My Boys Fought, I Won
What I remember most about that day is how annoyed I was. We were having guests for dinner that night, and I hadn’t gone to the grocery store yet, nor had I been able to do any cleaning. And I somehow had to get both boys to karate class; my youngest was testing for his orange belt. I was 35.
Two months earlier, I noticed odd changes in my left breast. I told my physician, but it took two months to get the mammogram, and more time for the ultrasound. And then came the biopsy. So, two months later, I sat in the doctor’s office, waiting for her to come into the room. It wanted to let my doctor know exactly how inconvenient this appointment was, and that mailing my test results, as they had done in the past, was more than adequate. I was wrong.
I don’t think anyone forgets the first time they hear the word ‘cancer.’ I did not tell the doctor that I needed to buy groceries, or that I needed to get the boys to karate. I did not tell her how inconvenient this appointment was. I asked her how long I had. I wanted to know how old my children were going to be when they would lose their mother.
I really don’t remember much of the next few days. But about a week later, I was reading to my son before bed. He looked up at me, and told me that I read books the best, and I needed to teach his daddy to do better. Right then, I realized that there was no reason whatsoever to let cancer dictate my life. Cancer was not going to tell me how much time I had left with my children. I was not born with a pre-determined expiration date.
I fought every step of the way, through four surgeries, and treatments, and months of not being able to hug my own children, but I can’t take credit for anything. My family won this battle. I wasn’t going anywhere.