Feeling a bit squirrelly tonight.  Waiting.  Patiently waiting for the phone to ring.  I’ve been carrying it in my hand all day — actually not carrying it, but clutching it.  Squeezing it…nearly bending the frame of the Otter case.  Feeling a twitch to hurl it against the building wall.  Checking the volume to make sure I can hear it ring when the doctor calls.  Praying she doesn’t call while I’m on the Max train.  Walking thru Costco toward the grilled chickens (hey — a girls gotta eat, nervous or not!!) No way can I have this conversation at Costco — hurry and get out fast!

At the same time, I’m enjoying these last few droplets of freedom.  I don’t know what I don’t know.  And that’s actually in my favor.  For right now, I don’t know the test results of the “oncyl DX” test, I don’t even know how to pronounce it.  I know what it means though.  It’s the difference between chemo and hormone therapy for me.  So for now — I’m actually working on enjoying this nirvana of unknowingness.  It will all change in a split second — a nanosecond.  And there’s no looking back.  And there’s no wishing back.  And it will never be the same — but then again it never is once you pass through a moment in time, right?  So this is no different.  It simply is the next step into the future at the moment in the present.  Like that?

The rain is doing it’s thing–sprinkling gently but loudly.  It’s pushing my thoughts further away from where they are trying to go.  The window in the bedroom is open so that I can hear the splattering and smell them as they pass through the trees in the forest outside.  Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D is playing.  Lacrimosa at the moment!  My breath catches on the purity of the notes and the voices as they beg to the heavens.  I feel the cries beginning, not for me or for this presentness, but for the beauty of the moment.  How does the universe gift us with such profound perfection?  This music drags at the depth of my soul and makes my chest cave in and the rain takes me lightly to a place of sheer awesome.

This waiting patiently is actually not such a bad thing  Look what I have savored in this moment.  Would I have enjoyed this moment if not for the anxiety of the “wait”?  Probably not.  This moment would have passed just like the last…without my consciousness.  Just another moment.  Instead I have this string of emotions that have captured my attention, lifted my spirit, heightened my senses, alerted me to the texture, frailty, splendor of the present moment.  I am breathing into the now of now and am not thinking about the next thing.  It will unfold as it always does — that you can count on.  So why worry about it?  Why be anxious about it?  Why fear it?  It will happen no matter what!  But in the meantime, this now is spectacular!

(PS – Doctor never called.  Will post tomorrow after my 1st oncology meeting. Hugs…)

This was in one of the doctor’s offices.  Really made me think.  I’m not a singer.  Not even in the shower.  Not even in the car…well maybe sometimes.  But songs are constantly playing in my mind and I have music playing everywhere I am.  Classical, hip hop, rock, opera, indie, Indian!  I truly love it all…except for grunge, as it turns out.  I used to think I could listen to any music and be OK, but then I went to a head banger concert (to support a friend of a friend).  Realized there is definitely one type of music I can not physically tolerate!

Hope sings.  Yes.  Hope doesn’t talk and hope doesn’t whisper.  Hope sings musical notes that soothe the soul and calm the mind.  That’s why hope has to sing.  If it whispered we might not hear it.  If it yelled we would run the other direction.  But when it sings, we jump right in and begin to dance the happy dance.  Hope.  Even to say the word, I feel the lightness flutter in my voice.  I feel my chest raise a bit, I sit a bit taller.  Try it…say the word HOPE.  HOPE.  HOPE.  Feel it starting?  Feel your voice start to lift magically all on it’s own and move into a note that rests at the back of your throat?  That’s hope.

And that’s that.  My happy thought for today!

OK – here’s my latest lumpyroad update!

Loved the 3rd doctor I interviewed this week.  Seems that the care I have selected is to have neoadjavent therapy.  Big words that simply mean I will have hormone therapy for 6 months PRIOR to surgery.  So…right now I’m waiting on the Oncyl DX (sp?) test result that will determine if I go into hormone therapy or if I  go into chemotherapy (no way, no how…HOPE!).  Will know on October 31st.  Then, I’ll do my hormone therapy in a clinical trial.  I qualify for the Alliance Trials where they are researching this type of neoadjavent hormone therapy and the life long effect.  Here’s how I feel…this ucky thing must have a silver lining and if I can participate in this trial and help the women who come after me to weather this even a little bit better — that would be a good thing!

