It has been one fucked up summer.
Not only did Ashley have a clinical that had her two states away for 4 months, but I started my summer with a cold that wouldn't go away. A cold that had a lingering cough that plagued me for weeks.
"It could be whooping cough... have you considered seeing your doctor?" My doctor had no availability until August.
"Maybe it's walking pneumonia..." Well, according to urgent care, that's exactly what it was. Or so I thought. I was sent home with a Z pack, antibiotics, some steroids, and cough suppressant.
Flash forward to mid-July...
I started noticing that while the cough had packed its' bags and left town for the most part, I had developed this annoying and frustrating new symptom: feeling insanely out of breath over the simplest things. I'm 30 years old and I was getting so winded climbing the ONE flight of stairs to my apartment after work that it felt like I had just finished up an intense workout at the gym... when I had actually just finished driving the 30 minute commute home. Not only was this annoying, but it made me feel helpless.
Particularly, on the morning of July 23rd, I woke up and as I went to sit up in bed, I nearly fainted back down onto the pillow. I was lightheaded, out of breath, and struggling to breathe. Somehow, not only did I get dressed for work, I walked down aforementioned stairs to my car, and drove to work. Crossing the parking lot, however, was a completely different story. I made 4, almost 5 stops, merely walking the hundred feet or so from my car in the parking lot to the front door. I barely made it in the front door and immediately had to take a seat, desperately trying to get a full breath. What in the actual fuck is going on? I made it to the elevator, up to the second floor and down the hall to my desk, and immediately fell into my chair. I felt exhausted. I spent the 30 odd minutes at my desk debating what to do and texting my wife in a fervent manner asking for advice. At her suggestion to go to urgent care, as it sounded to her I might have PE's (pulmonary embolisms), I immediately emailed my coworkers and supervisors, grabbed my stuff, and ambled back downstairs, across the parking lot, and into my car, narrowly avoiding fainting again once I sat in the driver's seat. After 20 minutes of trying to breathe and calm myself, I put the car in drive and took off to urgent care once more.
The rest of that day is a bit of a blur, I'll be honest. From urgent care, I had labwork and breathing treatments done to help me breathe, but my BP was insane: 145/104. Once the doctor there ruled out that they couldn't help me anymore than they had, I got transferred to WakeMed hospital via ambulance. I was pale, breathing heavy, and exhausted. I indeed did have PE's... once I got settled into my room at the hospital, the various chest CT's and MRI's confirmed that I had 4 PE's, 2 in each lung. Not only that, but I had 5 blood clots in my limbs as well (2 in my left arm, 1 in my right arm, and 1 in each leg). I immediately was put on a sweet Heparin drip to thin my blood, had oxygen as my oxygen saturation level was below 90, and was told I'd be there for a few days. Not exactly how I thought I would spend the end of July, but it was what it was. Some blood clots sucked to have, but no harm no foul, right?
I clung to this idea of false positivity of a short stay and a return to my life as it was until I had my abdominal CT scan on July 25th. That scan changed my entire life.
That damn scan revealed the truth underneath it all: hiding in my abdomen and around my ovaries were more than 5 tumors, with more than 4 of them as big as or bigger than 3 cm, with my biggest tumor almost 7 cm x 4.3 cm. The words "tumors" and "cancer" fell out of my doctor's mouth like anchors, slowly wrapping around my ankles and pulling me down as I tried to process what the fuck was happening. I asked everyone to leave and take a lap, and when Ashley and I were alone, I lost my shit. I'm 30 years old, relatively healthy, with no preconditions or risk factors for cancer... what the fuck was happening to me?
After my moment of tears, my hematologist, who had worked tirelessly to figure out why I had 9 blood clots in my body, informed me that they weren't the experts in handling ovarian cancer but she knew someone at both UNC and Duke who could help. Apparently, the blood clots were a calling card for the ovarian cancer, as it hyper-coagulates the blood. I went with UNC on a whim and prepared for another ride in the ambulance.
My phenomenal team of doctors at UNC swung into action that moment I arrived, and my team of nurses, whom I don't know enough kind words to describe fully, took action to get me comfortable, taken care of, and ready for the next step of my journey: surgery. My doctors informed me that I did indeed have ovarian cancer, and from the looks of it, it was spreading through my omentum unless they operated to remove the infected areas. The operation they were speaking of was a total and complete abdominal hysterectomy; in case you're unaware of what that entails, that is the removal of your ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, and cervix. My hysterectomy would be a debulking surgery, which merely means that any and all cancer they could see, they would remove. Once they left the room, the weight of what they had just explained to me hit me.
Uterus?
Shortly after, one of my doctors, Lindsay Buckingham (seriously her name, and as a Fleetwood Mac fan I was a big fan of that) came back in and spoke to Ashley and I. Did I want to hold onto my uterus if I had dreams of carrying a pregnancy in the future?
When I was younger, the jury was definitely out on kids for me. Ask my first girlfriend, I was definitely not sold on the idea. I was also like 18 at the time so different mindset entirely. Throughout my twenties though, I began to change my opinion on that milestone. Once I had gotten together with Ashley and we began dating, my mind was solidly made up on the issue: I was going to have a baby one day and it would be a dealbreaker if I was with someone who didn't want that too. In recent months, my wife and I had been doing research, discussing openly with family and close friends of our intentions of starting a family in the next year or so, and looking forward to what that would be like for us.
