Kauai

This guy. This guy figured out how to get us to Kauai for a week before I start treatments on Tuesday. I love him for so many reasons. But especially for knowing that this was exactly what we both needed.

We first came to Kauai on our honeymoon almost 17 years ago. It was another 13 years before we would return but then we’ve been back almost every year since. And every time we come, we spend time before we come home trying to figure out how to move here.

The air smells different here. I breathe more slowly and more deeply here. There is restorative power in listening to the crashing waves and the zebra doves’ call, one of my favorite sounds ever. Even the rain here feels different.

And so it has been all week. I’ve woken up early every day and sat on the beach. I listened to my friend Christina’s beautiful healing light meditation where I could hear the waves too. And I took a few selfies from my meditation spot. (I’ve been taking more selfies recently, even when I don’t look Instagram-ready. Not 100% sure why - maybe to document the transformation?)

We’ve had a largely unstructured week and I honestly can’t remember the last time that happened. We dodged roosters and smelled the air and soaked in the lush vegetation and ate the best shave ice on the island and yes, of course, we went to Angeline’s*. It rained every day we were here and we only got short bursts of sun until our last day and We. Didn’t. Care.

I heard right before we left that each of the Hawaiian islands are associated with one of the chakras, and that Kauai is associated with the Third Eye Chakra, representing vision and intuition. Couldn’t have been more perfect for this trip. Every morning on the beach, I tried to get in touch with my own intuition. To me, it feels like a process of learning to trust myself.

I am so so grateful. Because here we are more than 20 years later (more than half of our lifetimes together) and I still can’t think of anything I’d rather do than spend a whole week of unstructured time with just the two of us. Because my mom is an angel and stayed with the girls to make it happen.

Because when we got to the airport, I realized that I had my passport in my backpack but had forgotten my purse - wallet, phone, everything else - at home. After shedding a few tears in the TSA line, I fought back against the gremlin voice chanting “This is more loss of control! This is more loss of control!” And I decided that I would be fine without them. Sean and I shared his phone for a whole week and figured out how to stay married. So yes, I’m grateful even for leaving my purse behind.

Chemo treatment begins on Tuesday. I’m feeling ready to get this started. Feeling ready to start healing. And this is how I’m thinking of it - healing rather than fighting. As the doctors have said, I’m going for 100% cure. But all the metaphors for fighting just don’t sit quite right for me right now. Partly because I’m already appreciating the lessons I’m learning. Partly because I still don’t feel much like a warrior. But I do feel strong. And I believe that there is strength in vulnerability and in healing. So, that’s what we’re going for.

Until next time, Kauai. Mahalo nui loa.

* If you’ve ever talked about Kauai in any conversation within a ten mile radius of me, you have no doubt heard about Auntie Angeline’s. If you’ve even had a thought about Kauai, I probably sensed it and told you about Angeline’s anyway. We first went on our honeymoon trip - it was a wedding gift and it was such a transcendent experience, I haven’t shut up about it since. So, for the (probably) last two people on the planet I’ve haven’t already told, here’s the deal: There’s only one treatment and they only take cash. It’s in the most picturesque setting - out the back of their home. You begin in the steam hut, which you sit in for as long as you can handle. Then you have a head-to-toe sea salt scrub. And then, (THEN!) you have a four hands Lomi Lomi massage. Yes, that’s two people massaging you at once. They sing Hawaiian songs and chants over you while they’re working and you can hear the breezes through the open windows. I’m telling you - it’s heaven. HEAVEN. So anyway, if you go to Kauai, it’s a must. (Oh, also fair warning that there’s usually some nudity amongst strangers, but you know, when in Rome.)

**Also, I would like some recognition for the amount of restraint I’ve shown by putting all of this as a post script at the end of this blog post rather than making the entire post about Angeline’s, which is my norm. I really meant it when I said I couldn’t shut up about it. Anyway, it’s called personal growth.

