16. I'm Outta Here (Maybe)

Well, not yet - but it was decided today that I'm going to do all of my treatment in Macedonia.  I pretty much had three options:

1)  Treatment in Macedonia and drive back/forth to work - this was my plan all along, but the border closures are making this impossible.  And though the hospital has issued me a medical pass to get to Macedonia, it's a one time deal.

2)  Treatment in Germany at Landstuhl - this was a really good plan because I have a good friend (boss) that lives there and offered me a place to stay.  But truthfully, they've got ALOT going on over there right now - and after trying to get ahold of the docs there unsuccessfully for a few weeks, I just don't feel like I would be getting the care I need in the midst of a global crisis that has hit Germany pretty hard.

3)  So I'm going to be staying in Macedonia for the duration of my treatment (about 12 weeks) - this is not ideal in so many ways, but it's the best choice for quality of care - and the isolation in a hotel during my recovery will truly minimize the germs I'm exposed to as my immune system is wracked with chemo.

Keep in mind that the last THREE times I figured out with any definitive thought how my treatment was going to go, EVERYTHING changed.  But I feel strongly that this is my best chance for success and work has been really super supportive.  Just waiting on start dates and confirmation from the hospital about how much it's going to cost  (they're super reasonable, but you still have to pay for everything up front so always good to know)

How am I doing?  Well, I am not having violent mood swings and crying fits any more - I've had time to process what's going on, research what's going to happen next, and accept the cost of recovery.  I'm highly worried about being isolated for 12 weeks - even though I know it's a GOOD thing, it's going to be super tough and I hope everyone will reach out once in awhile and say hi.

In the worlds of the great Lin Manuel Miranda, "The world is upside down!"  This is the time when we've really got to keep an eye out on one other and do our best to make sure our neighbors and co-workers and friends and family are doing all right.  This is the time for kindness.  And I feel that going into treatment - that somehow kindness will prevail.  Maybe I'm being overly optimistic - but people keep proving every day that this isn't the case.

Kindness will prevail.

15. Saturday - When Everything Falls Apart

Okay, that's a little misleading - not EVERYTHING has fallen apart.  But I did find out this morning that the hospital here in Kosovo CAN do Chemo, but they can't do radiation or hormone therapy.  Which means I could do one part of my treatment there and then MAYBE the border to Macedonia will open, where my trusted Doctor is - or I might be evacuated to the medical facilities in Germany (at my own expense, of course) for treatment there.

My doctor, ever the optimist, thinks she'll be able to get me some kind of waiver to get back/forth to Macedonia on medical grounds.  One more option we'll have to add to the chart.

To be honest - there were MANY times this week when I've just wanted to say, "Forget the whole thing." and just wait until this whole Covid-19 business is over to seek out treatment.  I'm STILL tempted to do that.  The risk of catching anything when all your immune systems are destroyed - the fact that you're around sick people all day - the thought that I could lose my house - all of this adds up and puts me into near panic attacks.

But then, amidst the stress there's also calm.  I know I have ZERO control over the situation - and for me that's the hardest thing about this whole process.  I can't change the facts.  I can't change the situation.  All I can do is call the embassy and call the field hospital and work with the insurance company and PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH like the most annoying squeaky wheel on the planet.  And even then.....it's a crapshoot as to whether or not things will work out.

So let's talk about something OTHER than cancer, shall we?

No, other than COVID-19 also.....

And DEFINITELY no politics!

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Hey, we got mail today for the first time in weeks!  Hooray!

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Oh dear, this is a pretty dull cancer blog if we're not talking about cancer.

All right, fine.  We'll talk about cancer tomorrow.  For tonight, I'm going to read my book (Monster Hunter International) and work on my painting and maybe annoy my neighbor by singing something for Quarantine Karaoke.  For tonight, we're going to pretend like there's no cancer cells and all the pain I'm feeling is from a very rigorous walk or something.  Tonight I'm going to eat cookies as if I don't care one way or the other about quarantine waistline expansion.  Tonight, I'm going to pretend that when I wake up the world will be normal - and then I'll sleep and dream about going out to dinner and a movie when all has calmed down.

Tomorrow we can sort the rest out.  Tonight, I'm taking a break from cancer.

