I deserve this.

           By the time 3:00a.m. showed on the clock, I got out of bed. I had not slept up until that point, and I knew I wasn’t going to. Thoughts, worries, and fears flooded my head and I could not shut them off. It had been one week since we found this lump, and I could count on one hand the number of hours of sleep I had gotten in that week. There I sat, alone with my thoughts, staring aimlessly out the windows into the dark, early morning. I felt like I had no control over my thoughts. The chatter going through my messed-up mind that morning was:

“Do I deserve this? Is God punishing me?”

“No, don’t be dumb, He doesn’t do that?”

“Or does He?”

“I did get pregnant at the age of eighteen and I haven’t always been the best wife. I did experiment with drugs and alcohol in high-school and put my mom and dad through a lot! I haven’t always been the best mom and friend.”

“Yep. I have not been a particularly good person. I guess I do deserve this.”

I sat there and cried while I begged God for forgiveness. “God, I’m sorry! Surround me with your grace and forgive me! Please!”

            I was sitting on the couch holding my Pathology report. I still didn’t really know exactly what it all meant, but I kept reading it and re-reading it. I picked up my phone to Google some of the information. I mean, I needed to know how much time I had to live, because I still believed that I was not going to make it through this. Then Dr. Hoffman’s voice was in my head, “Whatever you do, do not go home and look up this information. Wait until you meet with your Oncologist.” Surprisingly enough, I did not Google anything…that day.

            I wiped my tears and greeted the boys and Wayne as they woke up. The boys were worried about me. All the crying and lack of sleep is showing-big time! Logan didn’t say anything, because that’s how he is. He sits back and observes-he watches. Isaac, however, will ask and say what is on his mind.

“Are you okay, mom?”, Isaac asked.

“Yep, I’m okay. I just didn’t sleep very well last night”, I replied.

“Why aren’t you getting ready for work?”, he asked in a concerned voice.

“I think I just need a day to digest this stuff and get my appointments scheduled,” I told him.

Isaac looked at me with that, ‘I don’t really think you’re okay look’ and asked, “Are you going to be home alone?”

I replied, “Yes, but I will be fine. I just need to rest.”

“Okay”, he hesitantly replied as he kept eating his cereal.

Wayne also was getting ready for the day. He just started working a new job at the beginning of the month, and as much as he wanted to be home with me that day, we knew there would be several other days in the weeks and months ahead that would be more important and necessary for him to be with me. So, he left to bring the boys to school and then went to work.

            As soon as they walked out the door, I started crying again. I cried so much that day. I had no idea one human being could cry as much as I cried. I cried and I waited. I waited for them to call from Piper Breast Center. Dr. Hoffman’s office put in the referral the day before while we were at the clinic, and they told me they would call me the following day. Finally, the phone rang. I answered it and it was the receptionist at Piper Breast Center. By the time she called me, she had me scheduled with a Surgical Oncologist, a Medical Oncologist, and for an MRI-all in one day. However, this was the problem, “I have you scheduled on October 23^rd” she said. I’m running this through my head, “Um, today is the 10^th! That’s thirteen days away! I can’t wait that long! I am going to die!” Without me saying anything, the receptionist added, “I know that seems terribly far away, but I assure you that two weeks is not going to make much of a difference.” I finally responded, “I don’t want to wait that long, but I’ve heard you guys are the best, so I will be there on the 23^rd.” She proceeded to give me all my doctors’ names and the times of my appointments. She told me that I would be getting a packet in the mail that the nurse care coordinator, assigned to me, will be calling and going over with me prior to my appointments on the 23^rd. She asked me if I had any questions. I didn’t even know which way up at this point. So, to even be able to think clearly enough to formulate a question would’ve been tough. I responded, “No, not right now. Thank you for calling.” She replied, “Absolutely, take care.” And we hung up.

            “Take care? How in the hell am I supposed to take care?” I thought to myself, that’s what I was doing. I was taking care of myself-eating healthy (most of the time) drinking water, and exercising-and here I am…with cancer. I cried and cried and cried some more. I had no idea how I was going to make it thirteen days until my appointment. I wanted this cancer out of me yesterday. But now, I have to wait. And once again, the negative thoughts flooded my head. “I guess this is what I get. Not only is He paying me back, He’s making me wait.” Meanwhile, I was beginning to experience continued symptoms of stress. I couldn’t eat. I had diarrhea. I was vomiting. This continued for several days.

