In June of 2020, during the Covid 19 pandemic, I went for my yearly mammogram. I am a school teacher, this mammogram was on the last day of school before summer break. I was energized by the end of the school year excitement and eager to complete a yearly doctor visit. The mammogram was uneventful and when I left the office I was ready to start my summer break. The following day I was on my lawn mower, the doctors office calls. “Sarah, we need you to come back to the office. There was an image of concern. This happens often but we want to make sure everything is ok.” I scheduled my next visit the following Friday. I wasn’t worried. I knew this was pretty common and thought nothing of the issue. On Friday, I went to get another mammogram. After the images were taken, I was told that they would be viewed before I was to leave. I was waiting in the exam room when a technician said that they wanted to do an ultrasound. I began to worry. I saw something on her face. Something that made me fearful. After the ultrasound was performed, the doctor came in and suggested that my next step be a biopsy. What the hell?

One week after my original mammogram, I found myself in the waiting room of a surgeon. My husband wasn’t allowed in the waiting room due to covid restrictions. He found a chair next to the elevator and waited. After being seen by the nurse, the surgeon came into the room. She had my previous mammogram (2019) next to my current mammogram images. I just saw white blotches. I saw white spider webs. However, my surgeon saw something more. Dr. X asked if my husband was in the building, I told her he was waiting by the elevator. I started to cry. She left to get my husband. What the hell? I couldn’t barely breath. Scott walked in and my surgeon followed. He looked shocked because I was crying. My surgeon started talking about the images. I honestly don’t remember what she said to us. However, after a few moments my husband looked at her with eager eyes. “What percentage did you think my wife has breast cancer?” Her response, I am 90% positive but we will need to do a biopsy tomorrow to be sure.

Scott and I got into the car. I couldn’t understand any of this. Scott was still optimistic. He was hanging onto the 10% chance. I knew. I saw the technicians face, the doctors face, and my surgeons face. I saw sadness. I saw concern. The following day I went in for my biopsy. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was manageable. My surgeon would have answers by the following day.

It was a beautiful day. My kids were all outside playing and my husband and I were working in the yard. My phone rang, it was my surgeon. My husband and I walked into the house. “Sarah, you have Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, this is a type of breast cancer. I need you and Scott to come back to the office and talk about treatment options.” I don’t really know what was said after that. I think your body goes into protective mode and all outside noise stops. I had breast cancer. I had no idea how to even process this information. I looked out the window and saw my children running, playing, and free. I knew my time would soon be absorbed with doctors appointments, phone calls, options, research, and worry. Little time would be left for being a mom. I would be occupied. I would be absent but here. I really needed my own mom in this moment. However, during this same time, my mom was slowly slipping away. Dementia was robbing my mother of my much needed support. I needed her medical knowledge. I needed her to tell me it was going to be okay. I needed her, plain and simple.

This blog is my journey of swimming through the sand of cancer, dementia, and losing control. I would be dishonest if I didn’t say that this is mostly for my children. When you watch your mother slowly slip away, you can’t help but wonder if that is your destiny. Will I be looking at my own children one day with confusion? Will I not be able to support my children in a time of need? I hang onto cards, letters, and notes that my mother has written. When I read her words, I can hear her. My hopes are that my children will hear me and feel me well beyond my years.