14. Friday - When Everything Sorts Itself Out

This week has been hugely stressful - in the midst of Covid-19 consuming the
headlines, the borders to my doctor still closed, the new layers of snow and
ice covering everything, and a huge amount of pain and fatigue from surgery.
Yeah.  It's a lot.
But today at least the ambiguity and uncertainty is starting to fade in
favor of a treatment plan.  The embassy won't help me get back/forth to
Macedonia because the Macedonian government is being incredibly strict about
who they are allowing to cross, and the Kosovoan government is still
requiring 14 days of isolation every time you enter the country.
However, the American Hospital in Pristina (Kosovo) has a good reputation,
and is fit to treat breast cancer - so I have a meeting with their main
doctor on Tuesday morning to talk about a treatment plan, take a tour of the
facility, and see if I feel comfortable trusting them with my care.
If that goes well, the base commander has agreed to give me a travel pass
to/from appointments should the base go into lockdown, the housing
department has moved a full sized fridge into my room so I can make protein
shakes post-chemo, and my office now contains a six foot taped perimeter
around my desk limiting how close people can get to me when I'm at work.
All in all, we are well prepared.
Should anything go wrong, or should complications occur - I'll likely be
evacuated to Landstuhl, Germany - and I'm prepared for that - but hopefully
it's not going to be necessary.
As for my emotional health - that still goes up and down on an hourly basis
- but I'm much calmer now that we're sorting things out and figuring out the
logistics of treatment.  I'm truly, truly lucky - my company, my base
commander, my boss, and the majority of my co-workers have become my new
support system - and I'm beyond grateful for every small kindness they are
showing me.

13. Can I be real a second? For just a millisecond?

Okay two things:

1)  I hate being in Kosovo right now.  I hate being trapped here away from my friends and family.  I hate being socially distanced with absolutely zero going on around base.  I miss the few awesome friends I made who returned stateside as part of the normal troop rotation last week.  Right now, being here alone SUCKS.

2)  I am so, so, so, so, SO grateful to be here right now.  Because even though this isn't where I WANT to be, this is where I need to be.

I've been sober now for quite a while - and I'm super happy about that, because my life is better and I am truly happier this way.  There was a point in time in my life where wine was everything, and I have very little memory of those days - other than I didn't want to have to deal with life and the pain and my marriage falling apart.

I love being in Kosovo right now - a dry base, a Muslim country - an environment where, on those rare days on this cancer roller coaster that I just want to scream, "Fuck it!" and grab a bottle of wine - I honestly can't do that.

That's why I'm here.

That's why I CHOSE to come here.

And so I'm forced every day to deal with the emotions and the highs and lows that seem to be coming at me like a firehose on high, only without the sexy firefighter to distract me.  THIS is such a wonderful gift.  And it reiterates in my stubborn brain that I truly am strong - and able to weather just about any storm.  Maybe with tears, maybe with some serious kick boxing at the gym - but DEALING with life as it comes.

I hope I set an example for my nieces and my nephews and my many, many dear and wonderful friends who are fighting in addiction.  There is peace.  There is strength.  There is hope.

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On a completely unrelated note, I pulled out my own stitches today.

They were itchy.

I am feeling both SUPER bad ass and a little stupid.

12. Keep Calm and Carry On

The surgeon won't answer his phone and he doesn't return my calls.  I don't honestly know what that means.  Is this good news?  Bad news?  Is he still stewing because I wouldn't risk getting arrested to come back to Macedonia for my follow up?

His assistant DID send me the pathology results, however, and the field hospital here on base was kind enough to find someone who could translate Cyrillic Macedonian.  (His name is Mario, and although he's from Macedonia, like everyone else he's trapped by closed borders and unable to get back to his family)

The translation didn't really help me though - because it's completely written in doctor speak.  So today I spoke with Doctor Patel and Major Winstead up at the field hospital, who are going to send the translated report to Landstuhl's General Surgery team to get a consult on next steps.   That's what I was supposed to be getting from my surgeon here, but he's AWOL - and honestly, there could be very good reason in this time of craziness - so I'm not vilifying him at all.

They'll determine if I need to be scheduling chemo or hormone therapy, and they'll help me find a suitable place to do that here in Kosovo (Pristina American University Hospital).