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Songs that make me cry (mostly in a good way)

I’ve never actually seen the movie this song is from - but I first heard this song at the 3% Conference back in November. On the second day of the conference, Clark Street Bridge performed this song and it was POWERFUL. The performance was out of this world and the lyrics just hit me right in the gut. “I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be, This Is Me.” I sat there crying like a big baby in the beautiful convention hall and I definitely wasn’t alone. A lot of my fellow 3 Percenters were moved to tears too. (This, my friends, is called foreshadowing.)

So right after my diagnosis, I came across a photo from the conference and remembered what a powerful experience that morning had been. I found the song on iTunes and I started playing it VERY LOUDLY for myself. (It’s such a great song played loudly.) And then I introduced the song to the girls. As predicted, they loved it too. Which means the song now it’s on permanent repeat daily along with the Frozen 2 Soundtrack (which, to be honest, has some pretty good songs that speak to me too).

I’m trying to infuse the lyrics deep in my soul so that I’ll have access to that strength when I’m in the throes of treatment. When I’m feeling self-conscious about being bald. When I’m worried about how this next year will negatively affect my family. When I feel so out of control.

Here’s what’s speaking to me the most: “When the sharpest words wanna cut me down, I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out.” The sharpest words sometimes come from within. I’m working hard on this part, and having dance parties at home with the girls to our “powerful girl songs” definitely helps. But it’s also not always about quieting the voice from within as much as it is drowning them out with other more positive words.

One of the best things in the world to have happened to my inner gremlins (you know the ones - who love to creep in and say “who do you think you are?”) is having two girls. Two girls who I want to grow up without those gremlins. Or at least, who will know how to shout them down at an earlier age than I learned to. Two girls who most definitely listen to what I say but watch even more carefully what I do.

I’ve had to accelerate my own processing of my insecurities - especially related to losing my hair - to help the girls through it. It’s what we do as parents and I’m so grateful for it.

What other songs should I add in to my rotation? What songs do you listen to (especially LOUDLY) that make you feel amazing?

This Is Me

Song by Keala Settle and The Greatest Showman Ensemble

I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
'Cause we don't want your broken parts
I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one'll love you as you are

But I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are glorious

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh, oh

Another round of bullets hits my skin
Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in
We are bursting through the barricades and
Reaching for the sun (we are warriors)
Yeah, that's what we've become (yeah, that's what we've become)

I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are glorious

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh, oh
This is me

and I know that I deserve your love
(Oh-oh-oh-oh) 'cause there's nothing I'm not worthy of
(Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh, oh)
When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
This is brave, this is proof
This is who I'm meant to be, this is me

Look out 'cause here I come (look out 'cause here I come)
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum (marching on, marching, marching on)
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I'm gonna send a flood
Gonna drown them out
Oh
This is me

Source: LyricFind

To be seen and understood

Someone posted this video in one of the breast cancer support groups I’m in. (More on the double-edged sword of these Facebook groups later.)

Wow. So much covered in a short few minutes in this video. The accuracy. Every thing she talks about in this video. All of it.

There’s really something to have someone who has been through a similar situation describe what they experienced and to feel that deep recognition - to feel completely seen and understood.

Ever since the day of my diagnosis, I have been searching for their stories - the stories of the people who have been there before. Who are part of this strange fraternity.

And please don’t get me wrong - the love and encouragement from those who haven’t had cancer absolutely lifts me up and sustains me. But to hear from someone who has been there? It’s just different.

I take in their advice and wisdom like water soaking in to sand. Even if it’s something I’ve heard before, I hear it differently from someone who has been there before.

The hard part of all of this is that every story is different. It’s easy to forget that in the beginning. In the beginning, I thought I was looking for someone else who had exactly the same type of cancer and path that I did. I thought I would take notes and study everything they did to make the roadmap for myself. But I’ve also learned that this isn’t possible. Which is quite possibly the worst possible thing in the very beginning. You know so little about your situation or what your treatment plan will involve.

This is the damn curse of cancer, especially (as I’m finding) with breast cancer. I’ve been told that there are something like 20 different types of breast cancer. And each one, combined with your age and your specific history and situation determines a completely different treatment plan.

