Miss Independent

“I’ve always been a bit independent.”
I remember telling my mama that the day she moved out of my house, and back to hers.
Thanks to some amazing people at Oil States, Josh was able to be home with me for 6 weeks after my surgery. When he finally returned to work, I cried like a baby. I was much stronger physically, but I was just beginning to really feel the emotional effects of this whole ordeal. I didn’t want to be alone. In a crowd of people, I can smile and laugh. I’m a pro at saving face. Left alone with my thoughts, I was a scared kid, starting to face my new reality for the first time.
Fortunately, Josh wasn’t at all comfortable with me being home by myself, because there were lots of things I still hadn’t mastered yet. He asked my mom to move in with me while he was out of town. Of course, she agreed without hesitation.
I missed Josh terribly, but having my mom there made things easier. I made myself stay strong. About a week into her stay, I was determined to prove I could do things on my own. I drove for the first time. I poured chocolate milk from a gallon jug, which probably doesn’t seem like a big deal, but trust me, it is. I took over the care of the boys. I wanted my tired mama to get some rest before our big vacation, so I sent her home, assuring her and a very worried Josh, I was fine. I’d be ok. It was time for me to get back to normal.
As she pulled out of the driveway that day, I realized I was far from being “normal.” In that moment, I knew that my “normal” self would never be the same.
I cried silent tears through that whole day. I’m very careful that my boys don’t see me upset. Some say it’s unhealthy, but my sweet Noah is wise beyond his years. If he thought I was hurting, he would worry. I went through the motions. Lunchtime, nap time, playtime, bedtime. I pulled it off with a smile on my face, but I was completely torn on the inside, and I’m being honest when I say the majority of the time, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why I was so upset. Maybe it was being alone for the first time. Maybe it was crazy post surgery hormones. Maybe it was the realization that I would have to find a new me. Either way, that was a dark day.
I was still determined to prove something, though. I didn’t want anyone worried, so when my mama text me that night to ask how I was doing, I said,”I’m fine. You know I’ve always been a bit independent.”
I’m still struggling to find myself within all this. Some days I have moments where I think, “There you are! I’ve missed you.” Some days I feel like a stranger in my own body.
I’ve told you all this to get to one simple point. Even in the midst of my darkest days, I’ve felt the overwhelming love of God. I’ve allowed myself to become lost in his embrace, and on many days, it was that fact that brought me to tears. There’s no way to explain the feeling of being at your lowest, heart wrenching point, and feeling God wrap his arms around you. Being independent is something I’ve always taken pride in, but I’ve realized this isn’t something I can do on my own. On my own, I’m a lost little girl searching for her way. With God, I’m a warrior, prepared to face the toughest of battles. Praise God that even in the darkest of days, I’m not alone.

Lucky Me

A couple weeks after my surgery, I began the reconstruction process.
During my surgery, after one doctor had come in and taken out my tumor, a plastic surgeon came in right behind him, and put a port in each side of my chest.
Since about 2 weeks after my surgery, I’ve been going once a week, to get an injection in each port. When I say injection, I mean this
…

Now, listen to me, here. There’s a big difference between a “boob job” and reconstruction after a mastectomy. I can’t tell you how many people have said things like, “Oh lucky you! You’re getting new boobs!” or “Well, people go through that every single day. That’s nothing.” I get it. People say things to make me laugh. People don’t know what to say, bless their hearts. I understand it’s uncomfortable talking to a cancer patient. It’s awkward. You don’t want to say what you’re thinking, which is somewhere along the lines of, “I’m so sorry you’re getting your chest cut off.” (Truthfully, that would actually make me laugh.) Let me help you. Those first statements are not the ones I wanted to hear. Nothing about reconstruction has been like a typical breast augmentation. If I had wanted new boobs, well my goodness, I would’ve just bought some. Luck has no factor in my situation. I am, in no way, lucky to be getting a new pair of girls. I’m blessed to be alive and well, but lucky is not a word I would entertain. Lucky is someone who hits the jackpot on a $20 machine. Lucky is someone who gets three scoops of ice cream for the price of two. Lucky is not someone who finds out they have cancer, and must undergo life changing surgery to survive. What?! Lucky? No, guys and girls, I’m not lucky. I’m redeemed. I’m saved by the grace of an Almighty God. I’ve been given a second chance at life. I’m BLESSED. There’s a difference.
These injections are no fun, at all, but the staff at the clinic is amazing. It really makes a difference to see a smiling face welcome you each time you visit. I couldn’t be more pleased with my doctors or nurses through this whole process.
Anyway, back to the subject, I have one more injection to go, before I’ll be ready for my final surgery. Final surgery, y’all. Take a minute and soak that in. While I know I’ll be recovering emotionally for awhile, the physical part is almost over. We’ve almost got this cancer beat! Lucky me…