Just to ease everyone's concerns, I'll tell you what I know - recognize that this is from lots of research and nothing is official until it comes from the doc.

1)  Officially confirmed as stage 2 by the pathology report - the cancer was found in the lymph nodes that they removed during surgery.  But not in massive amounts - this is good, I think.

2)  Invasive Lobular Cancer is usually chemo resistant, so it's not normal to need chemo unless the cancer has spread to other organs.  It is primarily treated by hormone therapy (a pill or an IV) - which has it's own set of fun side effects (bone pain, overwhelming muscle pain, blood clots) - but nothing that we can't deal with.

Truthfully I don't know much more today than I did yesterday or the day before, except that Dr Patel and MAJ Winstead looked me square in the eye and said, "Trust us.  We've got you.  We're going to make sure that you get whatever you need.  We're in this together."

Between the reassurance that I wasn't going to get lost in the Corona virus shuffle and the love and kindness that I've received on social media - I have to be honest, I'm feeling pretty good.  Very loved.  Very much willing to fight.  Very much missing everyone and looking forward to when the madness is over and I can start my "No More Cancer Tour" to give each and every one of you a big hug.  As in REAL human contact.  Thanks for being my tribe.  Much love to you all.

11. Logic eludes me (Roller coaster emotions)

I am sitting at my desk, crying.  More like sobbing, really.  They found my samples and the results are in.

And I can't bring myself to call the doctor.

Right now, when the world is falling apart and chaos & misinformation reign, I could be fine.  There could be no more cancer.  It could be good news.

Then again, it might not be.  And I am ashamed at the inner turmoil I am feeling about making a simple phone call.

Knowing is always better.

Pick up the phone.

You can do this.

But I don't.  I sit here like Rob Hall at the top of Mount Everest.  Give me a minute.....  

An hour later  i am still staring at the phone.  I can't handle more bad news.  That's absurd, of course I can.  I am a strong, resilient, independent woman.

Who is afraid of an itty bitty phone.

10. Franken-boob

I took my bandages off today - I'm going up to the field hospital on base (which we're normally not allowed to use - but with the quarantine and all, I figured I needed SOMEBODY to look at these wounds.)

Gotta be honest - I didn't realize how much breast they cut out and how much padding they had inside the bandages - when I unwrapped it, I found basically the bottom inside quadrant of my right boob is gone.  So it hangs funny and tips downward like that Hallmark old lady, Maxine.  And the scars are HUGE.

It doesn't really bother me - it's not like I plan to start being an underwear model post-cancer.  But I guess, in addition to the pain which will subside in a few weeks, and the complete loss of feeling in my inner arm (completely normal when they remove lymph nodes) - THIS is what hit home as making it real.

And here's the worst part - I am SOOOO intrigued by how monstrous my wounds look right now that I'm having a hard time not posting them in this blog.  (Yeah, I know - you're welcome)   Because it REALLY does look like someone patched me together like a rag doll.  Poorly.  In fact, someone FIRE that guy!  They're totally wonky.

Maybe I should name my normal breast.  If I've got Frankenboob on the right, then what do I call my left breast?  Norma?  Hmmm.  I like that.

Still no sign of my lost tissue samples - still no word on chemo/radiation/hormone therapy - but the way 2020 is going, the world is ending anyway.

9. Human Sacrifice!, Dogs and Cats living together! Mass hysteria!

The embassy was able to get me out of Macedonia on Monday night, but I'm now confined to base for the foreseeable future.  This is good because I have my clothes, my vitamins, food, shelter and support.  But it makes follow up treatment difficult.  There's a hospital on base, but only for emergencies - they can't administer chemo or hormone treatments or anything like that.  They're a field unit only.  This was a tough decision to make, but I didn't know how I'd ever be able to afford being stuck in Macedonia for 8 weeks - no income, paying for a hotel, every shop closed due to the virus.  (And no art supplies!)

I've been waiting to hear from my doctor about what my next steps will be - and then.....

Today the doctor sent me an email and thanks to Google Translate, I was able to figure out that the hospital lost all of my lab/tumor samples for testing.  So right now there's no way to know if the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes or elsewhere (the whole point of the painful part of the surgery).  There's no way to determine whether or not chemo is required, or hormone therapy, or what.

