August 11th

August 11th first became an important date in my life when I was 5 years old. It was the day my brother was born (Happy Birthday, Bud!). I had asked and prayed and asked and prayed some more for a baby brother. You see, my sister was pushing my buttons at that time...she got into my stuff and made a mess of my room while I was at preschool. So, my 4 year old mind thought, "If sisters make messes of my things then brothers won't because they're different." Flawlessly logical. So, when my mom told me she was having a another baby I decided it should be a boy. Every night during our bedtime prayers I asked God for a baby brother. I really, really meant my prayers so I was convinced that they would be answered. My poor mother sweated out 9 months of her 4 year old saying, "No, I prayed and asked God. I know He will give me a brother." She tried to convince me that another little girl wouldn't be bad, but I was having none of it. It was a boy. I was having a brother. And on August 11th...it was a boy.

There are some dates in our lives that just imprint on us. August 11th is one of those dates for me. First, my brother. More recently, there was August 11, 2011. Our Adoption Finalization with you, Little Bear. The day that the government put its stamp of approval on our family. The day that, no matter what, we legally became your parents. That was a good day...an amazing day...a perfect day.

Five years ago there was August 11, 2008. Things had started moving...fast. I had my first official oncologist appointment on August 4th. I was petrified. I had spent the last two weeks impatiently waiting for this appointment and when it arrived I was a wreck. I remember crying on the drive to Huntsman Cancer Hospital. I mean, I was going to a CANCER HOSPITAL. The otherness was strong...this can't be happening, this is a dream, for the love WAKE UP, MALINDA! But no, after what seemed like a few seconds we were pulling into the parking structure, telling the attendant we had an appointment, getting our parking pass, and walking into the building. I actually stopped in the middle of the parking lot before we got to the doors. The boyfriend asked me if I was all right and I just stood there, staring at the large block letters above the door: Huntsman Cancer Hospital. I started to shake and tear up. But he took my hand, told me everything was going to be alright, and together we walked into a very different world.

I can tell you exactly what I was expecting during that first visit. I was expecting the oncologist to come in, tell me I had cancer, and schedule my surgery to fix it. I didn't know anything about chemotherapy and radiation and uterine cancer, so I wasn't sure if those would be needed. What I did know is that I needed to have a hysterectomy. That was the cure. What I didn't know is that all of my expectations were about to be blown out the window. Dr. S. is, by far, the most fabulous doctor you will ever meet. He sailed into my room with a smile on his face and helpful concern in his voice, "Hello, Malinda. I'm Dr. S. How are you doing?" The shaking came back but I found strength enough to mumble something along the lines of I'm-okay-except-I'm-here-and-I-have-cancer-pleasehelpme. He sat right down next to me and the boyfriend. He put his hand on my knee, looked me in the eye, and started my cancer education. He explained some details about what we knew about my cancer. Which, in a nutshell, wasn't much. It was poorly differentiated but that didn't necessarily mean anything. We didn't know if it was contained or if it had spread, but from my history he was hopeful that it was contained. Then he asked the most surprising question: "Do you want to have children?" I distinctly remember saying, "Yes, up until 2 weeks ago I definitely wanted children." Then he surprised me even more...he started describing an alternative treatment that, if it worked, would allow me to have a child. It was a pill...a very large dose of some complicated medicine that had shown great effectiveness at removing uterine cancer in 45% of patients. He explained that, due to my extremely young age, he would be willing to try this medication in hopes that I could have a child. Basically, I would take the medicine for 3 months, have a PET scan and small surgery (the same one I had had to diagnose the cancer) to confirm no cancer, have immediate fertility treatments to get pregnant as fast as possible, and Dr. S. would deliver my baby and then immediately perform a hysterectomy to prevent future cancer. He explained that pregnancy would act as a natural block to the cancer. I don't have the words to adequately describe my feelings during this conversation. I was confused. I was excited. I was surprised. I was thrilled. I had hope. Just a small amount of hope...we still needed a PET scan to determine the stage of my cancer...but it was there.

The boyfriend and I left that appointment in a whirlwind. There was so much information. There were so many surprising emotions. And suddenly there was the idea of having a child together. And not on our timeline...on cancer's timeline, which meant in 3 months. As we frantically compared notes about the appointment ("Did you understand what he said about ____? Am I remembering it right? Did you understand it the same way? What about ____?" and on and on), we came to a few conclusions, 1) Dr. S. was awesome, 2) We were going to go for the alternate treatment if possible which meant 3) we were going to try to have a baby...this year.

Over the next week there were many things that had to happen. First, I had to have a PET scan. This is a truly awful, full body scan where you drink and are injected with radioactive materials and then lie in a scanner for 3 hours. All-in-all it takes about 4 hours to do. Oh, and you can't think. When I came back for my scan a few days after my first visit with Dr. S. I brought a book. You see you have to sit with these radioactive dyes for like an hour and a half, so I brought a book to entertain myself. As they were injecting me the nurse said, "You can't read that. You have to sit here quietly and not think. If you think, your brain will be too activated and all the dye will center there and you'll have a bad scan." You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. I think I strangle-yelled at her, "I'm 29 years old and I have CANCER! How do you expect me to sit here and not think!?!?" They took the book away. It was hell.

Second, I had to visit a fertility specialist with the boyfriend. We had to see if it was possible that I could get pregnant without the cancer. I had a long history of problems with all my girl plumbing...thus CANCER...so Dr. S. wanted to be sure that with the right fertility treatments we could get pregnant at warp speed. August 11th. It was wonderful to sit in a non-cancer doctor's office and talk about such mundane things as pregnancy and sperm count. The fertility specialist assured us that he could get us pregnant "within 6 weeks." Ahh, more hope. So, we happily flounced back to Huntsman and back to Dr. S. that same day to tell him the good news.

That 2nd oncology appointment felt chaotic. Dr. S. sailed into the room and immediately started rattling off the results of my PET scan: The cancer was contained to my uterus; it was Stage I (HOORAY!)...Did we see fertility guy? Yes, this morning. Good, so it looks like we can start the medication...Oh, and there was this one, little thing. The PET had identified a small unknown spot on my left kidney. Dr. S. had consulted with a urology oncologist (Dr. D.) who wanted to see me. Oh, and Dr. D. is on his way right now. Umm...I need a referral (!) to see a new doc. So, I jumped on my cell phone and called the student health center to beg for a referral so my insurance would cover Dr. D.'s impending visit. The boyfriend actually had to take over the call as Dr. D. came in and started my education on kidney tumors and kidney cancer. He explained that they could not tell if the tumor needed to be removed from the PET scan. I guess it wasn't the right type of scan. So, Dr. D. wanted me to have another scan...a CT scan...to see if this spot was a mass that needed to be removed. So, we scheduled a CT scan for early the next week and Dr. D. went on his merry way.

Dr. S. was all smiles and assured me that the kidney thing was "probably nothing" and that they were just being "aggressively cautious" and wrote out my prescription for what I hoped was a miracle drug. As I walked out of that first week of oncology appointments, I was giddy with hope. I had my medicine. It would take care of the cancer. We would have a child. Everything was going to be fine...different, wonderful, warp-speed-scary, but fine. I had just this one, very small nagging thought in the back of my head: What was that thing on my kidney?

And that, Little Bear, is the story of August 11th.

Til next time...Always and Ever After.