So, more later…

Here’s to  a HOPE filled, JOY filled weekend!

“Think it over. Think it under.”  Winnie the Pooh

Feelin a bit like Pooh today!  Two surgeon consultations complete, 1 more to go.  Lots to think about and lots to grapple with.  Being the PollyAnna that I tend to be, (which usually serves me well! ), I thought “oh I caught this thing early, my tests are all good, they’ll cut it out and I’ll go about my life”!  Not so fast toots!  There is this thing called level of speed of growth, and chances of it spreading later, and you want to be sure none of those bad things happen.  So, oh yeah…that’s why we invented radiation and chemotherapy!

OK, so here’s the thing I get to think about.  One surgeon, who I really really loved, Dr. Nathalie Johnson (best in Portland and a survivor herself), is really into a less drastic beginning.  She recommends that I do hormone therapy for 4 months, we test the cells along the way to be sure they’re not growing any faster than the current 34%, and then we’ll know so much more about these shitty cells that the surgery will be more productive.  Radiation is not a choice — unless I have a mastectomy which I really don’t need.  So, against everything I believe in, it appears that my boobs will definitely be radiated! It was explained to me so that it really doesn’t sound quite so horrible anymore. It’s very laser beam focused and is much less nuclear than it sounds. This will reduce the chances of the return of this invasion of the boobie snatchers (as my kids are now referring to it)! Based on the location of the tumor, I will, however lose my nipple. Maybe they can give me a cool tattoo in its place! A heart?! Time to get creative girlfriends! Your ideas are encouraged!

Chemotherapy. EEEEEEKKKKK!!! Ok – this was definitely NOT on my radar! We won’t know whether or not I need chemo, until they do a biopsy DURING the surgery. Unless during the hormone therapy, the tumor grows way faster than the current 34%. So…I have officially taken chemotherapy off of my “to do” list. I’m not even thinking about it. Thanks, Pooh – will be thinking this one UNDER! Nothing I can do about it. No decisions to make. Stash it away for another day, another lifetime. Maybe if I don’t think about it, it will magically go away somewhere past my dreams and into the world of bad thoughts. Poof! Gone!

Second surgeon, also highly recommended and acclaimed in Portland, is much more traditional and recommends surgery right away. Then radiation. Funny thing is, I’m a warm & fuzzy kind of person and the 1^st surgeon ended our meeting with a huge hug. Yep – I did the heart-to-heart hug on her! She hugged Evan too. This second surgeon nearly let me leave the office without even shaking my hand. Nice woman, very smart, very professional. Too doctorly and not enough humanly! Interesting what matters to some and what matters to others. Chemistry!

Couldn’t have gotten thru this day without #1 son. Yep – Evan sat thru these meetings, listened, took notes and asked questions for me. He got it all…better than I did. They lost me at radiation and chemotherapy! They lost me at genetic testing and sentinel node biopsy and oncotype DX tests.

So for those of you who know what all this means:

Nothing in lymph nodes…Yeah!

Estrogen receptor +3 – Good!

Progesterone Receptor +1 – Good!

Her-2-Neu = negative == GREAT!

Growth Rate = high (not so good, but 1 out of 5 ain’t bad!)

Tumor size = 3 cm = Stage 2 (whatever – it’s just a label!)

Off to boot camp – need to work through this shit. Then more thinking. Although the more I think the more I already know what I want to do, so it’s really just that I feel I should think about it. Or maybe, I’ll just listen to my instincts and go with what I feel. Seems to serve me well…

Because I don’t know who I am when I am somebody else!

I am…me.  I am…the best I know how to be.  I am…a soul thriving within this universe.  I am…the only ME I know how to be and the only ME I want to be!

Sly and the Family Stone.  Thank you for letting me be myself.  Again.

