home, a growing business with two adorable toddlers yet Marc and I remained at odds about his drinking. I continued to be uncomfortable with aspects of Marc’s demeanor and suspicious of his increased time away from our family. I was sure this was due to his drinking and became determined to “catch him.” I would discreetly tag his scotch bottles with tiny pencil marks to track how quickly the level dropped, I would rummage through the garbage and recycling bins to look for empty wine bottles, and I would insist on checking his breath after a night out with his buddies. I would yell and accuse, he would deny shut down. It was taking a toll on our relationship.

One thing I was certain of however, what was happening in our household would stay in our household. It was very important to me to keep up the appearance of a “normal” family, despite my gut feeling that things were anything but normal. If social media were a thing back then I would most likely be sharing posts of sandcastle building on misty beach trips, cotton candy infused outings to Disney on Ice, and holidays filled with Santa and snowmen. Not that we didn’t enjoy doing those things as a family, there were happy times, moments I could convince myself that everything was “fine.”

Definitely some happy moments. These two!

Keeping up appearances took a lot of energy. I was so tired yet found it increasingly difficult to sleep at night, thoughts whirling through my head like laundry on the spin cycle, what has happened to us? To me? I was pretty confident I was the only mom in the neighborhood rummaging through garbage bins while their kids watched Dora The Explorer in the playroom upstairs. If people only knew! But I made sure they never would because I refused to talk about it. To anyone. I just kept my anger, fear and shame locked inside, allowing the pressure to build until I was like a rattled can of soda, ready to explode at any moment.

During this time, I continued to be diligent in my food tracking, although more out of habit than anything, as what I was eating became very routine. The same general menu every day, oatmeal, bananas, spinach and cheese omelets, steamed broccoli, barbecue chicken, cous cous, salad, low fat ice cream. Sure, it varied a little, (I did go through an unexplainable Hot Pocket phase) but overall I was Bill Murray in the movie Groundhogs Day when it came to food so the strange feeling of fullness I felt one evening after dinner caught me by surprise. I felt like I had swallowed a big balloon that filled not just my stomach but my whole abdomen, up through my ribs, making it difficult to even take a deep breath. I chalked it up to some bad chicken and went to bed. When I awoke the next day I was back to my flat tummied self but soon after my oatmeal breakfast, my abdomen was full again making my stomach distended and uncomfortable. This went on for weeks before I admitted to the fact this wasn't going to pass and something was wrong.

It appeared my gut was done merely talking, and my body was taking more drastic measures to get my attention.

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