Let's go on with the show

First off, I would like to thank my dad for the beautiful letter he wrote for the blog. From the beginning of this unexpected journey I said that only good and love were going to come from this and, as you can read, that is true.

Secondly, I'd like to thank everyone who has written me in the last month. Since returning to work I haven't had as much time to respond to your each of your notes in a timely manner. Please know that you are in my thoughts and I will write you soon.

Thirdly, I'd like to thank the person who has sent me the mystery subscription to "Glamour" magazine. Each month I have been keeping up on the lastest fashion and make-up trends and doing my darndest to keep off the "Glamour Don't" pages.

And last but never least, I'd like to thank Janis for writing the last post for me. We've both had challenging weeks with the news and her willingness to step in has been most appreciated.

I didn't feel I was in a place to write as I've been going through some of stages of grief I had not yet passed through on this journey. The news of the last couple weeks has made for brief lay-overs in Sadness and Anger. They're not bad places to visit though the people are a little remote and the food is a bit bland, but I sure wouldn't want to live there.

Two weeks ago I had a whopper of a Thursday. The results of a baseline CT scan showed two unidentified spots, one on my lung and one on my liver, as well as an ovarian cyst. What the heck?! It was supposed to be a baseline and everyone knows that baseline means clear! At least, that was what I thought. Of course, baseline means where you're at right then but in my mind it meant we would just be seeing cool pictures of my heart and lungs.

And, just prior to that appointment, I'd found out that I fall into the category of 'high risk for recurrence'. What the heck, I say? What the heck?! That is not what I wanted to nor was ready to hear. I've done everything I've been told to do- how could that be high risk? Unfortunately, having eleven of twenty-one nodes involved is too many to fall into a lower risk category.

It has been a lot to process. Nothing about my life is high risk so why should this cancer be? I might just have to take up extreme sports to show this cancer who's the boss... ooh... hmmm, sports... that's never been my gig. Extreme vocals or theatrics would suit my strengths better. Oh yeah, here we go: with the help of my theatrical friends I could do a performance art piece that would leave this cancer begging for an intermission! And that never happens in performance art.

So, that news coupled with the spots on my lung and liver- two of the three places breast cancer likes to migrate to- was too much to take in for one day. In case anyone is wondering, yes, you can still get radiation treatment while you're crying. The radiation beam is so focused that it's not like standing in an electrical storm with an umbrella or golf club.

At this point in time my radiologist said he's not concerned about the spot on my lung as half the people in the Midwest, if they had a scan, would have a spot on their lung. Why, you ask? Because, as my dear friend Renee's family was fond of saying, there's a fungus among us! Up here on the the tundra there's a fungus that causes scar tissue to form, unbeknownst to those of us who live here, until we have a scan.

He also said that the spot on my liver looks, because of its color, benign. Both of these spots are so small that there is no other test that can be done to determine exactly what they are so, in three months, I will have another CT scan to monitor their progress. You can imagine that, adding to the breast scans that I will have regularly for the next five-plus years, another test every three months is not really high on my list of 'things to do'.

The one thing we were able to run another test for was the ovarian cyst. Two weeks ago I had an ultrasound which Jan and I found out that Thursday was inconclusive. So, to follow up that very afternoon they sent me for an abdominal MRI. Janis came back with me again the next day for those results which were also inconclusive.

At this point I'm feeling like I must be from Mars, or at least the cyst is from Mars, because they cannot identify it. What do you mean it can't be identified? All three three types of imaging that can be taken- CT, ultrasound and MRI- have been done and none of those can help identify it? Please repeat with me: What the heck?!

It seems to me that we're playing that child's card game where you keep looking for the sets: the guy with the beard and hat, the grandma with the glasses and bonnet, the kid with the freckles and beanie. Only in this deck it's all different kinds of cysts and mine doesn't have a match. Oh, who likes this stupid game anyway?!!

I say that because next the option to get the best look at it is to do it the old-fashioned way: to remove it. Where is Doctor Spock when you need him?! We've come to discover that ovaries aren't biopsied (you wouldn't want a trail of unidentified cells out and floating about freely in your abdomen), they're taken out. So that, potentially, mean another surgery when I'm done with radiation.

For those of you keeping up with the hair front, it is indeed growing back. In the two months since the last chemo treatment I have grown a downy soft three-quarters of an inch which thickly covers my head. People who see it comment on its unexpected shimmery fawn color as well as the lovely shape of my head. We'll try to get a photo up here soon so you can all see for yourselves.

It continues to be an unexpected journey, this. And though at times my strength has diminished, my faith in the process has wavered and my trust is nowhere to be found I am continually astonished that offered, again and again, are reminders that my friends and family have strength, faith and trust enough to carry us through.

I hope in this season of hope and joy that you're able to find the peace that it offers as well. Wishing you a beautiful holiday-

Love, Karen