Irony is seeping through my life right now like a leaky faucet. I've just been diagnosed with breast cancer, and my book What Took You So Long will come off the press next Tuesday featuring a main character, Lainie, who is a breast cancer survivor. I had to learn all about it to write about it, but I only had to learn generalities. Now I'm learning specifics.
Lainie's cancer was in her left breast. So is mine. Hers was about the size of a golf ball. So is mine. She had chemotherapy to shrink the tumor prior to surgery. That's the oncologist's plan for me. Lainie defiantly shaved her head before the chemo had a chance to kill it, but I think I'll just start collecting hats.
Because I don't have pains elsewhere or swollen glands under my arms, it looks like it might be a slow-growing type of cancer. That would be the good news. Until I have further diagnostic exams next week and we know the extent of it so the doctor can establish a treatment plan, that's all I know right now. Chemo will probably be four doses, one every three weeks, starting at the end of February and concluding at the end of April, which means surgery will be in May. I may have to have more chemo after that, and possibly radiation treatments, but we won't know until then.
Until things shake out a little more I'm going to follow Lainie's advice. She loves life and appreciates every day, even a bad one. She had a loving and supportive family and friends; so do I. Lainie found something stubborn inside that kept her going. So did I. She knew that stubborn something was going to win. So do I.