Chapter 2

I don’t remember much of my first days at home after surgery. Josh and my mom kept me pretty heavily medicated. I do remember; however, that not one day went by where I didn’t receive some sort of encouragement. Whether it was in the form of a phone call or text, visit, or bringing food for my family. I was, once again, wonderfully overwhelmed with the love I was shown. A community of people were banding together to help my family.
Josh and my mom watched me like hawks. If one was not with me, the other was. They babied me, and tended to my every need. I have always been very strong-willed. My daddy even likes to call it hard-headed, but the jury is still out on that. Either way, giving up control was very hard for me. I had to realize it was time for me to take a huge step back, and really focus on my recovery. I knew that, in order for me to return to my SuperMom status, I needed to let my body heal.
So, I focused on healing. I followed the surgeon’s orders, and listened to Dr. Mom. I ate if I felt like it (which to my daddy’s dismay was not very often), and I slept a lot. I felt a little better each day.
It’s inevitable that I must talk about losing “the girls”. Whatever you call them, when I came home from the hospital, I didn’t have them. Now, I’ve never been a real “girly” girl. I’ve always liked sports and being outside. I like to feel pretty, of course, but I’ve never been obsessed with my looks. None of that made a difference, though. Regardless of how girly I was or wasn’t, I’d lost a huge part of what made me feel like a woman. I can’t explain what that felt like. I wouldn’t let myself feel it, really. I avoided looking in the mirror. I wore big shirts, and changed in the dark as often as possible. My first few times in public post surgery, I could feel people’s eyes immediately settle on my chest, or the absence of it. I couldn’t blame them. It was curiosity. I might’ve done the same to someone. I made jokes that I never had much; anyway, so I didn’t have anything to miss.
I tell you I was upset about it, but at the same time I was ok. I had someone say, “I don’t know how you cope with such a loss.” Cope? Loss? Was this a big loss? What did I feel? I couldn’t tell you. A big loss is my husband losing his mom, and my innocent children losing their grandmother. I just lost a body part or two. Those could be replaced. So, yes I was upset, but at the same time, I knew I was lucky. It could’ve been so much worse. So many people don’t have the prognosis I got. Even in the darkest days of my recovery, and even when I was struggling to “cope” with my “loss,” I was thankful to be alive. I was thankful to have friends and family supporting me. I knew I’d come out of this stronger than ever before, and with a beautiful testimony to tell. I once told my students that they write their own story. I told them we make our own decisions, and decide how our life plays out. This “loss” wasn’t the end. It would just be another chapter in my story.

Get Out!

Have you ever had an unexpected guest show up to your house? We’ve all had it happen at some point. That person who lingers a little too long after the party is over. The one who comes for lunch and stays for supper. It happens. That’s life.
Finding out I had cancer was like having an unexpected guest that stays for too long. It was an intruder in my body. It served no purpose. It was there to hurt, and devastate me. I wanted it out. From the moment I knew it was there, I had such hatred for my body. I’ve taken decent care of it. How could it betray me this way? What was the point of all the exercise? All the skipped treats traded for celery and cottage cheese? What was the point, if in the end, my body was still going to turn on me? I needed that cancer out.
So, you can understand that going into surgery day, I was scared, but also relieved to be getting rid of this intruder.
I woke up from surgery, and was very aware of two things:
1. I couldn’t find Josh. (I was still in recovery.)
2. I couldn’t move my upper body.
I guess I asked for Josh enough times that the poor little recovery nurse decided she’d just take me to him. Him, my parents, and my brother were the first people I saw. I was in my comfort zone. My parents headed out to go get my boys for the night. Josh stayed, and bless his heart.
I wasn’t prepared for the pain that would come after surgery. You don’t realize how much you use your chest muscles until said muscles have been sliced and diced like a cucumber for Sunday dinner.
I needed assistance with everything. When I say everything, believe I mean EVERYTHING. My husband was a trooper, though. He held my hand through it all. I know he was terrified, but he never let it show. In those couple of days after surgery, I fell even deeper in love with my husband. When you marry someone, you say in sickness and in health, hoping it never comes to the sickness part. Here we were living it; though, and he was fulfilling his vow.
After a couple days in the hospital, I was released to go home. Knowing that we had a long road of recovery ahead of us was scary, but we were facing it hand in hand. That was more than enough comfort for me.