---------------------------------

            I saw 3:00 a.m. on the clock again. I hadn’t slept much. I thought to myself, “This is really going to suck if I am going to start waking up at 3am every day.” I got out of bed and went out to the family room. I once again sat on the couch and stared out into the dark, early morning. I eventually got up and put on my workout clothes. Today, my super trainer made two different comments that hit me hard that morning, “You can do hard things” and “You are stronger than you think you are.” I have been telling all of you that for a couple years through my Facebook posts-now, I need to believe it myself-but I just didn’t know if I could.

            I got ready for the day and went to work. I learned really fast that although it seemed as if my life stopped, everyone else’s just kept on going-and I needed to try and do the same. I got to work and sat through our change-of-shift report. Then, I told my co-workers who were working that day; “I want you all to hear it from me. On Wednesday I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I know that it is aggressive and that I will be going through chemo and surgery. That’s all I know. I have appointments scheduled for the 23^rd and I will know more after that.”

I received some pink roses from my boss and co-worker with a card that read, “Kick Cancer’s Ass!” I remember thinking, “What if I let everyone down? What if I can’t kick this damn thing’s ass like everyone is going to expect me to?” I tried to continue on with my day as best I could. It was tough. As the day went on, I began getting more and more angry about my situation. Then, I text Wayne and I asked him if he thought I should put a post on Facebook about this. He responded with, “I don’t know. Maybe you should wait. Well, you can do what you think you are ready for.” And so, I made this post:

My phone rang and I saw “Family Practice” on my phone screen...

...my heart started to race. {this is the call I’ve been waiting for}...then, on the other line,

“Hi, Angie. This is _____ from Family Practice. Dr. _______ has your biopsy results, and he would like to see you in his office to go over them with you.” My heart sank. I dropped down to my chair in my office. Tears filled my eyes and I let out a wail...

...I knew at that moment that my life would forever be changed!

Ladies-I’ve talked a lot about boobs in the last week, so, I’m just gonna tell you, let your husband feel them...mine felt a lump. Then I felt it, and we both knew it wasn’t good...6 days later, I’m diagnosed with breast cancer...

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared and mad AF right now. But, I’m also holding onto hope and praying HARD that we will get a plan in place with some amazing doctors and surgeons and get this shit taken care of!

Please pray HARD with me. For me. For Wayne. For the boys. For peace. For the doctors. For the surgeons. For the nurses...and anyone else that is going to be part of this journey with me!

It’s crazy how quickly life changes. How priorities change. How your perspective changes. Life absolutely can NOT be taken for granted. If you aren’t actually LIVIN life right now, and trying each day to be the best version of you-you better start today...because we have no idea what tomorrow brings
#fightlikeagirl #cancersucks

— feeling drained with

Wayne Rudningen

            And there it was. It was out there for the whole world to know. I started receiving messages, texts, and calls. As my work-day came to an end, I got more and more upset. Angry. Pissed. I held it together until I got to my car. I sat down in my car and started crying. Hard. I continued to cry as I drove home. I got about half-way home and started pounding on my steering wheel as I yelled at God. “Why God?! Why did you do this to me?! How could you let this happen to me?!” At that very moment, my phone rang. I looked down and saw, “Corinne” on my screen.

I picked it up and answered, “Hello?”

She responded, “Hi dear, I just heard, and I am so, so sorry. How are you doing?”

“Actually,” I said, “Right now, I’m really pissed. I'm so mad.”

“And you have every right to be,” she replied.

We continued to talk, only for about five minutes. She listened to me as I vented and questioned my faith in that moment. She reminded me that it was okay and that I needed to feel all my feelings. By the end of that conversation, I was not crying anymore. I even laughed a bit, and I felt content in that moment. I hung up the phone, looked up into the sky and did a little half-laugh as I said out loud, “Good one! I hear you loud and clear, God!”

