Tests Tests Tests

I come from a family of ridiculously optimistic people. "Everything will be fine" or "just relax, it'll work out" are the two phrases I heard most often growing up. We bought plane tickets at the last minute, turned in forms late, and showed up to things on our own time schedule. My brother is especially good at going through life with the belief that everything will be okay. While I spent my childhood FREAKING out about the disappearing rainforests and decline in accessible women's health resources, he would lean back and say, "Relax Karen, it's cool."

Cancer has thrown my tribe through a bit of a loop. First, there was the conviction that the lump in my breast couldn't possibly be cancer. After getting the diagnosis for malignant cells everyone was in shock, but they rallied, "They'll take it out, radiate the area, and you'll be on your way!"

Then the ultrasound had revealed that my lymph nodes were swollen, but my family remained optimistic, "Of course they're enlarged," they cried, "the doctor said your body is probably just trying to fight off the cancer. It doesn't mean anything."

Then the auxiliary lymph node biopsy came back positive for cancer. "Ok fine," they said, "so it's in a couple lymph nodes, this may mean some chemotherapy, but you're going to be fine."

The following week I had a CT scan and bone scan. My bones, liver and stomach were clear, but there was a 3 cm tumor growing on my right bronchial tube that shouldn't have been there. And the doctors couldn't think of anything benign that could be there (it's too big to be a lymph node). "There is a good chance the cancer in your breast has spread to your lungs," my oncologist told us, "this would mean you have stage IV cancer. It's considered incurable at that stage, but we will work to manage your cancer." She went on to talk about al the promising trials taking place, and scheduled me for a bronchoscopy (biopsy of the lung tumor) the next day. While I was recovering from my bronchoscopy (coughing up blood, shivering through opiate withdrawal), the pulmonologist spoke to my family and said he was 99% sure it was metastasized breast cancer and they needed to prepare themselves.

Right before my bronchoscopy:

So now they're trying to rally around this news. My mom and aunt have been googling examples of "exemplary women" who are living "happy productive lives"  with stage IV breast cancer, and my mom keeps repeating the story of "that one woman" who outlived the husband who left when she was given my same diagnosis. Everyone is "convinced" I will one of the 15% of women who are predicted to survive at this stage after 5 years.  My Aunt has been repeating over and over that 2% of stage IV cases go into remission, and that she has no doubt I will most certainly be in that 2%. But the cracks are beginning to show. I overheard my brother asking his best friend, "Is my sister going to die?" My usually amazingly-put-together mom is in shock and has started showing up for appointments in sweat pants with no underwear. My cousins are calling my Aunt Lisa crying on a daily basis. "I'm done with thinking things are going to be okay," my brother said, "all I get is really shitty news."

A normal bronchial tube:

MY bronchial tube: