"With breasts your size, you won't even notice."

February 5, we got up at the ungodly hour of 5am for my surgery. Will, with the promise of coffee and breakfast sandwiches, got up to go to the hospital with us, since Dave needed to get him to school once I went in for surgery.

The day is a blur, but a few things stand out:

Will, consoling me said "it's ok mom, that's life: you have to experience stuff."

I got an extra slipper sock, and I found it hilarious that I got three.

I was annoyed with the nurse who couldn't get my IV in, as she angrily jabbed me.

Dr. McCahill, who had cheerfully ran through the procedure with me the week prior, commented "with breasts your size, you won't even notice."

I kept warning them I would throw up post-op. They assured me I wouldn't. I did.

I kept telling them I wanted graham crackers when it was ok for me to eat. There were saltines when I woke up. This was fixed immediately.

I was annoyed with the bouncer at last call attitude that comes with out-patient surgery. As soon as I was coherent, there was a decided push to get me out, essentially "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." I was shaky, confused, and according to Dave, an unflattering shade of green.

Settled at home and resting, the front door bell rang no less than three times. Flowers! I ended up receiving three bouquets: one from work, one from the WMAS skaters, and one from my friend Charlotte, whose breast cancer battle had started in August.

I vaguely remember eating, I think it was a series of snacks: dried fruit, string cheese, potato chips, ice water.

The song going through my head that day was Janis Joplin's "Take Another Piece of My Heart."

Oncology Team: Defeat Cancer NOW!

Common as soup.

Dr. McCahill: surgery oncology. He was the guy who looked at the films, determined the size and scope of the invasion - a perfect word for this, btw - and did the surgery. He changed the diagnosis from stage 0 to stage 1- invasive, once he reviewed the results from the surgery. He is the one who decided I needed radiation therapy, but no chemotherapy.

Dr. T: radiation oncology, a.k.a. The Radioactive Man. Young guy born in Turkey, raised here. We dropped an "I pity the fool with breast cancer!" reference to him, much to his delight, as not many people he treated were familiar with the actor/celebrity. He seemed young, nervous, but matter of fact about my treatment plan. Having done some research - and finding all the worse case scenarios - I was nervous that I would be at it for 8 weeks, my skin was going to rot off, and my left breast would turn into a sad little raisin. He told me to get off the internet.

Dr. Haque: medical oncology. Close talker, kinda intense, health food advocate. He was shocked by my anger and frustration that my hormones are working against me, again. Suggested I follow a mediterranean diet, something I will be considering. Applauded my activity level, and encouraged me to keep up with everything. Oh, don't think I won't.

"I'm Not Ready to be a Cancer Patient"

Not quite on board with all the pink ribbon stuff, but I've made some compromises.

Coming home from the US Figure Skating championships, I was a little nervous and overwhelmed with how to approach Dave and Will in person with the news. Did I need to be strong for them? Were they going to be strong for me? Tears? Fears? What?

I walked in the door, and everything felt shockingly normal. Like nothing had happened.

So I braced myself for the curious condolences for work the next day. But in an unprecedented move, due to our amazing Michigan winters, the university was closed... for five days.

This left me home with the boy, looking up breast cancer on the internet to understand what a ductal carcinoma is exactly, and for my imagination to work overtime.

And prepare to meet my surgeon on Wednesday.

Oh, the weather... government agencies cancelling services, road closures, business posting if they would be open or not, but I still had an appointment with oncology at 8am.

Dave still made it to work that Tuesday, and brought home a care package from the Bluebird Retreat Cancer Center, a nice basket with a blanket, water bottle, books, and treats. I know I should have been grateful, but instead, I was taken aback.

Startled by the look on my face, Dave asked what was wrong, and I answered feebly, "I'm not ready to be a cancer patient yet. But I've got less than 12 hours before I become one."