Danced my tuschy off to this song on Saturday night..listened to the words this time.  REALLY listened to the words.  Not just danced to the beat after a few drinks of nirvana.  No.  This time, new meaning arose within my mind.  Who can I be except myself?  Who can anyone be except themself?  What happens when we try to be someone else?  Truths begin to unravel.  We hide behind an image or a persona of someone we WANT to be or someone we want to become.  Where is this learned?  Why is ME not good enough?

Watched myself watching those on the dance floor.  Listened to myself struggle with thoughts like”  OMG what is she wearing?”  “Look at them dancing — why don’t they get a room?”  Really??!!  Instead, how about thoughts like “how amazing that she had the courage to wear that dress and show off her body!”  or  “How great that they feel at ease to dance like there’s no tomorrow and not worry about anyone or anything around them?”

Judgement.  That’s what stops us from the courage to be ourselves.  It’s not easy to be yourself, when you can hear the thoughts of others…the thoughts that put you into your place and lead you back to the person you’ve tried to escape.

Courage.  What it takes to block the voices you hear.  The voices that urge you to be the norm; to be the person that lives in a comfort zone; to be the person that doesn’t take any risks; to be the person that never stands out in the crowd.  No fun.  No risks.  No growth!

I don’t know who I am when I am somebody else.  And that’s a good thing!  How often do we scurry down the path that others have defined for us.  We become the person that others have defined for us.  We die a slow, painful death as we live a life that’s been imagined by someone else.

I want to know who I am.  I want to define who I want to be.  I want to climb out of my comfort zone every single day and make a difference.  I want to defy those who tell me that I am something I am not.  I want to be fearless and look for the road that takes me beyond anyone’s wildest imagination.  I want to create a life that is filled with journeys that take me beyond what others have outlined for me.  I want to color outside the lines.  I want to find a simple joy in simple things.  I want to make a difference.  I want to leave a legacy.

The words to this song have never resonated before, yet I’ve heard this song a million times!

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you for letting me be myself.

Monica.  Woman.  Survivor.  Dancer.  BFF.  Lover.  Mother.  Daughter.  Sister.  Lover of music.  Hugger of trees.  LIstener, friend, soulmate.  FEARLESS!

Who are you?  Do you defy the lines that confine you?  Do you look into the eyes of the ones who try to control you and defy their expectations?  Do you look for the joy that only YOU can bring to YOU?  Do you look for the joy that comes when you find the strength to be the best you that you can be?

Simple song.  Simple words.  Whole new meaning.

LIsten.  Listen carefully.  Everything takes on new meaning…new clarity.

“A walk in the park” takes on new meaning.  It’s literally an early morning, crispy autumn walk in “MY” park — the Park Blocks of Portland…the park that I have loved to walk through on the way to work, to begin my days with the calmness of nature.  A walk among my “sisters” — the trees.  They are like the wise, ancient elders who hold the secrets to the universe, who have seen it all and who have shed it all, every autumn season as they shed their leaves to cleanse their cores of everything icky.  Everything icky blows away in the autumn winds, circling, billowing, scattering down the streets, collected and burned into ashes that recycle back into the earth.

Like the walk in the park, like my elder sisters, I want to scatter my icky things to the wind — send it all exploding into oblivion and buried into the pool of neverness. And yet like the trees and the breathtakingly spectacular colors that appear on the leaves before they whither, I feel the scourge of mother nature — the same beautiful body that nourished my children and gave them life, this body is now in a kind of withering state and ready to shed the toxic icky cells.

A Walk in the Park is the symbol of ease, it brings to mind the vision of something utterly carefree and easy — no worries…it’s a walk in the park.  A walk in the park is where I go to feel that freedom, that lightness of being, that crazy-lady desire to dance about as if no one were watching.  I find this comfort today, as I walk in my park, as I do most days.  Yet, there’s something a little bit noticeably different.  As if my trees are actually talking to me today.  As if they have raised their thick knotted branches in my honor.  As if they are singing to me through their crinkling leaves.  C’mon pretty momma…c’mon and dance on your way into this journey.  You’re never alone and the more wildly you love and dance and rejoice — the more you’ll pass through it all with ease.

