Friday, July 12, 2013

Day 1,115: KatyDidCancer. Again.



This is what I do.

This. I write this. But that's not what I mean.

This is what I do. I survive on the unlucky end of the health spectrum, in spite of being a hell of a lot healthier and fitter than many people, and then, I write about it. I did it with epilepsy. I did it with a terrible car accident. I did it with cancer.

And now, I'm doing it with cancer--again.

Up until now, I have done this without looking like the kind of person who should do this. I have always been too young, too rosy-cheeked, too pretty, too muscular, too symmetrical, too SOMETHING to be one of THOSE people, and yet I have indeed been one of THOSE people. I have lived as one of those people whose personage, perhaps, exists to remind others that everything is fleeting and that nothing should be taken for granted. Everything that has happened to me has hardly left its mark.

That is about to change.

My breast cancer has recurred. I don't know much, except that the smooth, round, painful lump (the three things that cancer is not supposed to be) that I felt right by my lumpectomy scar for the first time a little over a month ago is indeed cancerous; it is a tumor approximately 0.5 cm in size, or so they think. The full pathology isn't in, so I don't know if it is still triple negative, but I'm sure it is.

I am having trouble writing this, not because I am too beside myself, too hysterical, but because I am not, and it is hard for me to explain. I feel strangely resigned, strangely at peace. I am not saying that I am OK with this. I am just saying that this is what is, and this is what I need to do, and in some sense I feel that this is what I was always meant to do, because not everyone lives a healthy life and not everyone lives a long life, and there's no reason why I would or would not be one of those people.

I found out about my recurrence today, but I knew it yesterday. My ultrasound, ordered by my breast surgeon on Tuesday after she did an initial ultrasound herself and decided it wasn't good enough, turned into a mammogram which turned into five core needle biopsies right on the spot. This was an exact--AN EXACT--replication of what happened three years ago. The radiologist was different, and you know what?

I was different.

I wasn't in denial. When the radiologist nervously chatted with me about my job as she prepared to do the biopsy, I knew. I could hear it in her voice, I could see it in her mannerisms. She showed me the images. I straight up asked her if it looked like cancer and she lowered her eyes ever so slightly and said "it looks like what you had before, but it could be fat necrosis. Because of your history, I can't tell you to wait it out. What do you want to do? I could do the biopsy today if we can get an order from your surgeon, or tomorrow, or Monday." I said, do it now. I need to know.

But I already knew.

So, I had Gabe call my mom and tell her to pick up the kids. I cried in the changing area of the mammography suite in the way that Katy Jacob cries: suddenly and ferociously and for about 30 seconds until it just stops, and I wipe my eyes, and suck in my breath, and say well. I guess I'm done crying. And then we went out, and I got drunk. While I was in the hospital, I received a voicemail from my gynecologist; I had called him, as he asked, to tell him I was getting an ultrasound. His message said that if I got a call from a number I didn't recognize that night, I should pick it up. Around 9:30, I did. He sounded so devastated. He knew, not because he KNEW, but because I told him the other doctor had said it looked like cancer. He called me sweetie and said he didn't know what else to say. And last night, I could hardly look at my children. I have not seen them since it was confirmed. They should be home in an hour or so and that will be the hardest part.

But so much is hard, that it becomes relative to talk about things that way.

This time, I have not refused to pick up the phone. I have not felt much like talking, but this time, I am different. I knew I could do it, that there was no longer any time nor place for denial or even anger or second guessing or anything else but resolve. I called my mom myself. I picked up the phone when a dear friend called from Seattle after seeing my facebook status "Remember when you told me I looked good bald? Tell me again." I gave my brother the news in person; he happens to be in Chicago for a few days for unrelated reasons.

If you think you have done difficult things, imagine telling your mother and your older brother that you have cancer and seeing the look on their faces and hearing the grief in their voices. Imagine realizing that they feel that they are living in opposite-land, because they are supposed to go through things before you do, including, and maybe even especially, the bad things. Imagine, then, telling your husband, who is beside himself with fear. This time, I took the call from the radiologist myself, because I knew I had cancer, and I didn't want Gabe to hear that on the phone. Last time, I needed him to take down information for me, but I felt this time that that was a small gift I could give to him, the gift of not hearing me hear this news. When she called me and said "we have your results back. I am so sorry. I know this isn't what you want to hear. It's a recurrence," I cried, Katy-style, again. I raved a bit. And then, I did what needed to be done and I asked the appropriate questions. And eventually Gabe opened the door and I nodded at him and saw that crestfallen look on his face, a look that I hope none of you ever has to witness on the face of the person who has pledged his life to you.

