I immediately think of my children. What, if anything, will they remember of me if I die young?
Heather Labruna hugs her two kids, Fiorello, 4, and Nora, 1.5. For two years, Labruna has been documenting her journey from diagnosis to chemotherapy to breast reconstruction on her blog, Breaking Breast Cancer.
We asked her to share with us what it was like when she was first diagnosed with cancer back in 2013.
Photo by Tamme Stitt Photography
10:30 a.m., October 2
The phone
rings and I nearly jump out of my skin. The caller ID says it’s my breast
surgeon.
“So, I have
the results of all three of your biopsies back,” she says.
Then there’s
the pause, the kind of pause that has launched a million cancer diagnoses.
“The results
were not good,” she finally continues. “Quite frankly, I’m floored. You have
early stage breast cancer, or DCIS, in the left breast and invasive cancer in
the right.”
I fight to
keep it together. Off the phone, I tearfully relay the news to my husband.
Heather’s husband, Sal, shaved her head in mid-January.
“Me and
Sal the Barber (doesn't every town have one?)”
I am 36 years old and facing my own mortality.
Unlike the
doctor, I am not completely shocked. My father’s mother, his aunt and his sister
all died of breast cancer, and I always had the feeling I’d eventually face
breast cancer, too. But I wasn’t prepared for it this early.
I
immediately think of my children. What, if anything, will they remember of me
if I die young? My 4-year-old son, Fiorello, would only have vague recollections
of the “yum-yum kisses” I like to plant on his belly. Nora, my feisty 18-month
old, would only know me from photographs. My husband would be a young widower with
two kids to raise on his own.
No, I can’t
die yet.
There’s only
one thing to do: It’s time to put on my big-girl panties and tackle this head
on.
Fiorello, 4, gives his mom a thorough exam. “He picks his nose, he cuts our appointments short to ‘go potty’ and his
patellar reflex exams are brutal,” she says. “I think I need a new doctor.”
October 5
We
haven’t mentioned the words “breast cancer” to Fiorello, but at some point he
must have heard us talking and put two and two together with his toddler
math.
He
catches me absentmindedly adjusting my sports bra, my breasts still sore from
the biopsies.
“Is
your boobie OK?” he asks suspiciously. Without waiting for an answer, he orders,
“Come upstairs to my office.”
He
first shows me to his “waiting room,” which was my bedroom, and orders me to
sit there till he’s ready. Two seconds later he comes back, leads me to his “office”
(his bedroom) and takes out his toy doctor’s kit. He checks my blood pressure,
puts the stethoscope to my heart and gives me a shot.
“Your
boobies are sick,” he says after much deliberation. “We need to change them.”
He
informs me that he could do the procedure. When I tell him that Mommy has doctors
all picked out, he seems concerned that it won’t be him doing the surgery.
I kiss
his head and tell him that if our insurance doesn’t come through, he’s my go-to
guy.
October 7
It’s my first meeting with the plastic surgeon, Dr. R.
Michael Koch. Dr.
Koch is a native of Great Britain and he’s got a soft, calming accent — a kind
of “hippie-painter-Bob-Ross-meets-the-royal-family.”
We
painstakingly go over options for immediate reconstruction following a double
mastectomy. Given my age, I’m not keen on implants. The shelf life for those is
about 10 years. I hope to have a long life ahead of me and I don’t relish the
thought of having to trade them in every decade. I instead choose the procedure
that uses your own abdominal tissue — essentially using the fat and tissue from
a tummy tuck — to recreate the breasts. Nobody has to twist my arm to give up
my stubborn postpartum pouch in favor of new, perkier breasts. Though this procedure
has a lot more recovery time up front, the results are more natural and I won’t
need as much follow-up care.
October 25
I get the
call I was expecting. I’m BRCA2 positive.
BRCA genes
help suppress cancer when they work properly. Mine, however, tested positive
for a mutation. Those of us born with a BRCA2 mutation have almost a 50/50 shot
of developing breast cancer, according to the National Cancer Institute, and up
to 17 percent risk of ovarian cancer.
I feel like
I should be apologizing to my kids. “Sorry, but Mommy may have given you a horrible
gene that will affect you for the rest of your life. Just one more thing to
yell at her about when you’re a teenager!”
Risk factors for developing breast cancer
November 11
In the
wee hours of the morning, I walk into Hudson Valley Hospital in Cortlandt Manor
with the fears of a big surgery in the pit of my stomach and the overwhelming
support of friends and family at my back. When I find out my kids are too young
to visit me in the hospital, I fight the sudden urge to flee.
Much
of what happens next is a blur: There’s a meeting with the radiologist, who
places radioactive tracers to help the breast surgeons find the lymph nodes
needed for biopsy, and the final consultation with Dr. Koch. I bet my husband
that I can get the doctor to say something sufficiently British. After some
coaxing, Dr. Koch rewards me with, “Yes, I will give you a capital set of
knockers.” Score!
I
don’t remember much after my last pre-surgery visitor: the anesthesiologist. More
than 8 hours later, I’m waking up in the recovery room and then finally being
wheeled up to the ICU. During my time in the hospital, I am monitored every one
to two hours for blood clots using Doppler. The sound of healthy blood flow in
my new breasts sounds like the beating of a baby’s heart. And it’s just as
comforting. It means “the new girls” are alive and well.
Heather prepares for her
first chemotherapy treatment on December 31. “If your first chemo
treatment has to be on New Year's Eve, you do it up right.”
Today
The
surgery was just one part of the journey. Though my tumors were early stage (0
and 1 for the left and right breasts, respectively), they were aggressive and there
is the chance that some cancer cells escaped. So, I’m currently undergoing 16
weeks of chemotherapy. I’ll also be having my ovaries removed to reduce the
risk of ovarian cancer.
It’s
another crazy year ahead. But it’s another year that I’m alive.
Click here for Heather's advice on early testing
Heather Labruna lives in Goshen with
her husband and two children. Follow her ongoing journey on her blog, Breaking Breast Cancer.