So when Lindsay asked me if I wanted to keep my uterus, my first thought immediately was to shout, "YES," at her. But my rational brain asked instead what the risks would be. I'm educated enough to understand that cancer is smart and diabolical in nature, so I had to know: if I keep it, what does that mean exactly? She explained that while there were no tumors in my uterus currently, if they left it behind, the tissues there are ripe for more cancer to come back in the future. I would have to consider what that would mean for my course of treatment, and that even if they left it behind in the surgery, there is no guarantee I would be able to carry a pregnancy to term, let alone if it would be healthy at all. The cherry on top of it all was when she said that that would mean more surgeries in the future, plural.
Feeling suddenly very aware of how much I now hated my body for its betrayal of my hopes and dreams, and wanting very badly for these intruders to get the fuck out as soon as possible, I made the decision that I would rather have them get it all in one go, and take whatever they needed to take. I cared more for ensuring my chances at beating this shit was higher from the jump.
She hugged Ashley and I and left us to our thoughts. I promptly looked at Ashley in tears and uttered, "I can never have your baby then."
I can't explain the feeling of loss I feel when I consider my dream of being a mother and experiencing the wonders of pregnancy, and knowing now that it's a mere fantasy that will never be a reality for me. I will never grow life in my womb... I don't even have a womb anymore. I will never get to carry Ashley's egg to term and deliver a baby. I will never get to pee on a stick or excitedly tell my family and friends we are having a baby the way I always believed I would. I will never feel kicks or have a growing belly or experience that, ever. I'm just empty inside there... it's a shell, covered in skin and laced together with a gnarly 7 inch scar from navel to pubic bone. I will never forgive my body for ripping away from me this dream of children. Of pregnancy. Of labor. Of bonding with a child I created with my wife. Of the trials and tribulations of motherhood the way I always imagined I would create a family with Ashley. Now, those hopes are just dust in the wind... or more like biomedical waste in the trash.
I had my surgery around 4am on August 1st, with my mom, sister, grandma, and wife there for support. Post operation, I woke up looking down at my stomach, in serious pain, crying. Afterwards, they told me they took a final total of SEVEN tumors and 2 cysts along with my reproductive organs. I spent the next few days discovering I would vomit immediately when I took Lyrica, that I had a ridiculous amount of staples in my stomach holding my incision closed, and everything fucking hurt, especially sneezing or coughing. I was released on August 6th to go home and heal.
It's been over two months since then, and I still feel at times very much like I am a shell of myself, a ghost in the corner of the room watching this all unfold, but it's not happening to me, right? I started my chemotherapy treatments on August 23rd, an aggressive plan of attack to kill the cancer cells we can't see so they don't take root again. Before my first treatment, I got my hair cut in preparation for the hair loss I was told was only imminent from happening. I can attest to the truth of this, as currently, I have now shaved my head, as every time I would touch my hair, a few strands would come out with it. I struggle with having no appetite and then having a fierce ravenous one; having crippling nausea and then feeling absolutely exhausted. Chemo is no joke, as I'm learning... I mean, it's medical poison injected into my blood stream every three weeks. But jokes aside, it's working; my surgeon informed me that after my first chemo treatment, my CA125 (the tumor marker antigen in my blood) dropped from 110 to 18, the first time in months it has been within the normal range of 0-39. After my second chemo treatment, that number dropped once again, this time to 11. I may hate the side effects but my body is responding and killing the cancer cells, just like we all hoped.
I've been pretty positive about my journey so far... it's hard to be negative when you know chemo's quite literally killing it. I still struggle to adjust to the fact that I have cancer; sometimes, I completely forget, other times it's all I can think about. I do have moments though when I get angry and intensely upset (like that time I sobbed in the bathtub), but I've learned to feel those feelings as they come and let them go, trying not to dwell on anything for too long. There's a quote from Maggie Smith, a poet, that states: "You don't always get to choose your materials. Maybe anger is what you have to work with right now -- or worry, or grief. Whatever you have, use it. Start building. Keep moving." I never in a million years expected to utter the words, "I have cancer." But regardless, here we are, traveling down a road that's uncharted territory. I'm angry, I'm upset, I'm fucking depressed, and I'm tired. But I still get up each day and take my meds. I show up for every chemo treatment with a fucking smile because that's battle day for this bullshit. I make sure Ashley gives me my blood thinner shots twice daily, even though I can't stand needles (don't let the tattoos and piercings fool you). I continue eating and making sure I'm taking care of myself and listening to my body. You know why? Because these are the materials I have to work with for my future self. Because, if anything, cancer has freed me from so damn much. Stress over money? Nope, I can't take it with me when the day comes and I'm gone, so might as well use it and enjoy it while I can. Insecure over my weight? Nope, my abdomen has done WERK to get to where it is, that scar is my war wound. Worried I'll hurt someone's feelings with my opinions? That thought was hanging on by a thread before anyways, and cancer just makes it even more thin.
In an effort to figure out where this all came from, I recently went to a genetic counselor for genetic bloodwork to find any gene mutations and hereditary syndromes and/or factors that predestined me for this. I'll be getting those results back within the next 3-4 weeks, and I'm eager to know. At this point, I'm 99% sure it's my genes... what else could it be?
People say I'm brave, but honestly y'all, I don't have any other option here BUT to fight. My story isn't over yet; I've got way too much more to do before my soul flies free. What else am I going to do, roll over and just let it takeover my organs? Fat chance. I'm doing what any normal human being would do; it's not terminal, I've had the cancer physically removed, and I'm ONLY 30. My doctors like to remind me of the positives: I have health and age on my side, which are big factors in my fight.
As one of my favorite books, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, states: "So this is my life. And I want you to know that I'm both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that can be." This is where I'm at right now, and while this has changed my life, perhaps it's too soon to tell how good or bad it is that I have cancer. But I can tell you this: I'm not done yet, and there's still more I've got to do.
