The Long Road Ahead

Time Marches on

2007-11-28T23:11:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I've posted here. I can't say that I have a good excuse, other than the good news that Anna has defeated breast cancer! My sincerest apologies to those who may have been (or have tried to continue to be) loyal readers. My hope is to continue from here with a bit more consistency.

Where to begin again?

Anna has emerged, fully healthy and cancer free from her fight (remission is a stupid, stupid term). While this may well be the single greatest thing to report, we of course, will always be victims of the "what ifs" that come with annual MRI and mammogram checkups. As said before, the black cloud will always loom. However, knowing you can't live your life in constant worry, we devote ourselves to living life happily, in love with the fact that she's going to be around for a long, long time.
Speaking of MRI's and mammograms, she arose from her recent firsts since treatment perfectly.

Our son is now almost two. Acts like it, too. But a wonderful, beautiful reminder of why we're here on this earth.

We did the Three Day Walk For Breast Cancer, sponsored by the Susan G. Komen Foundation a while ago. 60 miles of walking in three days. To anyone who reads that and thinks, "walking? I could totally do 60 miles," I submit that you're incomprehensibly wrong. I walked every single one of those (expletive) sixty miles. It (expletive) HURT! There were points along the way, that as I walked alone (others would either return to camp to convalesce or catch a van ride to the next checkpoint), I would sit down in a stranger's front yard along the route and literally cry, rationalizing to myself that if i didn't continue, it would only hurt more. As bad as it hurt at the time, I knew I would never forgive myself if I hadn't completed the damned thing, bloody stumps for feet and all.

I fucking owned it.

For at least three weeks later, it owned me. I was awarded the nickname "Gimp Pimp" during the walk. I have a somewhat unnatural "hitch" in my walk due to a hip replacement, but this walk pronounced it to a point that I looked like an octogenarian Ice T on the Red Carpet at the World Porno Awards without a walker. Not a pretty sight.

Needless to say, things are getting back to normal in our lives, but I plan to continue this blog-- not only as the husband survivor of breast cancer, but as a husband and human being period. Some of you may not be interested in all of the posts that take place from here (from my opinions on sports, music, etc), but please know that this will still (and always) be dedicated to the struggle my amazing wife went through, while continuing to be a news bulletin of sorts in regards to her health and well-being.

I appreciate the incredible outpouring of support this blog has provided-- both from friends and family to those I've never met. This interwebby thing can be amazing at times.

Pictures...

2007-03-23T12:56:00.000-07:00

The picture of Anna and I is older-- she hadn't yet lost all of her hair. The pictures of Silas are new, however. He will turn one year old this coming Tuesday March 27th.

More photos to come.

Anna begins radiation treatments in a week, and will return to work (part-time) on April 2nd. I think she's really excited to get back.

More updates soon, I promise!

Step two

2007-03-12T09:54:00.000-07:00

Well, Anna is done with chemo. She's got a couple of weeks before she starts (daily) radiation treatments, so we spent last week in Yakima as a sort of vacation. It was nice to get out of town and try to forget that we live in the Worst Apartment In The History Of The World. Anna found a wig while we were there-- We discovered you truly get what you pay for. We had purchased a wig from a costume store here in Seattle for about $40, and it was ill-fitting and annoying for her to wear. The wig she found in Yakima fit perfect, looks great (and very real), and set her back almost $300. With that in mind, I've decided I'm going to stop going bald.
I'm very excited to report that I found three pairs of jeans (in the same store!) in Yakima. While this may not sound like breaking news, you should know that my medical condition (NoAssAtAll syndrome) makes it very hard to find pants that fit and look good. I usually try on pants, look in the mirror, and find some seventies disco version of Urkel looking back at me. It's a real problem.
We got to see a lot of family while in the Yak-- the highlight was my grandparents, who had not met Silas yet. I have an incredible picture of all four generations of Schumacher men. Silas loved seeing all of the family. He might be the most sociable child in the world-- I wonder where he got that trait...
There's not too much more to report-- We're in the home-stretch with Anna's treatments, Spring is here, and baseball is on the horizon, so all is good.

Wow-- We didn't expect that...

2007-02-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

With only one more chemo treatment left, Anna was sure that side-effects such as hair loss were a thing of the past. She called me at work yesterday, and said, "remember how I was complaining a couple of days ago about a weird tinge feeling on my scalp? Well, I'm losing hair again (the tiny little sprigs that have popped up since the initial loss of hair), and my eyebrows are gone."