Numb

There we were. Driving. Numb. Now What? I think we both had the same thought at the same moment-we have to tell the boys that their mom has cancer! "How in the hell do we do this?" When kids hear ‘cancer’ they think ‘death’. Heck, when I hear 'cancer' I think 'death.' I have been there before; except I was an adult when my dad called to tell me he had prostate cancer. It was awful. I remember how scared I was. I remember wondering if he was going to die. So now, I'm in those shoes:

How do I tell my 12-year old who is extremely soft-hearted? 

How do I tell my 15-year old who cannot even watch the movie "Backdraft" because his Dad is a firefighter and it scares him to think about his dad dying in a fire?

How do I tell my 19-year old who will always share his birthday with the anniversary of my diagnosis?

I consider myself a strong person. It has always been important for me to show my boys that women can do {tough and hard} things. But now, my boys are going to see me in my weakest moments. And, for the first time in a really long time, I felt weak and I doubted myself.  

“Can I actually do this?”

And then, I told myself, “Pull your shit together. You need to be strong for the boys.” After all, if I was doubting myself and my ability to fight this fight, how were they going to believe that I was going to be okay. Sometimes we just have to "fake it 'til we make it" and this was my time to "fake it" because I sure as hell had no idea if I was actually going to make it. 

            Let me back up for a minute. Wayne and I didn’t know if we should tell anyone what we were going through-the lump-the mammogram-the ultrasound-the biopsy. Finally, on the previous Sunday, we thought we should tell our boys and family just to give everyone a ‘heads-up’. But, right now, in this moment, Wayne and I are the only ones that know the results.

We decided that it would be best for the boys to miss their church activities that night so we could all be together. I called my sister-in-law because Logan was at their house. I told her to let Logan know that we would be there in a few minutes to pick him up and that he would not be going to confirmation. Mariah said, “Okay. Is everything alright?” I started crying, or just continued to cry…I don’t really think I’ve stopped crying yet, and replied, “No. We just met with Dr. Hoffman. I have breast cancer.” She responded so sweet, even though I’m sure she was just as terrified, “Okay, so what’s next?” I remember that question so clearly because it caught me off guard. But, it also changed my focus. It made me switch my thinking, in that moment, from "I'm going to die" to "Focus on what you need to do next." I told her that I would be making a phone call to Piper Breast Center the following day, and we will go from there.  

We pulled up to Eric and Mariah’s house and I knew this was going to be the toughest person I would face-my 12-year-old little Mr. Logie. I didn’t want him to be scared. I didn’t want him to worry about his mama. But, let’s be real, I was scared. I was worried. How couldn’t a 12 year-old feel all of those feels, plus more? I started walking up the steps to their house, and Mariah met me to give me a hug. I cried more. She cried. Then, I walked into the house and faced Logan. I didn’t want to tell him yet. I wanted to wait until we picked up Isaac from the school so I could tell them at the same time. So, I said, “Hey bud” and gave him a quick hug. He knew something was wrong, but he just kept walking past me to the front door, and then outside. I stood in the kitchen at Eric and Mariah’s house and shared with her what I knew.

We got back in the truck and headed up to the school to get Isaac. Logan was quiet, but his eyes were full of fear. He knew why I was crying. He knew we were waiting for these results. I can’t imagine what was going through his head in those couple minutes. Remember, I thought about having to write letters to my boys for them to read at milestones in their lives. Was he thinking this? Was he wondering if his mom would be there when he shoots his first deer, or to see him make the big tackle in his football game, or his 16th birthday when he gets his driver's license?  But, he didn’t say anything. We got to the school, and luckily Isaac came right out. It’s very uncommon for Wayne and me to be together-picking the boys up from sports practices. So instantly, Isaac’s eyes filled with that same fear that engulfed Logan's eyes. He knew too. Then, I had to do the toughest thing in all of my mamahood, I turned to the back seat of the truck and said, “Boys, I got a call from Dr. Hoffman today and he wanted me and dad to come meet with him in his office this afternoon. He told us that I have breast cancer.” Tears now filled their already fearful eyes while they stared-the deer in headlights stare-at me. Logan started to cry out loud. I reached back and hugged him. Then Wayne interjected, (this is when it’s super helpful to have him around), “Boys, you know your mom. She’s pretty tough…and stubborn (they giggled through their tears), and she’s going to get through this.”

