Essay: Too young for breast cancer

It was summer 2006, and my life looked like all the pieces were slipping into the right places. At 29, I'd landed a job I loved, teaching Grade 2. My husband, Mark, was almost ready to graduate with his PhD in biology. And that Mother's Day, a year into our marriage, we had decided it was the right time to start trying for a baby.

Then I found a lump in my breast.

When I told Mark, he went white. I tried to pretend I wasn't freaked out and told him not to worry. Still, I made an appointment to get it checked out. And in the pit of my stomach, I knew something wasn't right: the lump was big and hard and just didn't seem normal. 

Inconclusive tests
My doctor wasn't concerned, though. "You're too young for breast cancer," he reassured me as he sent me for an ultrasound. Inconclusive. Next it was a mammogram. Inconclusive. Next up: biopsy. By now, I was worried. It had been two months since I'd first seen the doctor and it seemed ridiculous that we couldn't figure out what this was. And the worry was putting a damper on my good news: I was pregnant.

As the technician did the biopsy, I turned to him, hoping for some kind of reassurance. "You see lots of these things. Does this look like anything to you?"

He paused for a second and said, "I don't think you should be worried." I let out a breath of relief, one I felt I'd been holding since I'd first found the lump. Still, I knew nothing was certain until the final results were in. When I called a week later, a receptionist told me they'd come back negative. Mark and I were so happy! Now we could focus on the good news: our baby.

Miscommunication
Then, on Sept. 13, everything changed. After work I headed to my doctor's office for a happy reason: a pregnancy checkup. When he came into the office, I said, "OK, we know the lump is negative, but what are we going to do about it?"

"Who told you it was negative?" he asked me. Somewhere wires had been crossed: the receptionist shouldn't have given me results -- especially incorrect ones! I'd thought I was coming in for a pregnancy checkup, but my doctor thought it was the followup appointment for the biopsy. That's how I found out I had breast cancer: he pulled up the results on his computer screen, turned it toward me and pointed to where it said "carcinoma."

Click to continue for Kelly's reaction to the news...

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I went numb. I thought, How am I going to tell Mark? As soon as I walked in the door of our townhouse, he knew something wasn't right. "What's wrong?" he asked. "I have breast cancer," I said. We just held each other and cried.

Change of plans
The next few days were a blur of doctor's appointments, family phone calls and worry. Lots of worry. Mark and I feared the worst -- that we'd lose the baby. Mark wanted the baby as much as I did, but he was also ready to do whatever it took to get me well. "I don't want to have a baby if it means you won't be here with me," he told me. I understood, but that baby was the only lump I wanted in my body in the first place!

The day we met the doctors at the breast cancer clinic at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto was the first time I felt like things were going to be OK. Everyone was ready to answer our questions, looking me in the eye. They told me what was going to happen and how. They had a plan.

As we talked, I worked up the courage to ask, "Can we keep the baby?"

Fighting for a baby, against cancer
It was possible my new doctor, Dr. Kathy Pritchard, told us. Surgery would be safe in my second trimester -- I was already that far along -- and there were even certain chemos that could be used. Dr. Pritchard recommended a mastectomy. I trusted her, so I said yes.

On Oct. 11, one week before my 30th birthday, I lay on the gurney in the operating room. I looked at the exit sign over the door, wondering how fast I could run, desperate to escape. When I came out of surgery two hours later, my breast and 25 lymph nodes were gone.

I went home the next morning, but it was late October before we got the biopsy results. Dr. Dent, a member of my medical team, delivered the news: I had Stage 3 cancer -- and since there are only four stages, that wasn't good. The tumour was so aggressive I would have to do a round of chemo while I was pregnant, another round after I gave birth and then radiation as well.

I considered the side-effects of the chemo drugs and asked Dr. Pritchard if it was really safe to take them while I was pregnant. Her answer was blunt. "We can't wait," she said, "not if we want this baby to have a mother." And so I started chemo. It's like being in some kind of awful sci-fi movie: They hook you up and you watch the poison going into you. One batch would burn, the next would leave me chilled from my veins outward. Just in time for Mark's birthday, I lost my hair.

