September 22 marked 10 years since I learned that I had Stage 1b breast cancer. 10 days after that, I found out that my breast cancer has returned, but this time, I am stage 4. I have metastatic breast cancer, which means it’s treatable, not curable. I will be in treatment for the rest of my life, however long that may be.
Let’s back up a couple months. In early August, I tripped and fell during a trail run, and I body-slammed myself into the ground. Not only that, I was wearing a hydration vest with two detachable water bottles located at each boob. One second I was running and the next second, I found myself face first on the ground, feeling like I had the wind knocked out of me times 100.
My boyfriend ended up taking me to the ER, where the doctor ultimately diagnosed me with a chest wall contusion and a concussion. The chest X-ray and spinal X-ray didn’t show anything concerning.
In early September, I had routine bloodwork ordered by my oncologist done. He had been monitoring my rising CA 15-3, which kept slowly rising over the previous year or so. Dr. C didn’t seem concerned about it, but I certainly was. Dr. C knows cancer, but I know Lara. To ease my concern, Dr. C told me that he would normally just re-test the tumor markers in 3 months and see, but he knew I was very concerned. He said that he would order a bone scan and a CT scan to put my worry to rest. (Haha.)
Both scans showed potential metastatic disease in my sternum, and the CT scan showed a potential lesion in my T11. When I learned this, I did not take the news well at all, and why should I? I had the worst panic attack of my adult life and had to take off work for the rest of the afternoon. I went numb in my face, my abdomen, and I lost feeling in my hands. I knew that day this was it.
My loved ones repeatedly said, “No, no, no. These scans are showing the result of your fall.” Fair argument, and at times, I did want to believe it. Ultimately, deep down, I knew this was stage 4 due to the fact my tumor markers were high. I have always known this was going to happen because this is what my body does.
I had a bone biopsy of my sternum, and not going to lie, that was one of the most horrendous procedures I have had done. When the radiologist inserted the needle into my sternum to numb it, I screamed in pain. While screaming, I heard them say, “Be still!” Hahaha, fuck you. I’m doing my best.
Fast forward to present day, it appears that my cancer is contained in the sternum and has not traveled to any other organ. If that is indeed true, then that is a big WIN for me. (I learned a new term – it’s called oligo.) It means we can radiate the cancer in my sternum to high hell, and then I start taking an AI. No need for chemo for bone mets. My other “good” news is that the metastatic breast cancer is estrogen and progesterone receptive and Her2 negative. That means I have a lot of options in AIs. The goal is to get the cancer back to zero and keep it there for as long as possible with AIs.
Am I devastated? Oh God, yes. I am gutted. I cry a lot. This is my literal nightmare come true. My mom was also diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer when she was 40, and died before she turned 41. How can this not mess with my head? I am my mother’s daughter.
I have to take all this minute by minute, or hour by hour, or day by day. I have a great support system here to throw me a life preserver when I feel like I am absolutely drowning. My team of doctors does include a psychiatrist to help me deal with the emotional bitch-slapping that stage 4 cancer brings.
I guess this means Get Up Swinging is back. Instead of making one billion phone calls after each update, I just plan on updating this. I need to get back to my introvert ways, and keep my inner circle small. All these phone calls have left me just absolutely drained and exhausted. I understand people who care about me want to check in with me and make sure I’m okay, and I am very appreciative. I also want to eventually transition to an easier way to keep anyone who cares apprised of my health.
Plus, this will be the best way to document how I keep cycling through the 5 stages of grief, and vent about cancer-related topics that piss me off (i.e., inspiration porn, or calling cancer a battle). Also, OF COURSE I WOULD BE DIAGNOSED WITH STAGE 4 BREAST CANCER DURING BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH. Argh. It’s like pouring salt in a large gaping wound.
So… stay tuned?
3 thoughts on “10 Years, 10 Days”
May your AIs continue to work for you!
Your anxiety attack? The screams during the biopsy? That’s not a lack of courage but a totally justified horror. Sending you healing energy and hope that this recurrence is contained by radiation and medication. I know that neither are easy or side effect free, yet they bring great reason for hope!