We started heading home, but we decided to go to Wayne’s parents’ house. I was no where near hungry, but the boys had to eat, and my in-law’s house is always a good place for the boys to fill their tummies. We walked into their house and my mother-in-law knew right when she saw us, “It's cancer?” She asked. We continued to share what we knew with them. Isaac headed right for the food and Logan stood by me and hugged me as I was talking. Then, both Wayne and I got on our phones. He called his siblings, and I called my mom, dad, and sister. I honestly can’t imagine getting a phone call from my child or sister telling me that they have cancer, yet that’s the phone call I was making to them. They were quiet. They listened. They were strong for me. They had questions. Finally, my sister asked me, “Are you okay? You aren’t crying. Why aren’t you crying?” I replied, “Right now, I just don’t have anything left in me.” Wayne and I got done calling our family members, now, we needed to call Dylan, together. We walked out to the garage and put him on speaker phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey bud! Happy Birthday!”, I said, and continued to ask him about his day. Wayne then said to him, “Well, we found out today that mom has breast cancer.”

“Are you serious? Ah man”, he responded.

We told him everything we knew. He was quiet. The other two boys have seen me. They were able to give me a hug. Dylan is hearing this through the phone. He can’t see me. He can't give me a hug. I said to him, “I’m so sorry this happened on your birthday. It kind makes for a shitty birthday.” He replied, “You don’t have to worry about my birthday, I’m sorry you have to go through this.” We talked for bit more, and then hung up with him. We gathered up the other boys and drove home.

            I was so exhausted. We got in the house and I looked at Wayne and said, “I need to talk to Melanie.” I’m still trying to digest this news. But, all I wanted to do was to cling onto all the hopeful, successful, cancer stories that I knew of. I text my friend Melanie who is a very recent breast cancer survivor. She called me when she was available. I told her I was just diagnosed with breast cancer. I asked her where she had her treatment and surgery. She, too, went through Piper Breast Center. So, I felt quite confident in this choice. Prior to this phone call, I remember thinking back to Melanie’s journey and hearing about her surgery and treatment. I heard about her cancer spreading through many of her lymph nodes and thinking, “Shit. That’s not good.” So now that I am also diagnosed with breast cancer, I thought, “Even after how bad hers was, Melanie is now a survivor. There’s no way mine is as bad as hers was. It’s going to be ok.” Back to our phone call, we started talking about the specifics of our pathology reports. I’m not sure why I thought this was going to be a good idea. Like I said earlier, I was trying to cling onto any hope that I could. But, we got to the point of talking about our Nottingham grade and scale numbers. We exchanged our numbers; and tears, once again, began to roll down my cheeks. My numbers were bigger than hers. “How could this be? She went through a lot of shit and she survived, but what are the chances that I am also going to survive?” We talked some more, and she told me to reach out to her whenever I needed to. I thanked her for the phone conversation and we hung up. After we hung up, I stood in our kitchen and thought to myself, “Man, I can’t wait until I am in her shoes and have the ‘survivor’ title.” However, I knew I was so far away from that day. Meanwhile, another friend, Amber, was messaging me because my sister reached out to her and asked her to contact me about where she had recently gone through her breast cancer treatment. Again, terribly similar stories and she, too, went to Piper Breast Center.

            This had just been the longest, most exhausting, heart-breaking, and terrifying day of my life. In this moment, I was extremely confident in where I was going for treatment. But, I have also gone from; “I’m going to die” to “I’ve got this” to “Holy shit, I really am going to die” to “Alright, I might be okay” in a matter of three hours. I had hopped on this rollercoaster of emotions and it was time to hold on through the awful. 

           

The Results

It was Wednesday morning (10/9/2019)-Dylan’s birthday. I was up early, I mean, I didn’t really go to sleep. I picked up my phone, walked out into our family room and sat down on the couch. I made my annual birthday post on Facebook and sent Dylan a “Happy Birthday” text. I couldn’t help but think, “Today is going to be the day that I find out I have cancer. Today…on Dylan’s birthday.” After making the birthday post, I was mindlessly scrolling Facebook and this scripture came across my news feed, “But the Lord stood at my side and gave me strength. 2 Timothy 4:17.” I reposted it. That day, I had a feeling I was going to need a little extra strength.