So I'm start feeling a bit of a panic.

And then an earthquake hits Utah.  Where my friends and family live.

And another friend is laid off without a way to pay his rent / bills / needs.

And my Mom hasn't been able to stock up on toilet paper and is running around town desperately trying to find some.

And the news is trying to convince me that the ten plagues of Egypt have begun.

And in the midst of all this chaos, a strange calm passes over me.

Because the truth of the matter is, I'm not afraid any more.  The fear of losing my house, or losing my life, or how to survive in an age of madness and chaos - it's gone.  I feel a tremendous amount of peace in my heart for myself.

I still worry about my friends and my family and my inability to be there and help right now when I'm needed - that hurts my soul a little bit - but this is where I needed to be right now at this point in my life.  And I KNOW this, and there's a peace to that.

So pray they'll find the samples so I can get on with getting rid of this cancer.  And pray for the people worldwide suffering the effects (either directly or becaues of the social isolation) of this virus.  And then step aside and do something amazing.  Sing with your neighbors like the Italians are doing.  Bring that elderly couple from church a few roles of toilet paper.  Write silly poems.  Be kind.  Do WHAT YOU CAN.  And know I'm here to listen and do what I can.

8. Roller Coasters & Other Things that make me puke

Today begins my fourteen days of quarantine - not that I've been exposed to anyone that's sick or that I'm feeling in ANY way ill, but because my surgery is in Macedonia, Kosovo legally requires a period of isolation.  Originally it was sixty days, but talking with the American Embassy (who engaged my on base resources and the Ambassador to Kosovo) they came to a compromise of fourteen.

SUPER grateful, but right now I'm finding it hard to keep the positive vibes going - I split my stitches open and bled all over the mattress trying to sleep.  The heparin they gave me means every bump turned into a nasty bruise - so I look very much like someone who's gone nine rounds with Mike Tyson on cocaine.

And I'm just....tired.  Tired of being in constant pain.  Tired of being unable to sleep because every move causes sharp lightening bolts through my armpit.  Tired of the roller coaster of emotions that seem to cycle every ten minutes.  Tired of working hard to stay upbeat when some days I really just want to wallow in that self-pity like a pig in shit.  (Sorry, I cuss a lot when I'm in pain)   Yesterday I did - I had a MASSIVE pity party about how crappy everything was right now - determined to be cranky and uppity and angry.

It lasted about 3 minutes before a mysterious video appeared on my Facebook page from my friend Steven.  If you haven't seen it, you need to - it's from my favorite drag race queen from this season, Jan - she is positivity on steroids swimming in a pool of RedBull and watching her JUST MAKES ME HAPPY.  And there she is - filming a personal video to me.  (Let's be honest, she knows WAY more about my boob drama than she probably wanted to.....but that's the price you pay for your celebrity, I suppose.)   It made my day and ruined any possibility of wasting the whole day grumbling.

There won't be any more earth shattering news until late this week when I hopefully find out the details from the tumor biopsy - but doc wants to do it in person, and that would reset my quarantine date to zero.  So.....we're going to have to get creative with our follow on treatments moving forward.  And no, I don't have a clue what that means - YET.

But for these next fourteen days - I'm going to do some creative writing.  Tell some stories - indulge myself in some fantasy role play on the page.  Do some painting and some coloring.  Play piano and sing along to bad karaoke tracks I downloaded on YouTube.

And to pray FAR more thoughtfully and deliberately.  (When I said how wonderful it would be to have JUST ONE DAY without every news outlet reporting about each fart Trump makes - I failed to comprehend that it could actually be worse....)

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7. 12 Random Thoughts After Surgery

Sitting in my hospital room - alone with my thoughts, which are all over the place.

1)  That surgery hurts worse than any surgery I've ever had - either that or the drugs here aren't nearly as good.

2)  My surgeon looks, acts, and sounds like Jerry Garcia's Macedonian twin brother.  I'm not making this up.  I'd like to say this was a reassuring fact, but it really wasn't.  He kept saying, "Just relax, man!"  Actually, now that I think about it - I've heard that about 40 times already.  "Why are you worried?  Just relax!"