So my search for other people who had the same kind of breast cancer as me - the same stage (II for me), the same type (invasive ductal carcinoma, ER/PR +, HER2 -, lymph node involvement) in other 40 year olds - well, the search has still come up short. It means, for better or worse, that I am the one who will have to determine my roadmap. In the beginning, that felt terrifying.

Now that my treatment plan is largely put in place (with, of course, room for course adjustments as needed along the way) I don’t feel the same desperate need to search for stories in the hope that someone else will write the roadmap for me. I have been on this steep learning curve, but so far, I’ve kept up. And I feel confident in the plan we’ve put together and the choices I had to make as part of it. (Read this post for more on the current plan.) Now that I think about it, that’s really something.

And I do still look for others in this fraternity and listen to all that they have to share. Each of them is a lighthouse for me. And that is my ultimate goal with sharing this journey, even though I don’t know where it will go. Perhaps I can be a lighthouse for someone else.

The year of audacity

Last week, I sent this letter to the people who follow HRuprise. I’ve worn either my bracelet or my necklace to every doctor’s appointment and test I’ve had so far. It’s my own reminder to myself that even in the face of uncertainty, I can still be audacious.

Hello friends,

Though I don’t do it every year, for 2020 I decided to choose a “word of the year” for myself. I chose the word audacity. To me, audacity meant being more personally bold in the work of HRuprise - letting you see more of my fight, my personality, my passion for this work of leveling the playing field for employees in the workplace.

Little did I know just how much audacity I was going to need this year. Just a few days into the new year, I sat in the doctor’s office and heard the words, “I’m sorry. You have breast cancer.”

Up until that moment, I had truly convinced myself that the series of tests I had been going through would all turn out to be no big deal. But it was a big deal. A very big deal.

So even though I’m early in this journey, I’m sharing all of this for a couple of reasons: First, I know that the work of HRuprise will continue to be a huge motivator as I go through treatment. But it’s also clear that logistically, some things are going to have to change for the time being.

Second, I hope that by sharing my experience through this very challenging chapter in my life, you’ll join me in pursuing your own audacity along with me.

So with that, here are my intentions for the foreseeable future for HRuprise: 

* The Coaching Platform will pause for now and we’ll shift the focus to supporting employees through self-directed online content. We’re working behind the scenes to update the website to reflect our new focus. 

* I’ll continue to use Instagram to share my perspective on the events of the day, as well as tips and tricks based on my years of HR experience. I’m more committed than ever to doing my part to level the playing field.

* I’ll engage when I can and take breaks when I need to. (The breaks will probably be more often than I want.)

* I’ve been wanting to create a podcast for some time. There may be no better time so I’m putting this intention into the world now!

* I absolutely intend to emerge from this challenge mentally stronger than ever, and I intend for HRuprise to reap the benefits of this growth as well. 

From the very beginning of HRuprise, there has been a consistent (and insistent) theme that keeps showing up for me - a theme of creating space for the stories that need to be told. To tell stories that have been quieted is bold. To find the courage to share our own stories is brave.

And to step out to explore my own story, when I really don't know how this will go...to me, that feels like the ultimate audacity. And it’s my greatest intention for this year.

I hope you’ll come explore the untold stories with me.

-Rebecca

Holding on to things we shouldn't

I’m so new to the world of wigs. Like so many things these days, I’ve entered a whole new vocabulary with a steep learning curve: World hair, European hair, lace front, double-layered caps. I still barely know what these terms mean nor how I’ll feel once the day finally comes when my hair starts to fall out.

I’ve heard from a lot of women who been through chemo who said that they dreaded losing their hair the most, but when the time came, they felt empowered when they shaved their heads and some even said that they never wore their wigs at all. I doubt I’ll go to that end of the spectrum, but who knows, right? Right now, I feel strongly that I’ll want to have a pretty good wig - if for no other reasons that to give myself options in the future.