Imagine doing that twice.

Imagine having to tell your children. I plan to do that myself, on Sunday, after they have had the chance to go to the all day block party where we used to live. I can imagine telling Lenny. I cannot even began to imagine how to tell Augie. He was just a baby. And now he still is, but not really, and he knows things, and of all of us, I think this might be the hardest on him. You know what a parent's love is when the hardest part of admitting you have an illness that might kill you is the sadness that they will feel over potentially losing you. And somehow, I am comforted by the thought that they have almost always been children with a mother with cancer, so they know how to do this, and they have a strength that other children don't have, and I gave that to them, whether I wanted to or not.

I told Gabe that he has to get it together, that I have to know this time, really KNOW, that he and the kids could get along without me. I told him that I wished he had never had a vastectomy because now he can't build a family with someone else. I told him that I wanted to see the kids grow up, that I wanted to grow up, grow old even, and he just cried and cried and said that I would, and I said that maybe this is what I do. I was not saying these things to be dramatic. I was saying these things because they need to be said at some point and I am strong enough to say them right now, today. I am not concerned with protecting his feelings. He said this time he might have to get a barber to shave my head and I said no. You will do it again like you did it before and I know that now. And he is Gabe, and he has cried, and sent cryptic and terrified emails to people, but this time, he too is different.

We have done this before, and now we know we can do it again.

Of course, the thought of other surgery options, why did I do a lumpectomy, maybe I should have never taken a drink, maybe it's sugar or lack of vitamin D, all of that began to crush me. And then I spoke to the doctors. And the surgeon reminded me that I had clean margins after my last surgery. She reminded me that if my cancer was bound to come back, it was better to come back in the breast than in the chest wall, which could happen post-mastectomy. She said, this shows your cancer was aggressive. Because you did chemo and radiation, and it still came back, so you did not make the wrong choice. You treated the cancer you had then. And you will do that again.

When the surgeon called, she was very businesslike, as usual. She cares, I know she does. But how else could you deal with this every day? She started off by saying, now have you ever met with a plastic surgeon...and I immediately cut her off, something I rarely do to doctors. And I said this:

I met with Dr. X three years ago. I am not doing reconstruction.

The surprise in her voice was evident. Um, ok, so you don't want to do it. OK.

And I realized that I knew instinctively what was behind her initial question. I knew without being told that I have to get a mastectomy now, no other option. And if I am going to opt for tissue expander surgery, they coordinate that with the plastic surgeon at the time of mastectomy because it is easier to do both at once.

And I'm not doing it. Not if I need a single mastectomy, not if I need a double. Later in the call I told her that the plastic surgeon had told me I wasn't a good candidate for the reconstruction options that take tissue from your body and make it into breasts, because I am too thin. She agreed. So, I said, that leaves tissue expanders and implants. And I know how long that takes, I know how many appointments and surgeries it is, I know so many people who have had complications, and I don't have time for that, I don't want to do it.

And then she began to speak with me freely, as if I were not someone from whom information needed to be kept, but rather someone who could take it, because I understood already what was happening. I do not yet know what I am facing, because I have to do all of the tests to see if I have mets, now that I had a recurrence. That is the one place I am not allowing my mind to go, because I am not willing to let it go there. I know I need a single mastectomy, but I am not sure about a double. I am strangely at peace with the idea of my soon to be disfigured body. Right now my breasts look so wonderful, so healthy. But I have never cared greatly about that, and again, perhaps I am one of those people destined to look "other" at the same time that I look "normal" so that hey, maybe you should think about that.

What I'm dreading is chemo. I don't even want to get into that. There is a very very slim chance I could avoid chemo but I'm sure to be triple negative again so it's doubtful.

I should say, as an aside, that all of this has happened exactly three days after I announced my resignation for my current place of employment where I have been for 7 years and accepted another position, based in another state (though I will physically remain here). The timing is just so surreal, that it borders on the absurd.

Perhaps the last three years of writing this blog has set the stage to prepare me for this, because I have put everything out there, laid my feelings bare, announced time and again that I don't believe that cancer cares about the content of anyone's character. Perhaps I do not feel the need to justify my decisions nor defend myself nor feel guilty because of this, this forum, that has enabled me to be real, and to see for myself the impact that realness has had on other people.