I got ready for work. By the time I got to Willmar, I did not even remember the drive in. My mind was blank. I remember sitting at my desk-staring at my computer screen. I couldn’t function. By noon, I could not wait any longer and I called my doctor’s nurse. I left a message for her. About an hour and a half later, she called me back. My phone rang. I looked down on my desk and saw “Family Practice” on my phone screen. My heart started to race. I thought to myself, “This is the call I’ve been waiting for. Please, God let it be good news.” I hesitated to answer it. I picked up my phone, stood up, closed my office door and put the phone to my ear. As I was shaking, I mustered out, “Hi, this is Angie.” On the other end, I heard, “Hi, Angie. This is Cassie from Family Practice. Dr. Hoffman has your biopsy results, and he would like to see you in his office to go over them with you. Are you able to come in at 4:30 today?” My heart sank. My legs went numb underneath me. I dropped down to my chair. Tears rolled down my face. “Cassie, it’s not good is it? Is it?” She replied, “I’m sorry, Angie. Can you be here today at 4:30?” I responded through my tears, “Yes, yes I will be there.” I hung up the phone and let out a wail. I cried hard. For the past six days, I have been trying to prepare myself for this moment. After all, I knew I had cancer. I knew that lump was not supposed to be there. But, until I actually heard those words, “He would like to see you in his office”, there was still some hope that I was wrong. But, we all know what those words mean. I dialed Wayne’s number. He answered, “Hello?” He knew why I was calling. I could tell by the tone in his voice. However, I couldn’t talk-just cry. Obviously, he heard me crying and said, “Ah fuck. Are you serious?” I was able to pull myself together and say, “Dr. Hoffman wants to see us at 4:30 today.”

“Dammit!” He replied.

“I’m going to come home now, and we can come back into town together,” I told him.

He said, “Okay, I’ll be home when you get there. I love you.”

I hung up the phone. I knew in that moment that this would change our lives forever. I went to tell my co-worker about the phone call I just received. He already knew. He heard me crying. I told him I needed to go home, “and I don’t know when I will be back.”

I grabbed my purse and walked out of my office. I cried as I walked out to my car. I cried as I got into my car and drove out of the parking lot. I cried the entire way home, along with filling my head with so many horrible-racing thoughts. I thought about the movie, “Safe Haven” (one of my all-time favs), and I could actually see myself, like the mother in the movie who passed away from cancer, writing letters to my boys for them to open on their birthdays, graduation days, and wedding days because I wasn’t going to physically be there. I wondered how long I had to live. I wondered if Wayne would re-marry. You might be thinking right now, “Uff-da, this chick is being dramatic.” But you guys, these were real thoughts. At this time, I knew I had cancer. That’s it.

I pulled up to our house and stared at it as I cried some more. I got out of my car and slowly walked up to the front door. I opened it, walked in, and saw Wayne standing in the middle of the living room. I dropped my purse and walked over to him. He threw his arms around me and we stood there, in the middle of our home, that we literally built together, and held each other as we cried. Hard. We didn’t really know what to say to each other. All we knew was that this was going to suck. So, naturally, we grabbed a beer and went out to our patio and sat down. We talked. We laughed. We sat in silence. We cried. Then, I remembered it was Dylan’s birthday and how horrible it would be for him to find out that his mom has cancer-on his birthday. That made me cry harder.

