My Story Was Supposed to End: But Cancer Has Its Own Mind (And So Do I)

Welcome to My 

“F* Cancer Journey”**

So, you chose B. Good choice! Welcome to my little corner of chaos. Since last Thursday, I’ve been scribbling down all kinds of thoughts and notes, but let’s be honest—you’re here because you’re thinking, WTH happened?! Same. That’s exactly what we’ve been trying to figure out, too.

This is my first blog post: part recap, part “how did we get here,” and part “buckle up, this is what’s next.” Oh, and of course, sprinkled with my ongoing journal of deep thoughts, random observations, and maybe a bit of oversharing.

Alright, let’s do this!

Breaking News: 

My Body’s Gone Rogue

So, how do you share life-altering news with your family and very small circle without it spiraling before you have all the details? This is what I sent:

Saturday, January 11, 2025

Soooo… life has taken an unexpected turn. What was supposed to be the final chapter of my breast reconstruction journey has turned into a plot twist I never saw coming: I’ve been diagnosed with grade 3 invasive breast cancer. To say this has been a shock is an understatement.

I’m being fast-tracked for care with Dana-Farber and Brigham and Women’s, but right now, details are still unfolding. Things are moving quickly, and as I learn more, I’ll keep you updated.

I’m sharing this only with my closest and dearest. This isn’t information I’m ready to share with the masses just yet, and I appreciate you keeping it private for now.

Finding Strength Together

This almost felt like a test run. I quickly realized I can barely manage keeping a handful of people updated, let alone more. My girls have been told, but please understand—we’ve made the decision not to tell Jacob yet. This is a choice we’ve made as a family, and I kindly ask that you respect it.

To help manage updates and my sanity, we’ve set up a CaringBridge page. At first, the thought horrified me—I mean, it feels so “official” and dramatic. But after some thought, I realized it’s a way to streamline everything and take some pressure off me. So here we are.

If you’ve already stopped by the page, feel free to skip ahead. Otherwise, this is the first post.

Sunday, January 12, 2025

To those I couldn’t imagine going through this without…to the A Team. This is where I’ll be sharing updates about my journey because, let’s face it, keeping everyone in the loop individually would require me to hire an assistant (or clone myself, and I don’t have time for that right now).Lauren, aka LC, “The Gatekeeper of Gossip and Good Vibes”, has graciously agreed to take charge. She’s funny, organized, and will be the go-to person for questions, offers of help, or just ensuring no chaos breaks loose. Think of her as the lovable bouncer of this page—keeping things smooth and in order (or at least she will make it look like she does). She’s also the mother of my best friend, Jack. 😂

Ignorance is Bliss Day

And as you wait, it’s inevitable that some people—just a few—can’t resist asking. So yesterday, I posted this as a gentle reminder (aka: leave me the hell alone, I was having a normal day):

Monday January 13, 2025

Today is officially “Ignorance Is Bliss” Day! I’m going to live as if my story ended on the highest of high notes and the phone call with all the serious details never happened. This is my last glorious chance to bask in the bubble of not knowing what’s coming next—no true information, no detailed plans, just sweet, blissful uncertainty. So instead of wasting the day worrying, I’ve decided to embrace it. Today, I’m living like it’s the first day of the rest of my life… and possibly the last day of my cluelessness! The oncology team at Dana-Farber will be seeing me tomorrow at 9 a.m. in Chestnut Hill. Unfortunately, the surgeon is in surgery all day today, so tomorrow morning is the first appointment. The good news is that everything is fast-tracked, and they’ve reassured me that everything is on track. I’ll be sure to keep everyone updated as I learn more.

Today’s Chapter: 

January 14, 2025 at Dana-Farber

As much as I was completely down and out, dreading the thought of even stepping into Dana-Farber for my first appointment, something shifted once I was in the exam room with the nurse. As we were going over the time line she only wanted information pertaining to the breast. Just the breast. This was breast oncology they do not view the entire picture. That was at 2. This first appointment wasn’t about my entire body, my entire life, or the enormous weight of everything ahead. It was just about my breast. That’s it. My breast (Wait, I don’t have a breast. This is really weird).

“Just to clarify, when they say ‘breast,’ they really mean the phantom of the mammary —what’s left after the mastectomy and the unwelcome guest (aka the tumor) that decided to set up shop.”