3)  I was so excited to eat after two days - they don't ask you what you want, and at the time I thought I didn't care what it was.  Then breakfast arrived and I decided to fast until lunch.  (Olives and buttermilk, in case you were wondering....)

4) There's only one nurse on the ward that speaks English - his name is Martin - he's adorable, probably about 19.  I want to adopt him.  I have a feeling I'm going to be able to bribe Martin into bringing me some foofy coffee from the coffee shop downstairs.  And maybe something chocolate. We shall see.  (Those social engineering classes are paying off, Chris Hadnagy!)

5)  I'm pretty sure this is a teaching hospital, because official looking people keep coming in to look at my breasts.  In groups.  Taking notes.  So either they are medical students or I have really, really interesting boobs.

6)  Maybe I should check the status of my 401(k) now, since they have a heart attack unit......

7)  Martin just stopped in - they have CLOSED THE COFFEE SHOP.  Geez, Corona Virus - is there anything you haven't ruined yet?  No coffee.  No chocolate.  No pastries.  Oh but wait - here comes lunch.  Shredded beets, mystery meat and unidentifiable soup.  Lordy, Lordy - this place is turning into the best diet ever.

8)  Surgeon just stopped in to see how I was doing.  He's seriously SO cool.  Rock star cool.  And he had a whole group of minions (students) following him around.  He said he'll take the drain hanging out of my armpit out before I leave on Monday morning - except I might not be able to leave on Monday morning because they have closed the border between Macedonia and Kosovo.  OMG.  Seriously?  We knew they were putting new restrictions in place, but it was decided that to put the surgery off was a greater risk than getting stuck in Macedonia.    Still.....that would seriously seriously suck.  <shrug>

9)  The mystery meat was chicken.  He thinks.  Probably.  Not sure.

10)  The wifi here is better than at my apartment on base.  So I'm sitting here watching last night's RuPaul's Drag Race.  One of the non-English speaking nurses came in and was trying to figure out what I was watching - trying to explain it only confused her more, so now I have three nurses in my room watching over my shoulder trying to figure out the gist of this competition.

11)  Everyone is obsessed with my slipper socks.  Evelyn and Rowan gave them to me for Christmas, but unfortunately, I don't have a clue what kind of animal they are supposed to be.  Between my socks, the constant monitoring of my wounds (boobs)  and Drag Race, my room has become a hot spot for conversation.  All of it in Albanian/Macedonian - but both are absolutely beautiful languages.

12)   I won't know for another week what the results of the Sentinel Node Biopsy are - the one that tells me if the cancer has spread, and which helps determine follow on treatment.  I did learn that my initial biopsy tested HER2 negative, Estrogen/Progesterin positive, and that that they'll be testing the actual tumor for the BRCA (hereditary) gene so my sisters will know whether or not to be tested for it.   So I'll worry about the chemo or radiation and what stage the cancer is rated at next week.  For now, I'm just going to enjoy my quiet time and see if I can get any of the nurses to smuggle me chocoate and diet coke when they come in tomorrow......

6. Faith, Friends and Family

I don't talk about my faith much - for the longest time, to be frank, there wasn't any to talk about.  I spent my childhood in a church where I felt different and unworthy for no reason other than my outward appearance.  In college, I didn't date anyone who was heterosexual - and when I tried to understand what was wrong with me and why nobody wanted to date me I was simply told, "You'll find your happiness in the next life."

What kind of bullshit is that?

Eventually I simply stopped trying.  Stopped attending church.  Stopped believing.  Explored atheism, Buddhism, Catholicism, Protestantism, Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster - nothing really "clicked" with me so I just happily stayed ABSENT from the world of faith and religion.  For decades.

Then something remarkable happened during my time in Ireland last year.  I met a priest who taught me, by example, how much God loved me.  He taught me about forgiveness - mostly forgiveness of myself for all the baggage I had been carrying around for decades.  He rid me of the belief that there WAS or IS something wrong with me.  He showed me my goodness.  REALLY showed me what God's love was all about.

This man, who brought me back into my faith through his example and kindness and humanity was an alcoholic.  He struggled with demons of his own - he was imperfect - and because of that, I related to him and trusted him and loved him with my whole heart.  He gave me the strength to re-embrace God into my life and helped me build the relationship I have with Him today.