I curse the fact that I am in this place, but it would be false to say that I cannot believe it. Of course I can believe it. I have feared it for more than three years. Three years ago, fear encompassed me. I was afraid of being BRCA+, I was afraid of finding out my stage, I was afraid of surgery and chemo, I was afraid of being bald, I was afraid of mets, I was afraid of dying, I was afraid of the unknown. That fear was so overwhelming, so I sat down at a different desk in a different house and began writing this, and admitted to that fear, and by writing it, by weaving all these strange stories together and seeing the larger picture, something has happened.

I am not afraid anymore.

72 comments:

  1. I love you, Katy. I'm standing strong with you. xoxoxoxo

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  2. I am with you also. Speechless, but here.

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  3. And those of us who read it can take it--willingly receive it--and hold it with you.

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  4. Strangely, I have no doubt you can do the impossible. You always do. You're brilliant at it. So be who are and do what you do. We will be there to help and watch you conquer. Much love

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  5. Big hugs to you, Katy--You are a strong, strong woman. Prayers for peace and strength from Oklahoma to you.

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  6. You are amazing. And strong. And going to do this and win. Much love to you and your family

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  7. Katy,
    Standing with you. Fighting this foe for all of us. Hope, serenity, and peace that passes understanding. We're here for you, my TN sister.

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  8. Hi Katy, I heard your piece at LTYM and am friends with Brandie, Melisa, Tracey and some others involved in that first year. I know you are strong and have the support of many. When I was 35 I started training karate and was surprised to learn that two of the older kick-ass women (literally) in my dojo were both long-time, 2-time breast cancer survivors. I wish you continued strength and healing.

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  9. Oh sh*t. Let me know when you want to go to Cork. I'm buying. xoxo Mar

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  10. Your blog is new to me and I sit here, beyond moved. I am paralyzed....in the best possible way. I write as someone who jokes nonchalantly about having had "cancer light" and I realize the insincerity in the joke. Bless you for sharing your truth with such heart and strength -- unflinching. To be unflinching is a gift. Thank you again. May your journey be peaceful and love-filled.

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  11. Thanks for sharing your heart. So sad to hear it's back. Make the best decision for you and your family. Hugs

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  12. I am a complete stranger. But you are an inspiration. It doesn't matter who says it. You are strong and you will prevail. You are strong enough to face this head on and you make others strong in your wake. Keep fighting. And know that complete strangers stand behind you, keep you in their prayers and are inspired by you, daily.

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  13. I remember watching your 2012 LTYM video. You didn't need to read off the page. You looked directly into the audience. At your daughter? My mother has survived two recurrences of breast cancer. And she is still here and thriving and living the full, beautiful life that she was meant to lead. From what I've read, you have many things in common. And I think it's entirely possible that one day, you will sit in the audience of an LTYM show as your daughter reads a letter to you. Sending you much love and hope.

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    1. Yes, I was looking at my daughter--or where I thought she was sitting, since it was so dark! She was the only child in the audience. I'll never regret doing that.

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  14. There is so much I would like to be able to say - so much I wish I COULD say - my mind is running in a thousand different directions and it has been for more than a day. If you or Gabe need me, at all, for any reason, just call.

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  15. Thank you for sharing. Sending much love.

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  16. Your strength and your honesty are absolutely stunning. I wish you continued strength and healing. Those around you will help you any way we know how.

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  17. Prayers to you and you family. I am a 9 yr survivor of breast cancer, right side. Lumpectomy and radiation. I found a lump last week on left. Had ultrasound. Then found small ones on right breast. Tuesday I go for mammogram. Friend going too. I have heart problems and on blood thinner and other meds. I am scared again. Have anxiety and panic attacks over this. Cant wait till it is over. I thought I was strong, but I am 65 with health problems. Friends talk to me positive but hard for me to be positive. Praying for all going through tough times. Thank you for letting me vent.

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  18. You are amazing and normal and inspiring and humbling. Thank you for sharing. Wishing strength for you as you talk to your babies, equally fierce and amazing and regular souls.

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  19. I wish I had magic words. I wish I had any words that would help. Sending love and peace to you and your family.

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  20. sending light and love from an LTYM sister.