We walked out to the truck and made the trip back into Willmar. The trip was quiet. I told Wayne, “I probably won’t remember when we get there, but make sure to ask Dr. Hoffman where he would go for treatment if he was in our shoes.” I trusted our doctor, and in my mind, this was the most important question that I needed answered today. We pulled into the parking lot at Family Practice Medical Center. We got out of the truck and walked into the clinic. I felt like I was going to vomit. I was scared. I was nervous. I checked in at the front desk and then we sat down in the waiting room. We were quiet. I knew Wayne was just as scared as I was. A nurse came to get us and bring us back to an exam room. She said, “You can just have a seat and Dr. Hoffman will be in in a little bit.” She closed the door behind her and there we sat. Waiting. My heart was racing. I swear I could hear it pounding in my chest. Then, there was a knock at the door and in walked our doctor. I could see the pain in his eyes. The pain of having to give a young, healthy couple the news that he was about to give us. He also saw the fear in our eyes and said, “Yeah, it’s not good news, I’m sorry” as he shook our hands (remember when we could actually shake hands with doctors?) and sat down next to me on his stool. He looked at me and said those three words that no one wants to hear, “You have cancer.” In his hand was a piece of paper. It was my Pathology report. He explained to us that he called and talked to the Radiologist so he could explain the Pathology report to the best of his ability, until I saw an Oncologist. As he’s talking, I am looking at the report that he is holding in front of me. I see numbers that I have no idea what they mean, but I know that the numbers I’m seeing aren’t good. My heart starts to race faster. I become completely full of fear. My doctor says to me, “You have what’s called, “Invasive ductal carcinoma-that’s the fancy term for the type of breast cancer you have.” He continued to explain the ‘Nottingham score’ which is used to determine the “grade” of the breast cancer. He told us that they basically look for how different the tumor cells look from normal cells and how fast the cells are dividing and reproducing. [I appreciate how my doctor doesn’t sugar coat anything because in this moment, I want to know exactly what I am up against.] He looked up from the report he was holding, looked at me and said, “Yours is icky.” He told us the ‘Nottingham score’ is a scale from 3 to 9, and “Your score is 9 out of 9. This means the cells in your tumor are ugly, aggressive, and growing rapidly.” At this point, the tears rolled down my face. He then said, “You’re young. So that is also a concern with having an icky cancer like this. But, that also means that your body is strong.” He told us, “You will definitely have to do chemo and have some form of surgery.”  Then, he said the magic words, “If I was sitting in your chairs, and it was my wife, I would go to Piper Breast Center.” Wayne and I both looked at each other and said, “Then that’s where we are going.” Our doctor told us not to look up anything from the Pathology report online, “It will only make things worse.” I thought to myself, “Yeah, easier said than done.” He said, “You really need to wait until you see your Oncologist and he can explain it all in further detail to you.” We chatted a little bit more, he told us we could stay in the exam room as long as we needed to, gave us a hug, and he walked out of the room. I cried. I was weak. I could hardly stand up. I really have no idea what exactly I was just told, I just knew it wasn’t good. I leaned up against the wall in the exam room and let out another wail. Wayne grabbed my hand and gently said, “Let’s go.” We walked out of the room, through the building, outside through the parking lot and to our truck. I felt, once again, like a walking zombie. “This didn’t actually happen, did it?” All I wanted to do was wake up from this nightmare. I climbed up into the truck. We started driving, and I started crying more. I turned to Wayne and yelled, “I don’t want to die!” He turned to me, grabbed my hand, looked me in the eyes, and sternly said to me, “You will not die!”

The Lump

Finally! Life was going okay. Nothing too amazing or awful. You know, the kids were healthy and happy. The cars were all in working condition. No extra, unpaid bills lying around the house. My husband, Wayne, just got a new job. Both my sons’ high-school varsity football team and college football team have been playing well. No major arguments at home-between the boys and I or my hubby and me. My anxiety that came with my oldest son moving away to college had finally subsided. It was okay. Normal. I have come to learn that life is still good when it is simplified and uneventful. 

It was normal until that one Thursday night. Wayne and I went to bed together, which doesn’t happen that often, due to his shift-work job or me thinking that an 8:30pm bedtime is the most amazing thing ever. I mean, I wake up at 4:45am to workout, bring the boys to school, and then work a fulltime job outside of the home. I deserve that bedtime!  Let’s be real, here, with our busy schedules and me, wanting to just go to sleep when I lay down in bed, extracurricular activities in the bedroom don’t happen as much as my hubby would like. So anyway, we were in bed and Wayne copped a couple squeezes of my boob. I remember thinking it was different because he didn’t just grab the whole boob and squeeze it, it was just the top part, and he went back to that spot a couple times.

