Three Years

It was three years ago today that Geoff and I sat down with a surgeon at the breast clinic and got the results of my biopsy. I was diagnosed with stage IV invasive ductal breast cancer with metastasis to my liver and bones.

The average life expectancy for someone with stage IV breast cancer, particularly with metastasis to the organs, is three years.

Three years.

But I am not a statistic.

Flashback to the Biopsy Table

"But my girl's only eight," I cried! The radiologist and technician stopped making their "no need to worry" noises as the image on their ultrasound screen became clear.

I knew, before the needle biopsy. The CT had already shown apparent metastacized tumours in my liver and bones. We could feel the breast tumour. It wasn't pea sized. It was huge. I knew what this meant.

"But my girl's only eight!"

Can you hear the terror in my voice? I can hear the paper on the biopsy table, under me and feel the cotton robe against my cold, frightened skin. I can see the dim light coming in from that north-facing window. And I can feel the terror. Not that I might lose my life, that's not the issue. That my daughter's health and happiness would forever be tainted by my diagnosis, by my prognosis.

I will need a miracle to survive this disease. But every morning that I can face my dear girl with a smile is a miracle for which I thank God.