Shirts!

I now have shirts available in assorted styles here.

There is also a shirt that reads "I wasn't diagnosed with cancer- cancer was diagnosed with me," for both men or women currently battling cancer, or those that won, but wish to make a statement with a shirt. My apologies for the higher prices- I'm really only making a few dollars of profit from each shirt, but any less, and Cafepress.com would be reaping all of the proceeds. Oh well, it's for a good cause.
Besides, this isn't about making a profit-- It's more of a rallying cry for those who are going (or have gone) through what we are. I can tell you, it was an amazing feeling to see six to ten of us in the hospital waiting room all wearing the same shirt for Anna.

Update coming soon!

The Long Road Ahead

Mastectomy-ville

Anna had her mastectomy today. We awoke to a black sky at 3:30AM, drowsily took showers, left the boy with his Nani (Anna's mother), and took off for the airport. Her father and stepmother are also in town, as well as her cousin, all up from South Carolina. We signed in at the hospital and braced ourselves for a long, stressful day, and the day was just that. At about 7:30AM, she met with her anesthesiologist (funny irony-- he was my anesthesiologist years ago for a hip replacement). Soon after, her surgeon (a fantastic person by the way) met again with her, and finally set off to prepare for the procedure. We were finally all escorted out of the pre-surgery area, and directed to the family waiting room.

Wait. Wait. Waaaiiitttt. Wait.

The hospital provided me with a pager that would notify me whenever any news was available. It looked just like one you would be given if you were in line to get a table at a chain restaurant, and much like a hungry, impatient customer, I kept checking and tapping the damned thing to make sure it was working. Finally news. I got a call from the OR, and they were just finishing up. Soon she would go to the recovery room and slowly emerge into the waking world again. More waiting. "C'mon, Anna! Let's get moving here!" We all passed the time trading jokes and telling stories. Southerners, especially my father-in-law, are always good for fun jokes and stories. Whether it's the accent, the execution, or the combination of both, the world may never know. I personally enjoy their scotch too, but perhaps that's a subject for a different time. Wish I had some today, though. I think hospitals should work on that. The Scotch Wing.

Another page. "Everything is fine, but Anna says you have her inhaler, and we'd like you to bring it down to Recovery if you could." "No, you can't see her yet."

Finally her surgeon met us in the waiting room with wonderful news. She was very happy with the procedure, and felt very positive. She removed the breast tissue, nipple, and skin, and scraped some lymph nodes from under her arm. We've looked at the incision area, and we all feel she did a wonderful job. I whispered to Anna, "When it heals, I'll kiss your blank spot." She laughed.

I have to thank my mother and stepfather, who arrived from Yakima with a t-shirt for everyone present with our new mantra printed on. We must have looked like a softball team out in that waiting room. Many staff members enjoyed the slogan, which proves that I'm a genius. That and these looks? Anna is a lucky woman... Well, save for the whole cancer thing.

Sigh. Speaking with the surgeon, finally seeing my wife, and knowing how well the procedure went is an enormous weight off of my shoulders. I know there's a long way to go, but I'm more positive now than ever, and I feel like I can go into the chemotherapy phase of this journey much stronger. When we get the results back from the removed tissue, we'll have a better idea as to whether Anna will need to undergo radiation treatments as well. My fingers are crossed, my heart is strong, and I know we're going to get through this with armor intact. Love conquers all, right?

New slogan

I had a funny thing pop into my head yesterday. It's become our new slogan.

Anna wasn't diagnosed with cancer, cancer was diagnosed with Anna.(TM)

I spoke with my mother last night, and she decided she was going to print up t-shirts with our new mantra. I hope Anna doesn't mind that I'll be wearing mine every day until I get fired from smelling offensive. It'll be worth it.

We went to the imaging center this morning to have an MRI done for the surgeon. It didn't take too long, and now I'm back at work, but Anna had to go back down there because they want to do MORE ultrasounds as well. Apparently the ten others weren't enough. This has Anna nervous, sitting there at the clinic alone and wondering if they'll find any more bad news in the process, and I just want to be there with her to poke fun at the garish decor (can a straight man say that?) and magazines from the early seventies. Nothing like waiting for her and reading a Sports Illustrated football preview issue highlighting standout players that retired before I learned how to use the potty.

We now know that the surgery is happening this Tuesday. We will meet with the surgeon on Monday, and will discuss the procedure, as well as the possibility of doing a double mastectomy, if there's any thought that doing so may decrease the chance of the cancer returning. I haven't really talked much to Anna regarding my feelings about the mastectomy other than telling her, when she asked what I would do the first time I see her, that I would recoil in horror. Oh stop-- She knew I was joking. Seriously though, I'm really going to have to keep it together-- for her sake. I don't see myself really caring that her breast(s) are gone, but one can only speculate about such life-changing things until you're in the moment. Either way, as long as my beautiful wife is around to harrass me about household chores, I'm happy.