And all along, she was very excited not to have lost her eyebrows.

At any rate, as stated above, there is only one chemo treatment to go, and that takes us to an interesting crux. I asked Anna the other day if she was excited that it was almost over, and she didn't really have an answer. It's apparent to me that she finds a strange (yet understandable) security in the chemotherapy. As long as it's in her system, she knows that the cancer can't come back. Obviously she'll have the daily radiation treatments for at least six weeks, but I can understand why she's anxious. It's a valid, yet irrational fear. She went to her first Northwest Young Survivors meeting last night, and I think that the group will be good for her. From my experience in attending my group at Gilda's Club, it's a positive thing to be able to meet and share with others in your situation.

Anyway, eyebrows or not, she's plugging away as usual, and cruising toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Note: Stay away from tunnels.

Taxol is taxing

2007-01-31T13:19:00.000-08:00

Anna was supposed to get chemo last Tuesday, but wasn't allowed. Her white blood cell count was apparently almost nonexistant, so the oncologist said she would have to wait a week. This didn't make Anna very happy. Yesterday, however, we were good to go. Not without stress, mind you. Anna did her best to stay locked at home, away from germs. She ate healthy stuff. Then Silas became sick with a cold. Silas was jettisoned out to the living room to sleep, thus Daddy was jettisoned as well. Then Daddy got... yeah, of course Daddy got sick. So now after carefully quarantining herself from the rest of the germ-filled world around her, the germs found Silas and I and got in anyway. We tried hard to not get too close, obviously not sleep in the comfy bed, and not cough, sneeze, or drool on or around her (I'm bad with the drool rule). Problem is, when Daddy is left to do all of the caring for the baby, the baby notices his inadequacies and capitalises on making everything twice as hard for him. Anna, unamused, often had to step in and show me "how it's done." It was at each of those points that, like a Rube Goldberg design, Silas would sneeze his mouthful of pureed baby food on her, she would shriek in horror, recoiling and almost falling out of her chair, and finally shoot me a look that said, "you're a moron. Why didn't I marry and have a child with a good-looking pediatrician?"

Worry not-- somehow, by some divine intervention, Anna (up to this point) has made it through unscathed, and was able to get her chemo treatment yesterday. And at least if she does get sick, she has about a week-and-a-half to get better. She now has only two more treatments before a short two week break, and six or seven weeks of radiation. I can't wait for her to be done with this.

The doctor is trying to figure out if it was a virus that initially caused her white blood cell count to plummet, or if she crashed from the Taxol (her new chemo drug). Yesterday's session will be the benchmark, as it were, wherein we discover if it happens again. If so, the doctor said she would likely need to be hospitalised and given fluids and other fun drugs, and she would have to go weekly to chemo instead, getting smaller amounts with each weekly visit. Anna would prefer to keep doing it in one large dose-- just get the damned thing over with and move on. I'm with her.

The Halfway Mark

2006-12-27T09:43:00.000-08:00

First of all, I'm sorry so much time has passed since my last update. Such is the nature of this beast.
Yesterday's chemo session marked the halfway point for Anna's treatments. This is particularly huge for us, as the drug they will be switching her to is not nausea-inducing like the drugs she's been on. Barring any out-of-the-ordinary circumstances this week or next, Anna will not have thrown up once during chemo. To us that means she's not only endured the treatments like a warrior thus far, but also looked cancer and chemo in the face and laughed. Sometimes it seems to me that nothing can get Anna down. She truly is my hero (sorry, Willie Nelson).
As for the drug they will administer for the final two months, the side-effects can be severe body pain and loss of feeling/possible nerve damage, typically in the fingertips and toes. We're pretty sure Anna will shrug this off too.
Her hair is already coming back. Tiny little blonde hairs poking up all over her perfectly shaped noggin. I'll tell you-- she looks incredible no matter what she does to her hair. Even as bald as Mr. Clean. She could never do radio. She doesn't have the face for it.
Although there's nothing quite like returning to chemo the day after Christmas, our holiday was very nice. Anna's father, stepmother, stepbrother, and grandfather arrived the week prior from South Carolina. It was pretty cool, given that her grandfather ("Pop") had only flown twice since WWII. It was neat to see four generations of her family in the same room. My father and stepmother visited too. It was nice to visit with them-- we always have a great time. They brought a hilarious toy Lone Ranger horse that inexplicably spooked the baby-- He likes it now, but only when it's not making noise. Strange boy. He's terrified of some rubber clown fish bathtub toys he received as well. TERRIFIED. He actually looks over his shoulder for them when in the bath. One can only assume he was a clown fish in a past life.
My mom, stepfather, and brother visited on Christmas Eve, braving the snowy passes. We had a great time, opened presents, and gorged ourselves over lunch at my favorite restaurant (no coincidence that it is filled with plasma screens televising sporting events). Christmas day was relaxing-- just Anna, her sister, the baby, and I. A good day.
I'll update as soon as I can to inform about the new treatment she will begin in two weeks. However, I doubt I'll be able to write much more than "it doesn't seem to affect Anna." I like that.