When the activities were done, Wayne immediately said to me, “I felt something.” I replied, “What do you mean you felt something?” “A lump. Here”, he said, as he took my hand and put it on my right boob. I felt it too. “What is it! What is it!” I yelled out as tears filled my eyes. Wayne replied, “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s fine.” This is his typical response when I’m freaking out about something. “It’ll be fine.” That’s why we balance each other out so well. That’s the response he uses when I get worked up about finances, or the laundry, or his driving. It’s like his reaction response to my hysteria. In that moment, however, I could see the fear in his eyes. I knew this time he wasn’t actually thinking, “I’m sure it will be fine”, that’s just what came out. But, what else do you say to your distraught wife?

I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I stood there looking in the mirror as I felt this lump. How did I not feel this before? It’s so obvious. Now, it’s typical for us humans to think the worst-case scenario. I mean, c’mon all you moms. When our babies had a temperature, we all believed that they had some strange disease that we’ve never heard of because we Googled it, and if it’s on the internet, it’s true. So, of course I instantly jumped to the conclusion that I had cancer and that I was going to die. I laid there in bed that night and thought of everything I needed to do before I died. I know, that sounds ridiculous. But I knew this lump was not supposed to be there. I don’t have lumpy breast tissue. This was new. This was bad.

I rolled over and Wayne held me as I cried. I was so scared in that moment, and the days to follow this. I didn’t sleep. I tossed and turned all night. Finally, when I saw 4:00 a.m. on the clock, I got out of bed. I put my fluffy pink robe on, which ironically has a breast cancer awareness ribbon on it and sat down on the couch to Google “Breast Cancer.” This, of course, made it worse. First, I read that approximately 90% of breast masses are benign and not cancer. I thought, “Oh good! What are the chances of me being part of that other 10%?” However, then everything that was mentioned about a cancerous lump vs. a fibrocystic lump was exactly how my lump felt. It wasn’t abnormal in shape. It didn’t move between my fingers. It was secure. It was solid.  

Tears filled my eyes and rolled down my face. I dropped my phone to the ground. I folded my hands and cried out, “God, make this all go away. Make this okay. I’m sorry for every wrongdoing of mine. Please, just make this all go away.” Then, I got up and walked to the bathroom to put my workout clothes on. Physical activity is my stress reliever, and one of my favorite things to do. Although my body felt weak, and I was tired, I knew I needed to sweat. I walked out to our family room, and my designated workout space, and pushed play on my workout program. During my work out, the super trainer said, “We are all fighting battles in our own lives. You need to believe that you are strong enough to fight yours!” I remember thinking, “Holy shit! She’s talking directly to me!” See, that’s why I love my workout programs. It’s so much more than a physical workout. It’s my therapy. However, so much doubt filled my body. “Will I actually be strong enough to make it through this battle?”

I slowly got ready for the day. I text my boss and told her I was going to be late. I got to work about 8:15a.m. and called my doctor at 8:20a.m. When the receptionist asked, “What do you need to be seen for today?” I started crying and could hardly answer her. All I could muscle through the tears was, “I found a lump in my breast.” She replied in her soft voice, “Okay. Let’s get you in right away. Dr. Hoffmann has an opening at 8:40a.m. Will that work?” “Yes, I’ll be there” and I hung up the phone.

I left work and drove to my doctor’s office. I was called back to my room and went through all the normal questions, blood pressure, weight etc. Then Cassie, the nurse, said, “Dr. Hoffman will be right in.” He came in and we talked about this lump. He asked me a lot of questions about it, and then he did an exam. He said, “I can see why you are concerned. Let’s get you scheduled for a Mammogram and get some answers as to what this is.” Cassie got me scheduled for 10:30a.m. that morning for a mammogram. As I sat there and waited, I was scared. I didn’t want to have a mammogram. I’ve heard horror stories of these procedures and I did not want to experience it. In fact, I had already told myself that I would never get a mammogram. I was healthy. I wasn’t going to have to worry about cancer because there wasn’t a history of it in my family, and therefore, I could save the pain of my boobs getting squeezed through this machine. But there I sat waiting for my turn at the age of 37. I was called back to the mammogram room. I walked in and the X-ray technician asked if I have ever had a mammogram. I told her, “No, and I am really nervous about getting this done.” She was super sweet and showed me how the machine worked and told me that the horror stories of mammograms were from years ago when the machines were different. “Whew”, I thought to myself. We started the process, and no, it wasn’t that bad. Just a lot of touching and squeezing and pushing. When we were done, the X-ray technician showed me the pictures. I saw the lump instantly without her having to point it out to me. She said, “I will send this through to have the Radiologist look at it. Please don’t get dressed until we hear from him to ensure all the pictures are okay.” The phone rang just a couple minutes later, and I heard her say, “Yep. Okay. I will walk her over there and get it done.” Once again, I thought, “Well, that doesn’t sound good.” The X-ray technician said to me, “The Radiologist wants a better look at that spot, so I am going to take you down the hall to get an ultrasound done.”