Speaking of beautiful, she cut her hair short yesterday, so she won't have to worry about it after the surgery and leading up to chemo. It looks awesome. Sort of a short, layered bob thing. That's professional speak, by the way.

She got a call this morning from the surgeon's office. Apparently they want to insert the porta cath on November seventh. That's an intraveinous catheter that will stay with her throughout the duration of the chemo, and I have no idea if I even spelled it's name correctly. To me, it's just this thing I don't want her to have. Every time she goes in for chemotherapy, they'll just plug it into the cath. We were a bit shocked that they also mentioned she would start chemo that very day, as opposed to a month after the mastectomy. All of this is hitting us fast, but you know what? Good. Let's get this over with so we can get back to our regularly scheduled happy-go-lucky lives.

And So It Begins...

It's been a while. A lot has happened, and I'm taking some time off from ranting about sports to focus on something much bigger.

On Friday, October 6th 2006, my wife Anna was diagnosed with breast cancer. A very aggressive and serious form.

We did learn (to our reluctant joy) that it has not spread to the bones or further in her body, but the overall gravity of this disease keeps us from doing cartwheels.

What can I say? This isn't supposed to happen to a 32 year-old woman, married two years, with a six month-old child. She's keeping a diary of all of this. Photos before and after, through the mastectomy (possibly double), and throughout the four month process of very aggressive chemotherapy. This is my diary. This is where I'll publicly chronicle my journey through this, as a husband and father to her child. I'm not certain how this experience will affect me from one day to the next, but I'm POSITIVE that in time, this will have been but a speedbump in our happy lives, and one hell of a story to tell.

And so it begins.

I've been in and out of work, which is terrifying, considering that Anna hasn't worked for a few weeks, and won't for at least four more months. We're a paycheck-to-paycheck family. I try to stay at the office-- both to keep busy and to make some money, but I've tried to be with Anna at each of her more important appointments. What's torturing me through all of this (besides the obvious "my wife has a horrible disease" thing) is the incredible feeling of helplessness I'm suddenly overcome with. If what hurt my wife was a man with a knife in an alley, you can bet I'd be in that alley every night waiting for his return. I can't hurt cancer. It's hard to see the look on Anna's face sometimes when she looks at our son, six months old, and thankfully clueless about the situation. She has this morbid look of dispair. An "I don't want to leave you" look. Of course, she knows this is beatable, even in the aggressive form she was unlucky enough to contract, but you can't help but be haunted with those thoughts at times.

The mastectomy should happen next week. We have an appointment with the surgeon on Friday morning. I'm not sure what will be discussed, but Anna is going to bring up the question of a double mastectomy if it would decrease the chances of the cancer returning later.

Ahh, the mastectomy. You're probably wondering how I feel about that. Thank god I'm a leg and butt man. Seriously, The woman that I love will always be Anna, one two, or a disturbing three boobs or not (no clue-- just move on). I've thought long and hard about how I might react upon seeing her body with either only one breast or none, and although I'm sure it will be a shock, I can't help but think that all I'll have to do is look at her beautiful face and forget about what's missing. Besides, with whatever adult ADD(TM) I probably have, I consider this just a little less foreplay I have to wait through!

About a month after the mastectomy, Anna will undergo four grueling months of aggressive chemotherapy every other week. She doesn't know this, but yesterday while pacing the halls of the cancer clinic, holding a crying and far-beyond-bored baby, I passed a woman who had just gotten chemo (and apparently had been undergoing it for some weeks at least, by the look of things). I was horrified. She looked like the dead walking. My heart sunk at the thought that I would have to witness Anna enduring that sort of physicall punishment. The chemo is awful. So toxic, the bags that hang from the IV pole beside you have skull-and-crossbones printed on them. No joke. I have no idea how I'm going to be strong enough to see Anna go through all of that, but I'm going to do it, for god's sake, because I love her so much.

Anna has immersed herself in many books about the disease. In one, there were letters to the writer. In one of those letters, the writer asked "My husband left me after my mastectomy, what should I do?" I'll answer that. Thank god you no longer have that shallow, cowardly, waste of human flesh in your life, and carry on stronger than ever. I am husband. Hear me roar.

Well, this should be an interesting/horrifying/taxing/scary experience, and I hope to continue to chronicle the journey from the perspective of a concerned and loving husband. For those of you along for the ride, buckle up, and feel free to add your thoughts.