The very first wig I tried on was synthetic hair, meaning plastic. They told me to be careful of any heat, including checking something in the oven in the kitchen. Good Lord. And the thing is, none of the “good ones” are very cheap - some of them are much less “not cheap” than others. But with this one, I looked in the mirror and wanted to cry. Because I felt cartoonish. Like I was trying to pull one over on the world. And not in a good way.

Since that initial experience, I’ve had the amazing privilege to consider a few other really amazing options for wigs. There’s a man here in town who can actually make a wig out of your own hair. I spent over an hour with him, talking about how it might look similar or different from how my hair looks now. I appreciated so much the gentle yet honest nature of our conversation. Regardless of whether we stay in contact ever again, I feel like the universe keeps sending me people and conversations that are exactly what I need right in that moment. This was definitely one of those.

And though I thought that it was a really incredible option to consider, there has been something that has made me hesitate. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until a few days ago.

I realized that for me, doing a wig with my own hair feels too much like I’m trying to hang on to something I can’t. This realization is a huge surprise to me. I actually really like my hair. And maybe it’s just the limited time we have left together, but I feel like I’m having more good hair days than normal right now. Figures.

I had the port placed (installed? surgically inserted? I don’t know the proper term). Anyway, it was a lot more involved than I expected. And I’m happy to say that it’s a lot less noticeable than I thought it might be (I really was concerned about looking like the bionic woman with a twist-off cap sticking out of my chest), it is the first really physical sign I have of what is to come. This has been one of the strangest parts so far: we are doing all of this disaster planning that feels like so much doom-and-gloom and yet, I feel totally fine right now. I don’t feel sick. I don’t look sick at all. What a strange, strange time.

But I really think that’s it. I am starting to feel physical signs of what my heart and mind already know are coming: this experience is going to change me. And I’m trying to remain open to all of what that brings. This is SO damned hard. I keep having very deliberate conversations with myself: I didn’t ask for any of this, but my intention is to remain open to what is to come, and to let go of what I know I cannot take with me.

I am not my hair. I am not even my body.

But friends, this is really fucking hard sometimes.

A change in (treatment) plans and a specific request

Dealing with the doctor’s appointments and procedures and all of this is a full-time job right now. And I haven’t even begun treatment yet. It goes like this: “We need you to schedule time for a procedure where we’ll place a reflector on your lymph node to mark it. If the chemo works really well, the marker that was already left during your biopsy will be too hard to find during surgery. So you’ll need to get this done before you start chemo in less than two weeks.” And that’s just one of four things like that this coming week.

Ah, yes - about that chemo. So, the treatment plan has changed. I’m now going to be doing chemo before surgery, rather than after. This has been a big question and it was even the source of much debate amongst the doctors when my case was presented at the tumor board.

Side note - you never want to be interesting enough to the doctors to be presented at their conference. Boring. My long-term goal is to go back to being SUPER boring to all of my doctors. But for now, I’m grateful for the additional set of eyes on my case from a whole room full of wicked smart doctors who specialize in all aspects of this cancer and treatment.

Anyway, back to the treatment plan. The chemo regimen is going to be the same whether it’s before of after surgery. But doing it before gives me a small chance of the chemo reducing the cancer enough that I would have to have less surgery and/or less radiation. It’s hard to estimate the chances, but as my oncology surgeon said, “even 15% is better than 0%.”

In a perfect world (let’s say - the success we’re all going to visualize) the chemo would:

• Reduce the size of the tumor in my right breast so much that I need less or no radiation there, which means fewer potential complications for reconstruction; AND

• Shrink the cancer in my lymph nodes so the surgeon will only have to remove the one lymph node that we know is involved and we can avoid an axillary lymph node dissection (where she’ll have to remove all of the lymph nodes on that side).

While all of this makes all the sense in the world, it means that the part I’m dreading the most, the part that I’ve been grateful I had some time to get used to - the chemo - has now been moved up in the timeline significantly. In fact, my first chemo treatment begins on February 25.