Welcome to the Club

In the time between my consultation with the surgeon, and my surgery date, we had our local Relay for Life. Our family has become involved in recent years because of my MIL losing her fight to lung cancer.
Heading to the event this year, I felt a little down. It’s always an emotional night for us, but this year would be different for me. I had a life-changing surgery looming over my head. I got out of the car with the intention of not staying very long. I was, in all actuality, still recovering from the original lumpectomy procedure. I planned to show my support for our team of hard workers, and make a quiet exit.
That plan changed, though. When we rounded the corner of the relay site, there was our team, gathered together and chanting, “We believe you can do this.” They were all decked out in pink, and holding signs that said “Amber’s Army,” and “Amber’s Allies.” I walked toward them with tears streaming down my face. The love I felt in that moment is a feeling I’ll never forget.

Little did I know, that wasn’t my only surprise of the night. I mentioned I’m a teacher. Teaching is my passion. I love my kids at LMS, so you can understand how hard it was for me to walk away from them with 2 months left in school. I was devastated. I gathered my students outside the school one afternoon after my diagnosis and told them I loved them, and no matter what they scored on some end of the year test, I was proud of them. I was completely broken hearted at the thought of not being able to teach them. Lucky me, I work with some amazing people. They rallied the kids together, and encouraged them to wear pink on the Friday of Relay to show support for me. When my friend, Stephanie sent me the picture, I cried. I would go to bat for those kids any day of the week, and to know they had my back brought me to tears.

That still wasn’t the end of my emotional roller coaster. All of the teachers and students had made this sign. When I tell you I’ve found another family at LMS, dysfunctional as we may often be, I mean it.

I managed to put my emotions aside, and really started to enjoy the relay. It came time for the survivor walk. I really had not intended to participate. I was, after all, just beginning my fight with cancer. I didn’t really feel like a survivor. I felt like a scared little girl whose world was imploding around her. My mom and my SIL urged me to do the walk. Mom even talked me into getting one of the infamous purple shirts. When the time finally came to walk, my attitude completely changed. Walking among so many who had fought, and were fighting, gave me a sense of companionship. We were all part of some club. Not the kind of club that anybody wants to be part of, but the kind that, once you’re in, you embrace. So, I walked, with my family cheering me from the sidelines… My little boys and my husband grabbing my hands as I passed by… I walked, and in that moment I felt like I could tackle anything, because I knew I wasn’t fighting alone. I had a multitude of people fighting with me. Together was the key to it all.

The Truth Behind the Mask

Now, when I say I became numb from the news of my cancer diagnosis, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared. I felt a multitude of emotions crash through my body in that very moment. 
I was terrified. Every fiber of my being wanted to crawl into a ball and cry. I wanted to lock myself away until the nightmare was over.
I was angry. When I say angry, I mean I was just pure pissed off. It wasn’t the “Why me?” anger; though, it was anger for my family. My husband, just a couple years ago, lost his mother to cancer. He does not deserve to have a sick wife. It’s too much for him right now. My precious babies do not deserve to have a sick mother. They need a mother who can do all the fun things they are used to. My parents do not deserve to have to care for a sick child. My daddy has heart problems. What will this do to him? My mama will worry herself sick. My students count on me. I can’t just walk out on them. They deserve better. Those are the kind of thoughts I had. 
I knew I couldn’t let fear and anger consume me, though. I knew I had to be strong. I had two of the most amazing little fellas looking at me. I couldn’t show them how scared I was. They needed to know that their mama was going to be fine. I had to be fine, and deep down, I always knew that no matter what I faced, I would be. I had something stronger than cancer. I had faith.