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  21. I'm another LTYM sister sending you love. I have had a breast scare, and I was hysterical .... and in the end it was "dense breast tissue." I wish you love and light and luck...and please ask for what you need. I don't know you and am new to your blog, but reading this? I would do anything I could to help.

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  22. I'm another LYTM sister, and even though I don't "know" you I am sending love. I wish I could do more. I would do more, if I knew what would help. You are so brave, and so strong, and I will be thinking of you this weekend and in the days to come.

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  23. We're thinking of you out here in Jersey, Katy. Sending lots of love. You're pretty damn amazing.

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  24. I am another LTYM sister. Sending you peace and love and lifting you up in my thoughts and prayers.

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  25. You are an inspiration and a strong woman. Lean on your husband and God. You inspire. I am praying for you and stay strong. Love to you.

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  26. Erin shared your story and I am sending you prayers. Like Erin, if there's anything I can do to help, I put myself and my blog at your disposal.

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  27. You are not alone. YOu have an army with you. And we will ferociously uphold you, cry for you, pray for you, hold up our requests for sound health for you.

    Count on it.

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  28. Prayers, hugs, and peace being beamed your way.

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  29. Wow. Your strength & candor is amazing. Know that there is a community here to hold you up if it flags a bit. Sending you every ounce of my support. Thank YOU for sharing with us.

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  30. Wow. I didn't follow ur blog before. Erin posted this link on fb and I'm here because of that. You have an amazing story and I will be following along with you.. praying with you... Sending virtual hugs when you need them and tears when you need them!!

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  31. First time reading your blog. I have to commend you for your strength and honesty and courage. YOU are awesome! So, so sorry you have to do the cancer/chemo dance all over again. Please remember: You are not alone. The bat signal #BCSM summons support at any hour of the day or night. {{{{hugs}}}} and good luck Sunday when you have to tell your children. ;-(

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  32. Thank you for sharing yourself with us. Through your words I can feel your strength, your resolve to do what needs to be done, and your pain for your family, your children. As a mother of young children, my heart aches for you. I want to make it go away. Sadly, I am powerless, but you are not. I'll be watching, reading, and cheering you on.

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  33. Hi Katy, I can talk to you about being an Amazon and I can decorate your head if you get Chemo again. It is all unfair and tough and I wish you didn't have to go through this.

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  34. I am a LTYM sister from CO. Holding you up in love, light, strength, and whatever else I can send to you through the internet. Hugs and more hugs and you are a badass.

    xx

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  35. Thanks for sharing this. You seem an amazing woman! Sending you lots of love and a huge hug from Spain.

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  36. LTYM Kansas City here, also sent by Erin. I'm amazed by your strength and your honesty. Thank you for sharing your story. Who knows how many women you are helping by speaking up? I'm so sorry that you are going through this (again) and I wish it were different, but I can tell from reading this that you are one tough mother who won't give up. I know that you have the strength to do this again and come through the other side even stronger. You did this once, you can do it again. Whenever you are down, we're all with you in spirit lifting you up. You won't be alone Sunday when you tell your children.

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  37. I'm sorry that you have to go through this again. Please know that you're not alone. Have you been involved with the Young Survival Coalition? You can get so much support and advice from the forums and meet with survivors in your area. I'm a 12 year survivor and have met so many great women through YSC. Sending hugs and healing energy your way.

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  38. Katy I am praying for you and I am so grateful for your gifts and your bravery. You are helping so many of us by writing this. Stay strong and know you are supported and loved byt his whole community.

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  39. Typing through my tears Katy. I am so sorry to hear all of this, but also so inspired by how you handling this. I was at the first event of my 20 year high school reunion this weekend and saw an old friend I hadn't seem since high school whose mom died of breast cancer when we were in high school. I had seen your status update, but not read your post yet. I told her about you. We talked about our memories of her mom and she told me how much she appreciated reminiscing, as very few people in her life now (including her husband and kids) ever knew her mom. I am not saying that is going to be your daughter someday, I hope and pray as others have shared that you will beat this again. If it were solely about fighting for your life I would say, I would know, that you've got this! Hands down! But I get it's not that simple... So I am here to walk with you, to read your words, to comment on them, to support you, to pray for you, to cheer for you and to believe with you that you can and will get through this... One day, one hour, one step at a time. Argh! This just sucks! Sending you so much love and support. I will join you and Mar for that drink the Cork! xoxo

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  40. Morning hon,
    First - I do have dibs on going first. That is NOT negotiable.
    Second - as one of my best friends said when she heard...
    Shit
    That pretty much says it. I wish you didn't have to go through this stupid thing again. But obviously
    you won't do it alone.
    Thanks to all of you who will go through this with her
    with me
    with us
    Love,
    Mom

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  41. I am here because Erin posted a link to your blog on her Facebook page. Bless her.