Because I’m so young, the chemo regimen is “aggressive” according to the oncologist. I came as close as I’ve ever come to a panic attack when she started rolling forward, putting treatments on the calendar. I had to take the rest of the day before confirming with the oncologists’ office that this was what we were going to do. I just needed a little breathing room.

But even with all of that, there is one silver lining to this abrupt change in plans. And it’s perfect timing now that I’ve discovered this new ability I have to be really good at visualizing, especially when it’s really needed. We now have a very specific thing to visualize throughout my chemotherapy.

I am still completely overwhelmed by the absolute army of people who are thinking about our family and praying for me through all of this. I am so, so grateful for it all. And I believe in the power of this collective movement.

So, with that, here’s my request for all of you:

Let’s visualize the chemo doing exactly what it’s supposed to do - shrinking the cancer so much, that I will need a less significant surgery AND less radiation overall.

As always, thank you. We can do hard things.

Bad at visualization

I’ve never thought of myself as being very good at visualization. Elite athletes talk about it all the time. (I even read not too long ago that Russell Wilson uses Google images to help him visualize stadiums he hasn’t played in yet so he knows where the play clocks are. Man, I really do marvel at him.) But that’s the idea, right? You see yourself in the situations you might encounter and envision yourself making the play, hitting the home run, nailing the perfect set.

But whenever I tried to do that in sports, I could only see myself messing up. I’d try to envision success and I’d see myself drop the ball or miss the serve. I’ve always assumed that this was one of the big reasons why I was a pretty average athlete in high school and college. I wasn’t terrible - usually good enough to make the team and play a decent amount. And I figured what I didn’t have in talent or mental toughness, I could make up for in passion and intensity. I was usually right enough about that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea of visualization and how that plays in with your own intuition. Ever since the diagnosis, I’ve gone in to every test I’ve had to do with an incredibly high level of anxiety. I’ve been absolutely convinced I would get more news of the worst case scenario. It makes sense. The biggest news of all blindsided me. So why wouldn’t my mind start trying to prepare me for the worst so I wouldn’t be surprised anymore? But it has been brutal and has wreaked havoc on my mental health.

I started worrying that this was the next version of my inability to visualize success. I know how important staying mentally strong through this process will be. But here’s the bright spot: I have been able to visualize what I wanted, at two very important times now. The first was during the MRI and the second was during my PET scan.

During the most recent, the PET scan, I had about an hour before the test to try to relax while the contrast (i.e. radioactive glucose) did it’s thing. The entire time, and all through the scan, I kept repeating my mantras to myself. I suppose they were my request to the universe. The first was “the scan results will be really clear. The doctors will know exactly what the results are telling them.” And the second was, “The cancer is only in the spots we already knew about. It’s nowhere else in my body.” I kept repeating it over and over. And then as the table moved through the scanner, I visualized the part of my body it was scanning and visualized: “Now it’s scanning my calves. And it’s okay because there’s no cancer here. And it will be really clear to the doctors.”

I felt really calm through the entire process. And then later in the day, I got the call from the oncologist with the results. And her words were almost verbatim what I had been using as my mantra. “The cancer is in exactly the same spots that we already knew about. And nowhere else.” Later she also said, “It’s really clear on the scan. I can see the spots we already knew about all lit up and glucosey.”

Look, I know the difference between correlation and causation. But I also know that there are a lot of things that happen in the universe that are magical and inexplicable. Both/and. And what I know for sure in this process so far is that I’m better at visualization than I gave myself credit for. Especially when I really have to. So there’s that.

Cargo

It feels like I’ve lived an eternity since the diagnosis, but I looked at the calendar and it was less than a month ago. A lifetime in a month and we’re only just beginning.

I don’t know what you call them, but I think of them as messages from the universe - those moments when something comes back in to your life at exactly the right moment. A message from a friend, a song on the radio with lyrics that punch you in the gut, a poem revisited.