Thanks elder sisters, I say as I exit the park.  I feel the love.   I’ll carry it with me through my days and into this journey and beyond.

That’s the first thing they ask when you tell them you’re there for your scheduled MRI.

Not that I know of…but I’ve never had an MRI, so I don’t know if an MRI tunnel will bring out this fear in me.

Fear is actually not a word or feeling or thought that I’ve had since this whole mis-adventure began.  Today, I’m actually excited about getting my first MRI.  I feel that I’m doing something toward the goal — the goal of throwing out this unwanted, unwelcome visitor in my body.  To me, it’s all about staying in motion.  Doing the next thing and the next thing.  Getting closer to finishing it off.

People along the way have tried to tell me a bit about what to expect, what it felt like for them, what the doctors might tell me.  I don’t hear anything.  I don’t want to know about anything until it’s time to know about everything.  This is that exquisite honeymoon period…the calm before the possible storm.  This is the time where I know that there’s something looming, but I get to enjoy my days.  My sense are at full alert.  I feel like the light sprinkle of rain outside my window is pounding in my head.  My morning lattes are enjoyed with a new burst of flavors in my mouth.  I see people as I walk to work.  I see people!  I really see people!  Do you know what that means?  It means I don’t just walk by them anymore, my mind onto the next thing.  I actually look into their eyes.  I ask them, in my mind, what they are thinking, how they feel, what pains them right now and what are they so excited about that they might jump out of their skin.  I feel oddly different, though I know that I’m not.  I feel like they see me, like they’ve not seen me before. Do they see my cancer, I wonder? Is it noticeable?  Some look back at me intensely, some look away quickly, some even smile, catching themselves and wondering what the heck!

This intensity is filled with a wild energy — like sparks rushing through my body.  Like a roller coaster ride except without the fear .  There’s a warmth throughout my cells and I think about it being the cancer.  Then I realize that it’s not that at all — no just the opposite.  It’s the intensity of love.  Love.  A sense of complete calm, peacefulness, letting go — really letting go.  It will all be the way it is meant to be.  The lessons I’m to learn in this lifetime and to share with those who are open to the experience.

So, I don’t know if I’m claustrophobic, but I’m about to find out!  A lovely young thing, Karen, the MRI technologist, takes me thru the doors, down that hallway.  She is very sweet and very kind…the ties go in the front, the jewelry goes into this bag and we’ll lock it all up for you.  Do you like Enya?  Sure, I say, works for me. We’ll stream music through your headphones, to help block out the sound of the JACKHAMMERS DRILLING in the tunnel.  Great, I think.  I”ll just take a nice 30 minute nap.  No really…that’s what I thought.  I’ll meditate myself into a sleep state.

Oh, and about halfway through we’re going to inject some dye thru the IV we’re about to insert.  WHAAAT?! Evan had warned me about this, but I thought what does he know.  He knew!  Sure, OK, go ahead — nothing can beat the pain of delivering 3 babies au naturelle!  And oh BTW, when you’re in there, you can’t move — not even a little.  Am I allowed to breathe, I ask, just a tiny bit serious.  Karen laughs — of course, you’re going to be in there for 30 minutes!  But you’ll have to breathe really shallow.  I panic — what if I have to cough?  What if at that exact moment when the jackhammer camera is piercing it’s way thru the magnetic, metallic dyes — I cough. Do I ruin the picture?  DO you have to re-take?  She offers me water, just in case!  OK – not going to think about coughing.  Mental block in place!

So, I know for a fact that a MAN invented this mechanical contraption called an MRI.  Only a man would invent a skeletal frame onto which you climb in a most unladylike manner on all fours, drop your boobs into 2 boxes on either side of a metal rod that’s coated with a bit of plastic cushioning  Woah…feels like a hammer is pounding into my chest bones!  I am beginning to understand that I will probably NOT be napping during this experiment.

I climb on, settle in, ear plugs, ear phones, warm blanket.  Ready for blast off!  Enya starts playing in my headset…kinda soothing.  Then the jackhammers begin.  Not too sure what the point is of even having the music.  Must make the technicians feel better…feel like they are helping an awkward, difficult situation.