On A Different Note

2006-11-17T12:31:00.000-08:00

When it rains, it pours. If it wasn’t world altering enough to find out that the love of my life was diagnosed with cancer, I’m dealing with the news that someone who has become an unexpectedly good friend from the web is dealing with an even more sobering disease. He has told me he’s been given an alarmingly short amount of time to battle Lou Gherig’s disease. It’s really been weighing on me. Talk about perspective. This is someone I didn’t know from Adam a year-and-a-half ago. This incredible individual participates on a sports forum that I visit daily. Each day, for every post I write, I have a new joke-of-the-day signature that follows my oft-comedic (well, at least I try), and usually inane ramblings. What started out as a relationship built on his emailed contributions of new humor has become a full-fledged friendship, wherein we have a beer (or nine) whenever he’s in town on business, and several phone calls throughout each month. This is a guy who is as old as my mother and father (sorry, man!)—not someone I would have expected to become a person I would lean on for support throughout my ordeal with Anna’s situation, and certainly not someone who may be benefiting from the support I’m giving him with his battle. Perspective. Man, I hate perspective. It’s okay for me to write about my hatred of the dealings of the management and front office of the Seattle Mariners, but to deal with the reality of life’s unfairness (I hate the term unfair, but it works here), it’s sobering. I want my friend to know that I’m by his side, thousands of miles away, and praying that a cure is found for his disease soon. Real soon. And I have faith that it will.
Where does this leave me? Well, Anna has a disease that although has no cure, I’m sure she will be rid of soon. There’s no chemo for Lou Gehrig's. My friend, whom I hold out hope will recover and rebound from all of this, doesn’t have that sort of prognosis. My heart, soul, and prayers go out to not only he, but his loving family, He’s become a sort of inspiration for me. This is a man who wishes to put aside his own ailment to call and ask how Anna is coping. How I am coping? How can I tell him that I’m feeling anxious about Anna’s chemo, when I know what he’s going through? Easy. He’s incredible enough to put his thoughts of she and I above his personal thoughts of well-being. For that I thank him, and want him to know how much that truly means. There you are, miles away, my friend, and as your thoughts are with us and our battle, Our thoughts, love, prayers, and spirit are with you during your struggle. Your jokes lift me up. Your friendship lights me up. Thank you for being you.
Cancer? Schmancer. We’ve got love to deal with here, people.