    This is stunning and heartbreaking and so painfully real...and you write with such aching honesty.

    And I'm so pissed for you, that you're in this place again. Pissed. But hopeful.

    Will follow your journey now. Let's all become less pissed, more hopeful.

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  42. We don't know each other except through the LTYM community and Facebook, but I read, ever since I heard you speak.

    You already know that you can do this; Keep that fierceness.

    I just wanted to let you know that I, along with so many others, whether virtually or in person, am here, with strength to lend on the tough days and plenty of profanity to throw cancer's way.

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  43. Katy, First off...sending love and prayers....from a virtual LTYM sister and cancer survivor. There are never enough words to make this easier--- I know because though my situation was different, my non hodgkins lymphoma recurred after being in remission many years ago, and I had to resign myself to face the disease a second time. I was in my 20s and did not have kids then, so I cannot imagine having to face my daughter now to tell her....the only thing I do hope is that you take each day, one day at a time and are kind to yourself through the journey. Much love,

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  44. I found you through Erin, and as many others, don't know the right words. But your voice, your strength, is awe-inspiring. Sending love, prayers and inspiration.

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  45. Prayers for you. Prayers for peace and strength and complete healing. I'm so sorry that you have to deal with this again. But you will and find perfect health.

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  46. You are my fucking hero. You got this. xx

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  47. I don't know you,...but I love you...thank you for your beauty and strength. Thank you for sharing your experience and opening up hearts & minds.

    Love & Light...

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  48. I just discovered your blog today (thank you, Renn). I'm sorry about your recurrence. I am simply astounded by your wisdom, ability to articulate your thoughts so well and by your candor - to name just a few things. I'm glad your blogging/writing has given you this sense of strength and I'm glad you don't feel afraid, though feeling afraid would be okay too. Thinking of you as you tell your children today. As Renn mentioned, the #bcsm community is out here to help. I'll be back to read more. Thanks for this incredible post.

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  49. Found your blog via Tracy Jensen yesterday (and thanks for accepting my FB friend request). I can't believe that I haven't read you before today. We share similar stories, especially the one about nursing babies. Recurrence sucks. I haven't had one myself but I know that overwhelming worry and I wait patiently for the other shoe to eventually drop, because I know it will. My heart just aches for you right now. And that fucking chemo. The worst. Hoping you're just looking at surgery - as sick and twisted as that is. Anyway, I agree that the #bcsm community rocks. Reach out to us. Or message me. Whatever. Just know I'm thinking about you.

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  50. I am a blogger at Chicagonow and just found your blog. I just found out on June 19th that I had a new cancer, triple negative in my other breast after 10 years of being cancer free. I am older than you and reading your blog reminded me of the first time - I still share the same fears though - telling my now adult children, husband, father, etc. Plus I have discovered I have the BRCA1 gene. We beat this once, we will do it again. We have cancer but it does not have us. Always choose hope and we will talk about this in 30 years. My prayers are with you.

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  51. Another LTYMer from Spokane. I watched your amazing video and now I've read your brave words. I hope we can hold you up as you face this again.

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  52. Katy, I am not in FB very often so today was the first day that I learned about this news. My heart goes out to you and the precious family that has surrounded you with so much love and support through these last three years. Please know that I am here for you also, just one more person in your corner, holding you close in heart and prayers.

    Perla

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  53. Love you, Katy. Keep kicking a**, and we'll keep you energized.

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  54. Hi Katy. Erin Margolin sent me a facebook message and told me I need to read your post. It was very gripping. I can imagine the feeling of all business this time. You've done the roller coaster and you know what the steps are. Now it's time to cut that bitch out and fry the remaining cells into submission for doing this again. That's not to say I have a clue what it's like for you to go through this at all. But in the off chance a random stranger on the internet can be a shoulder for you, feel free to stop by my blog and drop me a line. I'd be happy to help you go 2-0.

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  55. Hi Katy,

    What a heartfelt post, and I'm so very sorry this cancer crap is happening to you all over again. Your post brought tears to my eyes.

