Today is Wednesday. I had my fifth chemotherapy treatment just two days ago. Wednesdays are my hard days—the second day after chemo is always the worst for me. Everyone in my family knows Mommy needs rest on Wednesdays. As I sit here in bed writing, I think about how much my life has changed. A short four months ago I was a happy, healthy 41 year-old. I always ate well and exercised. I have no family history of any cancer, forget breast cancer. How did I get here?
Then I have to stop. Stop going down that rabbit hole of dark thoughts. I’ll never know why I got cancer. I’ll never know how to prevent it in the future either. You see, breast cancer is just as much a disease of the mind as it is the breast. But when it comes to the mind, I actually have control over what ails it.
I was diagnosed on July 12—ironically, also a Wednesday. My first oncologist appointment was seven days later. That was the longest week of my life. Not knowing my prognosis or plan of action was absolute torture. There were tears. There was anger and confusion, but also hope. Hope that there was a chance for me. Hope that I caught it early. In the dark moments (and there were DARK moments during that week), I held on to the idea of hope with white knuckles.