And then died.

At first I was really angry - like REALLY ANGRY - but I started to understand that if I loved this man as much as I did, I can only imagine how much God loved him for all the amazing work that he did.  Maybe God missed him as much as I miss him today.   (And you know what, if you're not into faith and God and afterlife and all that, it's completely okay - but please recognize that I am happy at the peace that I've achieved and don't mock or try to dissuade me from my beliefs.)

Since then, the CRIPPLING fear and anxiety that I've felt my entire life about death is gone.  I don't court it.  I have GREAT plans to see my nieces married and take pictures of my nephews on their first dates, and watch them grow and become amazing adults.  I WANT that more than anything.

But hours before I head into surgery, I do have to face the fact that there are always risks and nothing is guaranteed.  I'm not afraid of death (although I won't go without a fight) - my biggest fear is dying without telling my friends and my family how important they are to me.  To make sure that each and every one of them SPECIFICALLY knows the ways in which they've changed and enriched my life.  That's what I plan to do instead of Christmas cards this year.  I'm going to write letters of love and gratitude to everyone I can think of - no matter how much time it takes.

And if, by the smallest chance, God decides he misses me too much to let me stay - I'll be among the best company.  Father Dom, my grandparents, my friends that have passed before me.  So I'm at peace.

(Full disclosure - I'm also on a pretty great dose of Valium, because even when you have peace - there's still quite a bit of anxiety involved in this stuff.)

5. Diagnosis

I was trying to think of something clever for the title - but honestly, I'm just all witted out at the moment.   I just spoke with Dr. Maja and she confirmed her suspicions that I have a highly invasive type of lobular cancer - about 10% of breast cancer patients experience this type of tumor, which is  metastatic (the type that spreads to other parts of the body and other organs).  The biggest concern is whether the cancer has already spread elsewhere - although we didn't see anything initially in the lymph nodes, obviously more tests will be done.

First of all, though, they are going to perform surgery - probably on Friday, and I'll stay in the hospital for 3 days down in Macedonia at that time.   (Thank God for Kindle Unlimited!)  There will be chemo in my near future, and this is something I'll always have to be diligent about watching - because it could (and may) turn up anywhere.

My doctor is highly optimistic - but let's be honest, she's ALWAYS optimistic even when it's not warranted - so it's kind of hard to gauge.  I'm TRULY grateful she called me and didn't make me take a half day off to drive down there just to hear the news.

I wish I had witty commentary or some earth shattering epiphany about life to share with you today.  But I don't.  Just news.  I'm back in that numb/disbelief stage - not really feeling anything but a bit shell shocked - and definitely not in the mood for conversation tonight.  So I'm going to make some hot cocoa, grab my book and go to bed.

4. I am not Special

This isn't a bout of self-pity.  This is the truth - I feel very much like the main character at the end of "Pippin" - I've spent my whole life trying to believe that I'm extraordinary, and I'm meant to do earth-shattering things.

And I have.  They just didn't take the FORM that I thought they would.

I was expecting to cure cancer - but I didn't.   I did talk someone down off the ledge and convinced them not to end their life in that moment.  THAT was extraordinary.

I haven't written the Great American Novel - but I have shared "Life Lessons from Aunt Nikki" with my nieces, who believe I'm wise and who know without doubt that they are loved beyond measure.  THAT is extraordinary.

I'm not the movie star I expected to become - but my elbow was on an episode of "Touched by an Angel" so I think that counts as being forever immortalized in film, right?

In the context of what I've been dealing with this week - I'm not special, at all.  One out of EIGHT women will be diagnosed with breast cancer - that's 12% of the female population.

That means I'm not special - I'm one of a TRIBE of warriors.  My new "breast friends" that fight alongside me against what doesn't have to be a fatal disease.  I'm among friends that I haven't met yet - and I'm OVERWHELMED by the stories that have poured in about the struggles that my friends have been through, or their spouses, or their mom.....instead of feeling alone, I feel very CONNECTED to those women.

They understand my fear, my irrational emotions, that there are ups as well as downs - moments of great strength and bravery, followed by despair and tears - and this is all OKAY.  The tribe lets you deal with it however you need, as long as you don't give up.