I was first introduced to this poem by my friend/coach/mentor Jim Marsden. It was perfect timing way back then and it was again when it came in an email newsletter this morning. I’m finding these messages from the universe everywhere these days. Maybe it’s because I’m more open to them than usual? Either way, I’m grateful.

I hope it speaks to you too. The world needs your gifts.

Cargo, by Greg Kimura

You enter life a ship laden with meaning, purpose and gifts
sent to be delivered to a hungry world.
And as much as the world needs your cargo,
you need to give it away.
Everything depends on this.

But the world forgets its needs,
and you forget your mission,
and the ancestral maps used to guide you
have become faded scrawls on the parchment of dead Pharaohs.
The cargo weighs you heavy the longer it is held
and spoilage becomes a risk.
The ship sputters from port to port and at each you ask:
“Is this the way?”
But the way cannot be found without knowing the cargo,
and the cargo cannot be known without recognizing there is a way,
and it is simply this:
You have gifts.
The world needs your gifts.
You must deliver them.

The world may not know it is starving,
but the hungry know,
and they will find you
when you discover your cargo
and start to give it away.

Tests and waiting for the other shoe to drop

I had a PET scan yesterday (Friday) morning. The goal was to confirm if the cancer has spread to other lymph nodes, or (and this would be really bad news) beyond that. There was a concerning spot on the lymph nodes on the MRI that prompted this.

I have been feeling so much anxiety heading in to this test. But not about the test itself. (This one felt like a nap in a zen garden compared to the MRI.)

It’s that every test I’ve had so far has ended up giving us worse news than we expected. It feels like my internal barometer is off and I can’t trust my intuition. And even when someone told me, “You’re due for some good news,” I couldn’t trust that either because that didn’t mean I would get it.

It’s hard not to know what to expect anymore. I find myself bracing for the worst-case scenario now with these tests and I was absolutely convinced going in to the PET scan that it would tell us what I had convinced myself of - that this cancer had metastasized.

And here’s the kicker for someone like me who is great at arguing the logic of any argument: these fears and anxiety aren’t illogical or irrational. Add to that my wildly uncalibrated intuition and, well… it’s a very dark place sometimes.

But then I got a call from my oncologist late Friday afternoon, who already had the results. And right off the bat, the oncologist says, “Are you ready for some good news on a Friday?” HELL YES!

She said that the PET scan confirmed the two spots we already knew about - the lump in my breast and one lymph node - and NOTHING ELSE. That was the first time I ugly cried. The ugly cry came three more times before the day was over.

The doctor very patiently repeated the findings multiple times, at my request. I wanted to make sure I had heard correctly. And she said, “It is confirmed. You are squarely in the category of curable.” She had used the word “curable” with me before. And of course, she knows this territory much better than me. But this feels different. Maybe now I’ll truly believe her. And feel like I can start trusting myself again.

There is very little of the treatment plan that will be fun. But I’ve entered this strange world of making decisions with pretty unappealing choices that are still better than the alternative.

“What we already knew and nothing else.” This feels manageable. And this feels light years better than the worst-case scenario I had convinced myself was inevitable.

I’m learning to appreciate the bright spots in the long dark tunnels. Onward we go.

Updates and unknowns

Hey friends,

It’s been a whirlwind the last few weeks. Lots of waiting, then another doctor’s appointment or test then more waiting and so on. The waiting sucks the most. Especially when you have the worst news - yes, it’s cancer - but not much else. All the doctors have told me not to Google anything. Of course. But holy shit, that’s a hard thing to stay away from when all you’re looking for are answers.

So, after a few weeks, we now have somewhat of a roadmap for the treatment plan. There are still some big decisions to make in the near future, but the pieces are starting to come in to place.

Before all that, let me answer a few questions/add a few thoughts (I do so love my bulleted lists):

• Yes, it is super weird to have SO MUCH conversation about my boobs. I’m getting over it real fast because there’s really no way around it. But it’s super fucking weird. The number of strangers (of course medical professionals, but still, strangers) who have seen my boobs in the last few weeks is astounding. But, here we are.