And that realization made all the difference. It was like someone handed me permission to break this chaos into manageable pieces, to compartmentalize. Right now, just the breast. The rest of my body? That’s for 2 o’clock. For now, I don’t have to carry everything at once.

It feels good to mentally put things in their own little boxes. Right now, I’m focusing on the one in front of me. That’s where I’m at—and honestly, it feels okay.

My takeaway from breast oncology: even without a breast, the impact of what’s left behind is undeniable.

I met with the breast oncology team, and while there was a lot to take in, one key point stood out: DCIS itself does not pose a threat and likely existed for years without causing harm. However, what truly matters is the invasive cancer.

The invasive cancer, which originated from the DCIS, is aggressive and progresses over weeks to months—not years. The oncologist stressed that even without clear margins, this type of cancer hasn’t been lurking for a decade; it develops much more rapidly.

Both Brigham and Dana-Farber reviewed my case, approaching it from slightly different angles. Despite this, the breast oncologist was clear, compassionate, and handled the conversation exceptionally well. I knew I just needed time to process everything and regain clarity. Plus I am in the best place in the world for Breast Cancer Treatment.

Dana-Farber. Waiting for the medical oncologist.

As I wait in between appointments, I’m at my brother-in-law’s house in Wellesley, soaking up the comfort of his home. It’s peaceful here, and somehow that peace has settled over me too. It’s strange—just a couple of days ago, my entire reality shifted. Everything I thought I knew about my health, my plans, my life—it all changed. And yet, after only a few days to process, I find myself sitting here feeling surprisingly calm.

It’s not that I’ve adjusted—there hasn’t been nearly enough time for that. It’s more like the chaos in my mind has quieted for now. I’m hanging in this in-between space, before meeting with the medical oncologist, feeling… okay. Not defeated, not drowning. Just calm. It’s unexpected, but I’ll take it.

Mid day text update

January 14, 2:00 PM Hydration and Hope

Heading into our 2 o’clock appointment with the medical oncologist. Feeling positive—folders are overrated, anyway. The treatment is the plan, and the plan is the plan. It is what it is, and we’re here to roll with it.

Chip, as always, is steady. But let’s be real—he’s not deep in thought about my emotional fortitude or the existential mysteries of life. He’s scanning the room for water like a camel who hasn’t seen an oasis in days. Is there a cooler nearby? A pitcher with those tiny plastic cups? Maybe even a bottle if we’re feeling fancy?

Meanwhile, I’m reminding myself that showing up is enough. No folders, no endless questions—just trust in the process and a dash of “let’s get this show on the road.” Because we’ve got this. And if they happen to have water for Chip, all the better.

So here’s the deal: the plan is the plan, no matter how you slice it

Bottom Line for Today

Two paths forward:

1. Surgery → chemo → radiation → immunotherapy
2. Chemo → surgery → radiation → immunotherapy

I’m HER2+, which means those sneaky little cancer cells need to be obliterated, even the ones playing hide-and-seek.

More scans are happening Thursday to finalize the plan—either surgery or chemo comes first.

What I know so far:

• Chemo will be an 18-week adventure (with a port—so fancy).

• The stage doesn’t change the treatment plan, so I can’t give you that answer yet.

• The goal: annihilate the invaders, visible or not.

For those curious about details, that’s all I’ve got for now. Stay tuned, and thanks for the support!

For those of you itching to know what they saw under the scope—don’t worry, here are the deets on those rebellious little fuckers:

The cancer is invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC), meaning it started in the milk ducts and has spread into surrounding tissue.

It’s Grade 3, the most aggressive, and the tumor is over 2 cm, reaching the edges of the removed tissue, meaning some cancer may still be left behind.

There’s also high-grade DCIS (a pre-cancerous type) in the same area as 2014

The cancer is hormone-sensitive (ER/PR positive) and HER2-positive, making it aggressive but treatable with targeted therapies.

The stage of cancer is currently unknown and will require further testing to determine.

And I know many of you want to know the big question. How??

While a bilateral mastectomy significantly reduces the risk of recurrence—typically leaving less than a 1% chance of developing breast cancer again—it does not guarantee that all breast tissue or cancer cells are completely removed. Despite being explicitly told, “If you do a bilateral mastectomy, you will never have to worry about breast cancer again,”my case demonstrates that even this small risk can become a devastating reality when residual cancer cells are left behind or undetected.

Until next time—Cancer, it’s not me, it’s definitely you.