The Next Step

2006-11-15T11:58:00.000-08:00

Anna had her first chemotherapy treatment yesterday. I took the day off to be with her, and plan to do so each time she goes. I'm fairly sure I was more nervous than she-- She was a bit nervous the night before, but we had a great visitor come by, and I think that lightened her mood a bit.
It was really hard for me to see her plugged in to the chemo IV. I mean, it looked like any other normal IV, but I knew what was in it. The entire process takes about three hours. Drip, drip, drip. The way it works is, she sits down in a recliner seat, they plug into her port-a-cath, and I sit across from her in a chair. At least I can be there to talk to and support her. They have televisions, DVD players, and magazines. They offered us snacks, soda, and coffee. "Welcome to chemo, want a bag of Fritos?" Some seats are more private. I assume they are for those who aren't doing well with their treatments, or those that don't wish to fraternize with the other patients. Of course, Anna and I don't mind talking to, well, anyone, so we were seated next to a woman who was 60. She was there with her sister, who accompanies her for each treatment. They drive all the way from Packwood, Washington, specifically because she knows that Swedish Providence is the best place for cancer treatment, and she's right. She mentioned that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago, and subsequently underwent a lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation. Not long ago, they found a couple of suspect cells during a checkup, and sure enough, the cancer had returned. Unfortunately, to operate would disturb the cells and risk spreading, so she likely will have to endure chemotherapy for the rest of her life. She mentioned to each of us that our outlook and personalities are what will carry us through this ordeal. We've got plenty of both.
Anna was feeling well this morning, before I left for work. She had to go back to the cancer center today to get a shot that she will have to receive either the day of or day after each chemo session. It is administered through the belly, and can have painful side effects. It's role is to coerce the bones to kick out extra white blood cells from the marrow to the body, bolstering her health a bit. Apparently the side effect is fairly severe bone pain. The nurse told Anna it would feel like her muscles were aching, but it would actually be the bones. My thoughts on this? This is utter crap (I'm reeeeaaally editing myself here). I wish there was an actual guy out there that was responsible for giving people cancer (Dan Cancer would be his name), so I could pummel him. Daily.
I can only imagine that she will start feeling worse as the days continue, and I don't know how I'll respond to that. Probably my usual stoicism (not brave-- more of an incompetent thing) mixed with morbid and ridiculous humor. That's my thing. Fortunately, it's Anna's thing too. I'm not looking forward to seeing my wife sick, losing hair, and potentially feeling insecure and upset about both. I have to try and remain as strong as possible for her. I also need to pull more than my weight at home. Something I constantly need to remind myself of.
My sister-in-law, Allison, is here with us as well. She's 20, and had no real ties to South Carolina, so she came up on a one-way ticket for an indefinite stay. The more the merrier in our "charming" 600 square-foot apartment. At least the view is nice. She's been an enormous help around the house, helping with cooking, cleaning, and caring for the baby. I'm sure she's getting stir-crazy, and we need to remind ourselves that she needs to get out and explore.
So here we are, on to the next level. Scary stuff. I have no idea what to expect throughout these treatments-- everyone reacts differently. I know how I'll react though. I'll be beating up Dan Cancer if you need me.

The path to chemo

2006-11-02T09:52:00.000-08:00

Anna met with the surgeon Monday. The pathology reports from the mastectomy came in, and of the twenty-something lymph nodes that were removed, only three were affected. The tumor itself measured 6 centimeters. This puts here at around stage three, I believe. She WILL have to undergo radiation treatments as well. Not the best news possible, but certainly not the worst.
She will have the port-a-cath inserted on the 7th, then begin chemo on the 14th of this month. She's mentioned that she's scared, but I'll tell you, she sure has a strong exterior. I think that's the only thing keeping me sane throughout all of this.
We went to Gilda's Club last night for a signup orientation. For those of you who may not know, Gilda's Club was the idea of Gilda Radner, who died of cancer. It was formally founded by her husband, Gene Wilder, and Gilda's psychotherapist. Here's a link to their page. It's a wonderful organization, all volunteer, who coordinate support group meetings, social funtions, and wellness classes for those battling cancer and their families, friends, and other supporters. We sat in a circle with a few other new registrants, all with different forms of cancer. Everyone told their personal story, and rarely was there a dry eye. One woman, a prominent former head of the OR at the University of Washington, mentioned her fear of going through chemo. I think that hit Anna pretty hard. A person of long medical background frightened of chemo! How should she feel then?
The Seattle branch of Gilda's Club is in a beautiful converted house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. We toured the facility, and were blown away. "This is the 'one day at a time' room. If you're in-between doctor appointments and want to relax or sleep for a while, just stop in." "This is the kitchen. Usually there's food out on the counter or in the refridgerator. Help yourself if you need lunch, or just a snack. It's free." "This is 'Noogieville.' It where all the kids can hang out and play with toys." "This is the arts room. If you're feeling artistic, stop on in and used any of (the hundreds) of items we have. It's also where we have professional jewelry, knitting, painting, and other professionals volunteer their time to teach workshops." I should make a shirt that says, "My wife got cancer, and I learned to cross-stitch."
I mentioned the club's social events. Dances, karaoke, concerts, bingo night, and many other fun "mixers" to help strengthen your support group and network to meet new friends. It's going to be a great thing for us.
In other news, my boss set up a Paypal account (I believe you just search for Anna Warren Schumacher at www.paypal.com, and you can donate). Although it's been a test of humility for both of us, the monetary donations and offers of food and babysitting have been very, very appreciated. I can't believe how many people out there have dropped everything and run to help us out. Were are truly blessed.

Shirts!

2006-10-30T13:48:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-24T18:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-20T12:57:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-10-18T15:05:00.000-07:00

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.