Uh oh. Chemo.

This will be short because I am exhausted and I have to be at The Cancer Center at 8am tomorrow morning for a PET scan, which will be loads of fun and I cannot wait to tell you all about it in the continuing story of "You Are So Lucky You Are Not Me Right Now."

So Michael and I sat down with an oncologist yesterday, the medical professional who treats you after your entire breast has already been removed because there is always the chance that there are still cancer cells lingering around in your blood, your lymph nodes, and anywhere else they are not welcome. The oncologist determines whether or not I will need chemotherapy, radiation, and/or hormone therapy - all different tools they have for battling lingering cancer cells in different ways.

(Insert drum roll here)

I will start chemo some time after Memorial Day. I may undergo radiation following that (still TBD while we await the Oncotype test which is a genetic test of the cancer that they removed - results in 2 weeks). And following radiation would be 5 years of hormone therapy to reduce, for example, the estrogen in my body that my particular cancer is 100% fond of.

That came as a little bit of a shock as we were hoping my DCIS had not travelled. But it did travel and it has probably been in my body for a couple of years and who knows where it may have gone. That's a lot for you to digest as well, I know, since I'm pretty sure I told you I wouldn't need chemo and we may have done a subtle cheer together around the topic. Sorry! I'll buy you a beer.

Personally, I am still trying to digest going bald and wearing scarves. My ears stick out, you know. So I am toying around with the idea of a blond wig to match my larger breasts and then I might be able to find a job as a Fox news anchor.

I can make a joke, but don't be fooled. I spend a lot of time crying. I cry a lot and curse a lot and I apologize to my husband and my parents for being the asshole who went and got cancer and turned everything upside down. But the crying feels great, even though it looks pathetic. If you saw me cry, you would start to tear up, too, because it really does look sad. I think you would certainly pull me in for a hug, because that way you wouldn't have to look at the sadness, you could just bury it in your shirt and wait for it to be over. But then I would worry about getting snot all over your pretty shirt so I would have to pull away and fetch some tissues. You might, if you were feeling particularly vulnerable that day, grab a tissue and dab at your eyes and force yourself not to cry because one person in the room should have some composure and it pretty much has to be the person without cancer.

After a cry, I feel rinsed and washed and clear and calm, so I don't want you to feel bad for me. After a cry, I can see the day for what it is - a gift to me. I am not dead, I am here. And I'm not sitting in the Chemo chair right at this very moment. So that's something, isn't it? Crying actually makes me aware that I can not physically cry every minute of the day so there will be moments when I'm not crying and isn't that optimistic? (I don't know for sure since Optimism and I don't get along very well).

Spending lots more PRESENT time with my kids. I play endless games of Go Fish and Uno with Willa where she cheats but I kind of love it so I let her. Clio and I sometimes sit and read together and I have to be careful not to cry wondering how the hell she got so big that she is reading next to me in bed, quietly. Both of them can still be little shits and I still have to be their mother so our days do not play out like a detergent commercial. Still, I am grateful for every minute with them. And they know what's going on and they are brave and not at all scared. Well, only a tiny but scared when they like to practice their theatrics.

Shit. It's late. Thanks for all the phone calls. And all the gifts. And all the texts. And the cards. You will here from me. At some point. I promise. I love you guys so much. Thanks for helping me through.