The two weeks after my phone call with my surgeon were filled with doctor appointments. The most important one took place that following Tuesday. We met with my surgeon to discuss my options. I didn’t really need to hear him say it. I already knew what I was going to do. Josh and I had already discussed it. I had made peace with it.
Several members of our family came to the clinic that day. Even though they weren’t allowed in the room with me, they wanted to be there to support me.
When the nurse called me back, Josh and my parents came with me. We didn’t have to wait long before my doctor came in. He began by telling me how sorry he was that he’d given me false hope in the beginning. He had been so sure that my spot wasn’t cancer. He wasn’t to blame. I had none of the warning signs for breast cancer. I don’t have a family history on my mom’s side, which is where they say it comes from. I don’t smoke/drink. I workout 4/5 times a week. Even my knot didn’t, outwardly, have any of the physical traits of a cancer spot. How could he have known until he got in there?
He talked first about what type of cancer I had. He told us most of my tumor was DCIS, which meant it was confined to the ducts. There was a small portion; however, that was invasive, which meant there was a chance it could spread to other parts of my body. He said we would schedule a PET scan to make sure it had not already spread.
He next began talking about my options. I listened quietly to what he said. I could have a lumpectomy with radiation treatments or a mastectomy. The mastectomy would reduce my chances of reoccurrence. Josh and my parents asked several questions. I, on the other hand, didn’t. I’d done my research. I knew my options. My mind was made up.
I, at 26 years of age, sat in that tiny room, and told him I wanted a bilateral mastectomy. My voice sounded much more confident than I actually felt. He shook his head in agreement. His nurse came in to let me sign the papers. It was official… a done deal. This was really happening.

“We’ve Got This”

The procedure was simple enough. I left sick to my stomach and a little sore, but the worst was behind me. This was almost over. That’s what I thought, anyway, until I got that life-changing call.

I knew as soon as I heard the tone of his voice. He sounded as sick as I felt. “I hate having to tell you this. I need you to understand that you’re going to be ok. This is beatable.” Cancer, options, surgery, treatments… His words were running together, and all I could think was “Oh God! My babies! I have to see my babies grow up!”

When I got off the phone with him, I let myself fall apart for just a moment. Not too long, though. “We’ve got this.” I didn’t hear God say it, but I felt it.

Josh called the family, and told them, and just as I expected, they began showing up, one by one, to see if I was ok. I was numb. I had no time to be “Amber the Victim.” From that point forward, I had to become “Amber the Fighter.” I spent most of the evening assuring my understandably distraught family that I was going to be ok. I was going to beat this cancer.

Little Did I Know

I teach 6th graders. In 6th grade, the kids are young enough, still, that I can call them my babies, but they’re old enough to know when something is wrong with their teacher. I was honest with them. I explained that I had to have a little procedure done, and I’d be out for the rest of the week, but I’d be back the next week.

I thought I was being upfront and honest with them. I was telling them what I’d been told by the surgeon. Little did I know…

 

99%

The time it takes to get from Monday to Wednesday, when you’ve found out you have a tumor, feels like an eternity. I asked my sweet friend, Crystal, to go with me to meet him. Both my parents, and Josh, offered to take me, but I told them not to take off work. Like I said, I don’t like for people to make a fuss over me.

We made small talk in the waiting room until I was called back. The nurse took my vitals, and gave me a little paper vest to put on. If I hadn’t felt vulnerable already, that little paper vest definitely sealed the deal. The wait wasn’t long. When the doctor came in, I immediately liked him. He was friendly. He made me feel as comfortable as you can feel sitting in a cold doctor’s office in a paper vest.

The examination was quick and easy. He felt my lump, and said he was 99% sure that it was fibroadenoma, which is a benign tumor. The relief I felt in that moment is something I can’t explain. He told me we would still need to take the knot out, because left in there, it could begin to cause some discomfort. We scheduled the surgery for April 16th. I’d be down for a couple of days, and then this would all be over. He was 99% sure of that.