What to Say?

I feel like all that I have done since I was diagnosed is talk about cancer. I have had A LOT of doctor's appointments and a huge number of face-to-face and phone conversations with many of you. We have been reading and researching and questioning and consulting. Scott and I are both much more well versed in the ways of cancer cells than we ever hoped that we would be.

But, I feel at peace. I feel supported and loved and uplifted by all of your prayers. I feel powerful from all of the knowledge that we have gained and by acknowledging that this is my battle to fight. My team of doctors (and it is a sizable team) is responsible for taking out the offending cells and doing all that they can to restore my body to health, but I am the one who gets to decide the spirit with which I enter the war. (Isn't it strange to think that my body is struggling against itself? Weird.) I can be depressed and disheartened or I can offer this up and know that I am strong and that cancer doesn't stand a chance. Poor cancer. Good effort, old chap.

Also, suck it.

So, where are we in the process? We have decided on an initial course of action. On Monday morning, I will go in for a sentinel node biopsy followed by a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. What does all of that mean?

• The node biopsy will determine whether or not the cancer has spread outside of the breast tissue. If it has, some of the infected lymph nodes will be removed. Of course, we are hoping for a negative result.
• The double mastectomy is a radical step, but one about which we feel very confident. First, it is our best chance to avoid a recurrence down the line. Second, the mass of in-situ cells (the cancer that has not gone beyond the duct walls) appears to be about two inches across. Getting it all out without a mastectomy would be very disfiguring. Third, because it took six months to diagnose this, I want to do all that I can to avoid looking over my shoulder all of the time, wondering if I am really safe.
• The immediate reconstruction will be in the form of a latissmus flap procedure. This means taking some muscle and tissue from my back, tunneling it through to my chest and using it to reconstruct the breasts. Click here if you want to read more.

Comedy break: In case you wanted to know, my plastic surgeon told me that (despite my valiant attempts to sway him) I am not a candidate for the surgery that takes tissue from the abdomen, thus creating a tummy tuck. Boo. Also, he said, and I quote: "if you told me that you wanted your breasts to look exactly the same after surgery, I wouldn't be able to do that, because you are too small." Awesome. Thanks for that. Perhaps you should pump up your bedside manner. I do have cancer, you know.

I have been told to expect to be out for five weeks, and that I will feel "like I've been hit by a truck" for at least the first one. We are doing all we can to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Thank you for all that you have done to cheer us up when we are tearful and to reinforce our battle stance when we aren't.

But, I must tell you, Laila has trumped you all. She has been busy making cards and signs and valentines for me. My favorite two so far are:

• The note card that reads: "Mom, I am sorry about the cancer. Be mine." One the back, she drew a bunch of breast cancer ribbons.
• And the one that I am carrying with me all the time is a little pink heart. It reads: "Nice try, cancer. But Liz wins the battle. Love, Laila."

So, I have cancer ... but I'm still awfully lucky!