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  56. I just "met" you, through Erin Margolin, who sent me here via FB. I just wanted to say that I am so sorry you are facing this again. We (meaning your internet friends) are here to support you and get you through this. Much love to you and your family.

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  57. I remember the disbelief and the terror the first time around. I remember the shock of finding out that 1 in 3 breast cancer patients turn metastic and that my cancer is one that tends to 'move'. I remember plodding through months of treatment feeling sick and unsure. I am 4 years cancer free. Somewhere along the line, I simply learned to deal with it. I'm not sure how it happens, but I'm grateful for that. Reading about your own surreal calm in the face of every survivor's greatest fear made me realize how far I have come in those 4 years. My prayers are with you.

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  58. you are so wise and wonderful. ~xoxo~

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  59. Keep your chin up. When I started this dance, I was 34 with a 15 month old. I started out as triple negative. Then, 4 years later, I was diagnosed with a recurrence...and I thought yes, I'm doing this dance again. But then, I found it was stage IV and I fell apart. This time, it was strongly PR+ slightly ER+ and still her2neu- That was 1998. That 15 month old, is now 20. Yes.....I had another recurrence in late 2009 and finally dxed as a real recurrence in 2010. Essentially, I have been on chemo with little breaks since then. I am presently on Halaven (eribulin) and it seems to be working for now.....anyway, yes, I have my dance card penciled in for the next bit, but I am noping (maybe unrealistically) that NED (No Evidence of Disease) will sweep in again and sign up for the next several dance slots.

    So..this young survivor who started dancing in 1994, is now 53. I regret that you are here....but I have walked in your shoes. Keep fighting kiddo.

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  60. Oh, I just finished this part of the dance..I had a recurrence 3 years after lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation....this past fall had double mastectomy, even though I only needed the one removed, and then did pill chemo...I was first diagnosed at 40, now I am 44, and reaching that milestone of 50 that most people dread seems to keep getting harder to envision...especially with a HER2 diagnosis...but, you do what you need to do...you are no warrior or hero...you are just trying to live. I wish you strength in this next phase of your journey.

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  61. Hi
    I live in the western suburbs. I was diagnosed with a low volume of bone mets four years ago. (I was Stage IV from the start.) Wanted to let you know about a thread for IL ladies dealing with breast cancer on this board: http://community.breastcancer.org/forum/6/topic/504025?page=933#post_3627272

    Hang in there

    KOB
    http://www.ihatebreastcancer.wordpress.com

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  62. I have a read a lot of blogs, and none of them have touched, inspired and shaken me the way this one did. I'll follow this next part of your journey, Katy, because, although I hope never to have a recurrence, if I did, I want to face it with the grace, honesty and determination you've captured here. Best of luck and you'll hear from me again soon.

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  63. I was diagnosed with Early breast cancer 2009 and then recurrence stage 3 July 2012.. Don't let the twat get you down.. Love your blog.. this is my blog http://breastcancerlottery.blogspot.co.uk/

    Stay Strong and beat the bitch back into remission..

    Sarah M

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  64. My heart goes out to you. I have been been battling MBC (to bones) since Nov. 2011. Just got more bad news. Has worsened and spread. Just started my third round of chemo. There is no rhyme or reason to this dreadful disease. It attacks anyone. Young, healthy and otherwise. It affects every aspect of your life and those around you. Well at least those that stick around. Talk about a room clearer! Some make it. I have an Uncle that was sent home with hospice 20 years ago. He's alive today and the doctors have no explanation as to why. So it does happen. Just keep plugging away, that's what I'm doing. All the best to you!

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  65. Katy, babe, you will get through this. And I don't just mean the 70 comments here but this round of cancer recurrence. We will enjoy sunsets and kids catching lightning bugs and walks and stupid movies and carefree evenings collapsing on the couch again. I love you with all my heart.

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  66. Hate this. Hate cancer. Love the way you emote and share and model strength and vulnerability. I wish you good things and healing and will keep you in my thoughts and share your blog with others.

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  67. Katy, I have never met you but I stumbled across your blog last year while I went through my triple negative breast cancer treatments. Your straight talking blog was such a support for me. Life has been busy and I hadn't checked your blog for a while so I was shocked to read that you'd had a recurrence. Cancer sucks. I know nothing anyone says makes things any better... Just keep up the fight x

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