Honestly — the entire experience is nothing much at all.  It’s just another step on the road to the endgame.  I just want to know.  I thought I might not want to know.,, I like this place i”m in right now.  I’m done and disembark from the MRI bed as gracefully as possible.  Grateful for my upper body workouts — pushups is the only way out of the frame!

24 hours.  The doctor will call you in 24 hours.  WHAAAT?  Why will it take her so long to read my pictures?  Hey – this is all about me!  OK…I get back under control and beg them to have the doctor call me anytime day or night.  I want to know.  This knowing will get me thru til the next steps — interviewing the surgeons next week.  My glass will be half full — I”ll know half the truth.  Better than not knowing anything other than IT is there inside me!

1 hour.  That’s it.  That’s how long it takes for my phone to ring.  It’s Dr. Tortorelli.  She’s read the pictures.  She’s ready to share — do I have a pen?  Is this a good time?  No…call me back in my next life! Sheesh!  Yes – I have a pen and my brand new PINK notebook.  You won’t remember what the doctors tell you so be sure you always have your journal with you.  OK – check!  Got it!

Good news, she says.  YESSSS!!! It’s only in 1 breast and the cancer is NOWHERE else in your body, she tells me.  It’s not in the lymphnodes.  YESSS!!!  This is great news!  It is a little bigger than we originally thought – closer to 3 cm.  I don’t know what that means – compared to what?  I forget to ask — next time.   It’s hormone positive and that’s a good thing because we have medications that will help you.  OK.  OK.  So far I’m all good.  It’s close to the nipple, so be prepared because the surgeons will probably want to remove it — just to be safe.  I don’t even care — just get it ALL out of my body!  Every last nano-particle of this life-sucking blob…O-U-T!

I’m sitting in the car with Evan.  Writing it all down.  He reads over my arm.  I feel his eyes on the paper.  I feel the weight in my shoulders release.  Didn’t even know I was so intensely tense, or for how long. Days.

Thank you.  Thank you higher powers, universal divine being, God.  Thank you for this lump in the road.  For the unexpected lessons I expect to learn.  For the me I will become.  More than anything,  Thank you for keeping it simple, for protecting me.  I know it could be so much worse; so much more scary; so much more definite.  I’ve been given a chance — a chance to accept this gift and kindle the joy in my soul.  To smell the rain, to embrace the trees, to greet the morning clouds and to really really see people.

My journey begins on Saturday, October 4, 2014.  How exquisite a beginning as I was sitting at the Coast of Oregon, in a town called Manzanita, in the middle of a “girls weekend”!  Relaxed, cozy flannel pajamas, glass of wine, crispy autumn evening, full glorious moon…and wonderful company of women friends.  As I reached back to get comfy and settle into the conversation, something caused me to reach into my bra and touch my right breast.  Truly — I have no idea how that happened.  Guess it felt comfy…and then I felt it…that lump that you hear about…that you are taught and that is engrained in your woman mind…that you look for every month in the shower…that you never really really give too much thought to.  I felt it.  I caught my breath and hoped the other 2 women didn’t notice.  I felt the heat rise in my body and my heart pound out of my chest.  I felt again…I know that I’m just imagining things…it’s that glass of wine, right?  Nope…it’s still there.  5 minutes later…still there.  I ignore it all and return to the conversation.  I wonder, did they notice that I disappeared for a bit?  That I left the space we were sitting in and went into a bubble of frenzy and spinning thoughts?  I don’t think so.  I pick up where I left off…but drifting in and out of the physical reality. Life Tara in Gone with the Wind — I am not going to worry about this now nor over this spectacular weekend.  Nothing I can do…add it to my calendar for “later”!

Later comes on Sunday morning, when I make that call to the imaging center to schedule the mammogram.  Yep — checked again when I woke up — it’s still there dammit!  No schedulers on Sunday, they’ll call me on Monday.  OK — put it all away until then.  Move into the day and be in the moment.  I’m in between 2 worlds.  The world with my friends, and the coast and the sunshine and the beauty of this life.  We take a perfect long walk along the beach and up through the town.  I stay behind and simply spend moments in the moment.  Alone, peaceful, feeling the crashes of the waves and the popping of the fleas in the grains of sand. The footprints that disappear with the tide.  The pawprints alongside the shoe prints.  The lives that unfold all around me and within me.