Click to continue for details on the birth of Kelly and Mark's son...

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It was hard. I know that people wanted to be positive because they thought that was supportive, but sometimes I just needed people to let me be sad, to meet me where I was. So I was grateful when a cousin of Mark's said something that others seemed afraid to: "Kelly, I'm so sad for you. Being pregnant for the first time is supposed to be this joyful time, and you're not getting to savour it because of this cancer." It was such a relief to have her get that you're not supposed to go to your baby shower with a wig on.

New life, new inspiration
I finished chemo in February. And then, on March 16, our baby was ready to be born. We hadn't had a lot of nice surprises lately, and so Mark and I decided we wanted the sex of our child to be one of them. It was just so amazing to see our little boy, to hold him! We named him Mason because it sounds strong, and he'd been strong to get through a lot even before he was born, and Vaughn after my father, who died of brain cancer in 1998.

By early July, one year after I'd first found the lump, I finished my last round of chemo. Now it was radiation's turn. They say it's easier than chemo but I found it tougher emotionally, having to go to the hospital every weekday for five weeks. And I was angry. I was bald. My chest was burned.

Aching for what other mothers take for granted
I had breast envy! Other mothers were breast-feeding, whipping it out everywhere, and I couldn't do that. (I'd had to stop once I started my second round of chemo.) And I wasn't being such a good patient anymore. I kept coming in late for my appointments. I just didn't want to be there. It wasn't fair. Even my sense of humour got dark; I joked with the nurses: "I guess since I've already got breast cancer, I can stop worrying about standing too close to the microwave."

Finally, the chemo and radiation were finished, but Dr. Pritchard had some bad news for me. Because my breast cancer responded to estrogen, I'd have to go on drugs that would lower my hormone levels and shut down my ovaries. Now I've gone into a kind of premature menopause. I'm not able to have another baby for at least five years -- or maybe ever. It's been really hard to accept that. I'm thrilled to have Mason, but whether or not to have another child is one more choice that might be taken away from me by this disease.

Click to continue for Kelly's view on the aftermath of breast cancer...

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I feel a bit like I've been through a war, a war with my own body. I'm heavier than I was, and the weight doesn't come off as fast. My hair used to be straight; now it's growing in curly. I know that in the big scheme of things, what's one boob? But I'm still in the process of trying to love the new me. Little steps, that's what I tell myself. I bought curl-enhancing hair products the other day. Little steps.

But it isn't just my body that's different. Cancer showed me who I could count on and how important the people I love are to me. I think so much more about what kind of person I am, and what kind of person I'd want to be remembered as.

I think my relationship with Mark has gotten stronger. We were in it together: the sickness and the PhD and the baby crying and people coming in and out of the house to help. It's funny -- we actually argue more than we did when I was sick. Someone said that maybe that's because it's safe to disagree now. I think she might be right. And Mason is incredible. I was so worried about the effects of the chemo, but he's so healthy and beautiful.

I want to put the cancer behind me, but I don't want to forget my journey and what I've triumphed over. When I was sick, I felt like I'd never have a normal life again. But I'm amazed at how resilient human beings are: two years later, we're adjusting to our new life, one in which Mason and Mark and I have all survived cancer. It's our new normal.

Help when we needed it
Help comes in many forms: Mark's parents dropping everything to come over every time we needed them, my mom just letting me cry about looking like an alien with no hair or eyebrows, and my friend Julie helping me buy a hat.

But it wasn't just friends and family who helped: One of the hardest things was feeling like I'm not like other moms, so I went to a support group that Rethink Breast Cancer started for young mothers with breast cancer. It was so comforting to know that I wasn't alone -- and so sad that there are so many of us. And Cancer Assistance Services of Halton Hills was there to help fill the gap, providing me with practical assistance like financial support for babysitting and help paying for wigs, things that neither the health system nor many private insurers cover.

If you'd like to support either of these organizations, you can make donations at cancerassistance.org and rethinkbreastcancer.com.

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This article was first printed in the October 2008 issue of Homemakers Magazine. Click to subscribe online and never miss an issue.

Find more on breast cancer under Health & Fitness.

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