I am dually blessed - not just with my new congregation of cancer fighters/survivors - but with the friends that have had my back for decades.  I love you guys.  And my family - I love you guys, too.

I'm not special - I'm just me.  I'm unique, I'm a bit wacky, I'm enigmatic - and despite the roller coaster that I'm on at the moment, I've really learned to love me.  I'm proud of who I am - and yes, I still do stupid shit  (see previous post) - but that makes me HUMAN, not unlovable or unworthy.

So.  TRIBE.  Let's do this.

3. My Kryptonite

The thing about cancer is that it's a great equalizer - EVERYONE is afraid of it.  Nearly EVERYONE has some sort of experience with it in their close knit circle or family.  Even the people that have watched someone go through it still don't know what to do or say.
"I'm here for you.  Anything you need.  Let me know."
I get this a lot.  I'm more grateful than you could ever know.

But.....

I need to know the world isn't going to end.
I need to know that I'm not going to lose my house because I can't work during chemo.  (I might.)
I need to know that life will go on if I lose my house.  (It's just a house, let's put things in perspective. There are more houses.)
I need to make smart decisions at a time when I'm not thinking clearly or acting rationally  (This is a big one. See previous post.)  

I need to know how much work I'm going to miss.  I need to know what type of treatment I'm going to need after surgery.  I need to know things that can't yet be known - not that we ever get the opportunity to see into the future, but right now I just NEED TO KNOW, damnit!

My PERSONAL kryptonite is that I've never been able to ask for help when I need it.

I CAN DO ANYTHING on my own (spoiler alert - I can't.  Reference: ski jumping).  I DON'T NEED ANYONE'S HELP  (I do.)  I've GOT THIS.  (I don't.)
So my pledge during this process is to do my best to be honest and forthcoming about what I need - knowing full well that there's always a chance everyone will say no.  BELIEVING in the demonic core of my soul that
everyone will say no.  But I will throw myself onto the altar of faith and say, "This is what I need." as terrifying and unnatural as it feels to do so.  And if you can't help - I won't judge.  I'll wrap you in a big hug and tell you how much I love you for being my friend, and for making my life richer and more bearable at times like this.

Recognize that this will not be easy - and if you don't hear from me, there's a good chance I'm hiding in my room wallowing in stage 5 and listening to sad sappy 80's songs and binging on Pirate Booty.  But reach out - it means everything.  YOU mean everything.  <3 

2. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Fort....

First of all, if you've never had to deal with a cancer diagnosis for yourself or anyone in your family - it may be hard to understand that people deal with this type of news in different ways.  My sharing this isn't meant to be entertaining as much as therapeutic and honest - because today, I REALLY fucked up.

My second appointment with the doctor found me laying in an MRI for a considerable time, followed by eight different biopsy specimens pulled from my tumor with what looked and sounded like a mini harpoon gun, that she aimed with the assistance of the ultrasound so she new where to strike.  I watched the whole thing.  Not an ounce of pain - very fascinating.  Dr. Maya is kind and encouraging and very respected in her field.  But....

"So, Knikki, now that the procedures are over I can tell you that it's definitely cancer.  But I don't want you to worry.  It's only Stage 2.  That's a good thing.  But we're going to have to operate soon.  I don't want you to cry about this or anything.  We're going to take care of you."

It's ONLY Stage 2, girlfriend - why are you getting emotional?  Ugh.

I stayed perky and optimistic and smiled politely while thanking her for her expertise and encouragement - using EVERY skill that my acting professors taught me until I got out to the car and could start to feel things without prying eyes seeing my pain.  And then I started driving home.

Very fast.

In the rain.

On a windy highway.

I was through the Macedonian border and back in Kosovo - nearing home when the police pulled me over.  THAT was the moment the tears decided not to wait any longer.  Within minutes the cops were hugging me, and talking about their trips to Vegas and how much they love America and how they'd pray for my health.  Bullet dodged.

I DEFINITELY slowed down after that.

Five minutes later, I got arrested on base.  Yup.  Arrested.  For real.  Handcuffs, back of the police car.  Sworn statement.  Do you want a lawyer?  The whole shebang.