Down the hall we went, into another room. It was dark. There was a bed with the ultrasound machine next to it. I laid down and the Ultrasound technician was quiet as she performed the procedure. She was clicking pictures and taking measurements of the lump inside of me. I looked up at the screen at one point when she was taking measurements and tears filled my eyes. That lump looked huge. It seriously looked like the size of a golf ball. I laid there and thought to myself, “This is just a bad dream, and I am going to wake up from it and it will all be okay.” She finished what she needed to do and contacted the Radiologist. She turned to me and said, I’m going to put Dr. Nelson, the Radiologist, on the phone. He wants to talk to you. Again, “This doesn’t sound good”, I thought to myself. Through the phone, a man’s voice said, “Hi Angie. I am sorry that you’ve had to go through this today. I’m sure it’s a lot to take in. That is definitely a solid mass in your right breast, and we need to get a biopsy of it to determine what it is.” The doctor continued to explain the process of and ultrasound guided biopsy and then asked if I had any questions. My mind was a jumbled, foggy mess. I couldn’t even formulate a sentence to respond to him. They rearranged their schedules so they could get me in for a biopsy on Monday morning.

I got dressed and walked out of the office. I got to my car and sat there, staring straight ahead. I started crying again. “Why is this happening”, I yelled out. I called Wayne and told him about my whirlwind of a morning. His response was again, “Well, we will just see what Monday brings. I’m sure it will all be okay.” For a moment, I agreed with him. I thought to myself, “Yeah, this will all be okay.” But then I thought back through the morning. I thought about what the doctors said, and how they said it. They were concerned. I felt the lump again, because now that I know it’s there, I can’t stop feeling it. This wasn’t just a lump.

My Facebook post that day was, Philippians 4:6-7, “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your heart and mind as you live in Christ Jesus.” I prayed. I prayed hard. 

            It’s crazy how our bodies respond to stress. These next few days were hell. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I had diarrhea. I just went through the motions of the days. I felt like a walking zombie. Thankfully, it was homecoming at my son, Dylan’s, college that Saturday. This was good, it gave me something else to focus on, for some of the time anyway. During the game, I would cheer on the Cougars during one play, but then completely zone out and think about this lump for the next couple of plays.  I was physically there, sitting in the stands at USF, but I was no where near there mentally.

Finally, Monday came. Biopsy Day. I got to the appointment and the ultrasound technician tried to be as positive as she could, because let’s be real, what a horrible position to be in. She got me all ready, and then Dr. Nelson, the Radiologist, came in to perform the procedure. He told jokes as he did the procedure and tried to make light of the situation. I appreciated the humor. I laughed. But it wasn’t a real laugh. It was a nervous, scared laugh. This biopsy consisted of sticking a needle into the mass three different times, grabbing some cells, and emptying the cells into test tubes. (I know, good medical terminology.) I remember him telling me that the mass is very solid. Usually, he said he can just stick the needle into the same insertion point each time because the cells will fall into the hole, but they didn’t with mine. Therefore, he had to re-poke the mass, in a different spot, all three times. He said, “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, just that it is very solid.” Of course, I took that to mean it was a solid, cancerous tumor growing rapidly inside of me and I was going to die. No joke. He finished up the procedure and told me it would take 2-3 days for the results and if I don’t hear anything by noon on Thursday, I should call my doctor and check-in with him. 

These next two days were the longest days of my life. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t focus on anything. It seriously felt like I was waiting for my death sentence. I was trying to prepare myself for the worst, in hopes that it would be nothing. Little did I know that there was, in fact, absolutely no way to prepare for what was to come.