Monday morning comes and I impatiently await the call from the Imaging center to schedule my appointment.  They must be having a busy day as no one calls me back.  So I take control back and make that call.  Nothing until next week.  I can’t wait that long — I ask for the first available and insist on the appointment.  It works and I feel in charge, though I know that I have never had control over this and that is tough to accept.  No control.  Just go with the flow.  It is what it is.  It is….until it isn’t.  Sheeesh!

Tuesday afternoon mammogram.  It’s now 3 days of knowing and feeling this unwelcome guest in my body.  This invader of my pristine health.  This toxic, unfriendly lump that changes the course of my vision.

Yes…you were right Ms Butler.  There’s a lump.  Let’s do the ultrasound and get the biopsy over with as long as you’re here.  OK.  Sure.  Let’s go.  Next.

Dr. Tortorelli hands me a sealed white envelope.  Don’t open this unless I call and tell you that you need to open it.  OK.  The wait begins.  They’ll call within 48 hours with the results of the pathology report.  OK.  I make myself a promise that I will not think about this until then.  I won’t give this shitty visitor anymore of me than it may have already taken.  That’s how I stay in control!  Yeah!  I knew there would be a way!

48 hours passes and I hear nothing.  Make the call only to find out that they don’t have results back yet, but that she will call me first thing in the morning on Friday, when she finds out.  OK. Life goes on for a bit…normal…hold onto that normal for every last possible minute.  Hold onto it until it changes.  It will change.  That I know for sure.

Friday morning, October 10th.  I take a step off the Max and am ready to head through the park for a meditative stroll to the office.  That’s how I start my mornings.  Except this time my phone rings as I take that first step.  I catch my breath.  This is that nanosecond.  This is when I pass thru the bubble and into a fuzzy blurry version of my reality.  My vision is clouded…I don’t see my reality any longer.  I’ve moved into someone else’s version of my reality.

Monica, you need to open the white envelope, she tells me.  I know, I say.  You tested positive for breast cancer.  I know, I say.  It’s a grade 2 (that’s not the stage).  It is not in the lymphnodes.  Yeah!  Got you contained you sucka!  You’re not going anywhere except straight out the door!  That’s all I hear…the rest turned into a slow motion blahhh. blaaaahhhh.  blaahhhhh.  I get my assignment.  Step 1 is to schedule an  MRI.  Step 2 is to interview something called a surgical oncologist.  Ask your friends for referrals — you must know women in Portland who are survivors.  Yes…I do.  Thanks.  On with my day.  My day…who imagined it would be this…my day…it is taken over…I can’t think.  I must think…I must be on task.   I feel like I’m taking on a project and have my goals defined.  Get names.  Schedule appointments.  Right.  On it!

At the end of this week long day, I feel accomplished.  I have talked to Komen, to my insurance, to 3 surgeons and scheduled my MRI.  I am back in control.  It feels amazing.  I have a strength within me that only feels weakened when I think of all of my girlfriends and family with whom I now need to share my story.  I feel sad now, weak at the thought of this.  I feel the sadness and angst that I will cause my loved ones.  Ok — on with it.  One by one…like a to-do list.  Make my calls…share my story….make them promise not to worry.  I am not scared and I am not worried.  Not in the least bit.  I am on task managing a project with a deadline.  I’m the leader of this project.  I’ ve always wanted to be a leader.  Funny.

I make sure that my weekend plans are not in jeapardy.  I will not let this unwelcome visitor get in the way of my joy!  Farmers market, Hot Lips pizza, dinner with my dear friends Frank and Eileen.  Winery plans for Sunday with a cozy chilli dinner at home.  Life truly goes on because that is what it’s about….the moments of joy!

So, I’m off.  My latte awaits me.  Bach is playing in the background.  The rain gently sprinkles it’s energy onto the forest outside my balcony.