I had a bottle of wine in my backpack and the car was searched coming back on to the base.

"Ma'am, do you know you're not allowed to bring this on base?"

"Yes.  I do."

So why did you do that, dumbass?

Here's the crazy thing - I LOVE my sober life here.  I think my sobriety has been one of the greatest blessings of my life - and the result of a lot of love and growth and support of my friends from Ireland.  I DON'T miss my old life.  

But I was ANGRY.  RAGING angry.  Angry at the news.  Angry at the world.  Angry that for all the good I've done to change my life around, God through this at me now.  Obviously, I'm still battling with anger.  It's definitely one of the phases.  In that moment, I wanted to throw something - I wanted to break something - break a bottle, break a glass, break a rule....  I wanted to do something to feel alive and young and not old and ridden with cancer and bad knees.

When the anesthesia wore off, and the adrenaline wore off, and I was sitting there alone handcuffed in the back seat of the police car knowing there's a good chance I'll lose my job and get expelled from the country - I kept thinking to myself....

I accept the consequences of my actions.  I did this.  I won't pretend that this didn't happen or try to make up excuses.  This is how I dealt with something horrific in that moment - and while I'm not proud of it, it doesn't define who I am as a person. But damn, if I had thought for a second beyond the anger at how this was going to make my company look....I wouldn't even have entertained the thought.

Because no matter how ANGRY I am, or how scared or frustrated or emotional - I need to make sure that during this process I'm not pushing MY pain onto others - intentionally or otherwise.

Sharing this story with you has me feeling SUPER vulnerable.  But it's real - and it's okay to admit that, yeah, I'm human and sometimes I screw up.  Usually not in this big of a way - but hey, I've never had this type of a scare before.

So tomorrow I will pick myself up.  I will clean my room.  I will take my meds.  And I'll do my best to be kind, and to do good work, and to hold it together until the results of the advanced biopsy come back next week and I know what the future holds for me and my boobs.

And when that happens, I will try to deal with whatever comes like an adult.

And if I can't - there's a kickboxing bag at the gym that will take the brunt of my wrath.

1. In The Beginning...

In the Beginning...

It was a normal Friday in Kosovo.  The schizophrenic weather couldn't damper my already foul mood.  I hadn't eaten in two days per the doctor's instructions and was ready to get these tests over with.  There is a history of colon cancer in my family so I don't really mind the whole colonoscopy process.  I can't say that I enjoy it, but you do what you have to do.

Since I was driving to Macedonia anyway I scheduled my annual mammogram at the same time and headed out.

Not to be overly personal, but I hit menopause super early.  Which, when you aren't having to worry about monthly hormonal nightmares and breast swelling makes having mammograms a breeze!

Easy breezy, lemon squeezy.

When she finished, the nurse sent me into the ultrasound room - she told me this is the normal procedure in Macedonia.  No big deal.  I waited on the table for yhe doctor to secretly dip her hands into ice water so she could complete the exam.

And that's when she showed me the mass.

Wait, what?  

I've been so obsessed about the colonoscopy it never crossed my mind that I might have breast cancer.  But there it was.

"I won't name it until after the biopsy, which we need to schedule right away.  Words have power and J don't want you to panic. Don't worry about it."

I'm 95% certain this is cancer, but don't worry about it.

A few days later I am back sitting in the hospital for an MRI and a biopsy.  Not worrying about it, because I am 100% in denial despite the fact that you can feel the mass.  It's surreal.  And I casually try to convince myself it's nothing even though the doctor's face betrays her comforting words.

Doctors should be required to take acting classes.

I am going to lose my house if I can't work full time.  Everything I have is invested in that house.  

Maybe I should get a second opinion.  Nah, too soon.

Will Tricare cover this? Where am I gonna find the money for the co-pay?

Why on earth are you worrying about money?  Money isn't what's important.

I wonder if it's possible to get good lasagna in Macedonia.

The doctor tells me again, with the same lack of believability, not to worry.  To wait for the results.  She sends me on my way and moves on to the next patient - a grandma surrounded by about 30 of her friends and relatives.  I have no idea who she is or what she's facing, but I envy her just a tiny bit for all the love that surrounds her.

And then I get in the car and head out in search of lasagna.