• My already fairly healthy usage of swear words seems to have gone up. Sorry not sorry. If ever there was a situation that calls for abundant use of the f-word, this is it. Also, to whomever is reading this to Grandma, please censor liberally.

• I vacillate wildly between a total “let’s do this” kick-ass kind of attitude and fighting off a massive feeling of impending doom laced with pessimism. I’m sure this is normal and I feel sure that this will continue so I’m trying to give myself space for all of that and everything in between. I know this is healthy and the only way through. It’s also exhausting.

So, what we know so far is that I’ll have to have significant surgery, which is not yet scheduled. This means potentially a double mastectomy (ref: big decisions I mentioned earlier) then 4-6 weeks of recovery and then chemotherapy for about four months. (Four fucking 🖕🏻months.)

Won’t know whether radiation is necessary until after the surgery. We know that there is some lymph node involvement which makes things longer-term a bit more complicated. The risk of developing lymphedema is there and a big concern if it ever develops because it’s a permanent condition. At my age, that could be a big quality of life issue. I’ll also be on hormone therapy after all of this for somewhere between 5-10 years. It’s actually great that this is an option because it reduces the risk of this cancer coming back by quite a bit.

Multiple doctors have looked me straight in the eye and told me that “this is curable.” Which makes me cry. Every time. But they also consider this to be cured when I’m 10 years out. That feels a long way away. The same doctors also talk about the “rest of my life” as being 60 years from now. That seems unusually generous to me, but I am learning that I need to accept all of their hard-earned medical opinions and knowledge. And I know that they aren’t the type to blow smoke.

Anyway, I’m trying to keep this fairly high level so I’ll leave it there for now. I’m getting a crash life course in dealing with uncertainty. Thanks for muddling through the muck with me.

There’s so much more to share. And I will. Feel free to follow as much or as little as you’d like. A friend said this is part of my grand-master Millennial plan to make him finally read a blog. Though I am most definitely Gen X, I’ll take it anyway. :) Click here if you want to get an email when a new blog post goes up.

Thank you so much for the calls, texts, and emails. Even if I don’t respond right away, or sometimes at all (I’ve had a little trouble keeping up) please know how much it means to me to hear from you. Please keep our whole family in your thoughts. We’re doing okay so far. And also sometimes not.

Love you all,

Me

I wanted to include a picture of myself to show you that I’m still here and (mostly) still smiling. I look a bit tired but that’s also legit.

Also figured it doesn’t hurt to capture the good hair days while I still have them for a while. :)

Yep, you found it.

Will update as soon as we can.

Love,

Bec & Sean

Dear Family and Friends,

We’re writing to you to share some pretty startling news we’ve received.  We’re finding that there’s no easing in to it, so we’ll just say it directly: Bec/RW has been diagnosed with breast cancer. There’s a lot about the treatment that is not certain just yet, but we are hopeful that it was caught relatively early. Lots more tests and doctors in the next few weeks will help determine the treatment plan.

We've told the girls, who took it really well. They’re too young to have much context for it yet.  But they do know that Mommy has something called cancer and that means that there’s something in her body that shouldn’t be, and that it will take the doctors a while to fix it. 

Bec will still plan to do some of the HRuprise work - there’s a big part of the work that is incredibly fulfilling and will no doubt be healing for her. Of course, a lot of the “what” and “how” will probably need to change in the immediate term. More to come soon on that.

We’re sorry to drop this bomb by email, but we’re both still finding it difficult to share in person and we wanted to let you know. We’ll try to send updates when we have them, though we’re already learning how much “hurry up and wait” there is in this process. Rather than sending a series of blast emails, our current plan is to keep Bec’s blog updated: http://rebeccaweaver.me/blog (Bec says she reserves the right to change this in the future, of course :) )

At this point, there isn’t much in the way of specific support that we need, other than keeping our whole family in your thoughts/prayers. Thank you sincerely for that.  We’ve tried to think of everyone who might want to know about this.  Please feel free to forward this email to anyone we might have accidentally missed. 

With love,

Bec & Sean