I have cancer

On January 14, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I wish there were an easier way to say that, but I haven't found it yet. The cancer hasn't been staged, although the tumor has been graded. For a while, I was calling it a "mass." But, it's a tumor. A big, fast-growing tumor.

I want to tell you I'm doing okay and that I've got the fight in me, but instead, I find myself lashing out at the people--mostly the PERSON--who means the most to me. Tim is a patient man, and I know he loves me. He loves me so much that he is putting up with my cancer anger by changing all the light bulbs in the house to LED and setting all the piles of stuff I'm obsessively purging in the garage in case I remember how much I love my books and t-shirts and shoes.

I am angry. I have plans--for retirement and a house in the mountains and quilts and to rock (eventual) grand babies to sleep. I was recently given a great opportunity at work to be in a team of REALLY smart and driven people that will completely change how we serve students at Ohio State. I want to serve on this team. I'm excited about the work and the people and the opportunities.

But cancer.

Both of the teams at work are amazing. Where I will be receiving treatment is minutes from both of my offices. I've had coworkers pledge to sit with me through chemo, learn Esther-Faith's medical stuff, handle some of my duties at work, go to meetings for me, and just hug me when I find myself crying at my desk. These people are amazing. When this is over, and I survive, I cannot wait to throw a party for these people. A big "thank you" charcuterie party with live music and specialty drinks. Maybe I'll make one up called "cancer sucks, but you don't" or something.

I have some really amazing people in my life. Near and far. And if you're reading this, you're probably one of them. I have a friend who is on this same road, just a little bit ahead of me, who sends me photos every couple of days of the mountain ranges she lives between--always with the subject line, "For your soul, while you wait." She knows how I feel about the mountains. She knows what my soul needs right now. She has given the best advice so far. When this is over, and I survive, I cannot wait to visit her on the other side of the country and take in the majesty of the place that she lives while we celebrate living and surviving.

My family. Parents and step parents and siblings. You know, growing up I could not imagine that my siblings would still mean so much to me. And then marrying into an amazing family, how much those siblings would mean so much to me. But they do. It's like I have this tribe of younger and older siblings--and by extension, spouses--who somehow know when I'm in the depths.

My sister-in-law checks in every couple of days to see how I'm doing. She has leveraged her network to put me in contact with others who have walked this journey and can provide support and counsel. My brother-in-law, who lives 1324 miles (19 hours and 33 minutes) away, texts every couple of days with a simple, "I'm praying for you," or an "I love you." My brother can be counted on for highly inappropriate messages or to exchange zillow listings in the mountains.

And my sister was with me when I got the phone call. She held me as I sobbed into her hair. She didn't tell me it was going to be okay or give me any bumper sticker advice. She just held me when I didn't think I could possibly stand.

My in-laws ("in-loves," I've been known to call them) are also waiting for what they can do to help--even though they have their own surgeries and recoveries to think about. They have called on their close friends to be there for them, and us, as we head down this road. They call and text with encouragement or tears, but they always seem to know when we need them. 

When this is over, and I survive, I cannot wait to have a huge family get-together and make everyone their favorite thing. Ladyfingers or chicken marsala or spicy feta dip or blue cheese portobello scalloped potatoes or vanilla pie or pancakes or whatever. I'll cook and bake for days for these people. DAYS.

Neither of my sons could process the news. Both kept saying, "WHAT?!" into the phone. I wanted to reach through the miles and just hold them like I did when they were little and something was scary.

Within 12 hours, Isaiah had already talked to his boss and is standing at the ready. His boss told him, "Do what you need to do: Family first." Isaiah said that whenever it gets really hard--because he knows it might--call him and he would come down and drive Esther-Faith to her things and help Tim with whatever. He said he would move into the guest bedroom for as long as needed. This child. My heart. We've been through the fire, he and I, but what a beautiful and tender relationship has been left in the heat of that sometimes excruciating flame.

If you know Tim, you know he's a fixer. Your car won't run? He'll help you get it started. You need to build a wall in your house? He'll be right there. You need to move at a moment's notice? He's got your back. But this? He can't fix this. It's overwhelming him and and he is scared. He can't even say the words "Karin has cancer" out loud yet. He just can't.

Esther-Faith has made it clear that she chooses life--no matter how aggressive we have to be--LIFE is her choice. But Tim, he's having a hard time. Part of it is my cancer anger. And my cancer fear. And my cancer purging. And my cancer depression. And my cancer talk. But mostly, it's my cancer. So, he loses himself in the things he can control. Shoveling snow. Changing light bulbs. Learning "Pride and Joy" on his stratocaster. Setting aside the things I think I want to throw away in case I change my mind later. And taking photos. He is going to document all of this through the lens of his Nikon. He's a good photographer, and it is going to help him cope by documenting this journey.

Tim is keeping a list of people who say, "let me know if you need anything" because he plans to make good on that promise. If you say that to him, know that he is writing your name on a list in his phone, and he will call you later. Maybe not next week or the one after. But he will call when he needs the help. He still has a demanding job (that he loves), and he is going to need help. Honestly though, he's not good at asking.

We meet with a host of doctors and surgeons in the next week. Then we will know what stage this cancer is. We will have a treatment plan. We will have picked our poison. We will know more than we know now. I think both of us will feel better once we have a plan. But that plan will combat the cancer, and that's what we can't change: I HAVE CANCER.

I have cancer.

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