Author: kugrad2003

I’ve been experiencing writer’s block for a while. Not with work, mind you, as I’ve done some pretty amazing work lately – if I do say so myself. But I’ve found that it’s hard to write about me and my continuing adventures with cancer. Maybe I’m just tired or maybe it’s that I know the first part of this journey is winding down and the second is about to begin. So let’s talk about chemo, since that part of the adventure is (thankfully) almost over.

After finishing 12 weeks of the first cycle of chemo, I dove right into the second cycle. I didn’t experience too many awful side effects with the first batch, except for losing my hair, some fatigue and food not tasting quite right as we wound down. Unfortunately, I knew the second cycle wouldn’t be as forgiving, especially when I was going to be on the receiving end of doxorubicin (Adriamycin), a drug known as “the red devil.”

On Thursday, March 16, Brian and I headed back to the LMH Health Cancer Center. It was the first day of the NCAA tournament, so I was prepped and wearing my Jayhawk basketball jersey in anticipation of a win. (Spoiler alert: we won.) I got my pre-treatment drugs – some steroids (no, I didn’t Hulk out), some anti-nausea meds (thank heavens), something else that I can’t quite remember and then we were off and going. First up was Keytruda, the immunotherapy that I’d been getting every three weeks since the beginning, so no biggie there. But then it was time. Time to dance with the devil.

I make it sound worse than it actually is at that point (please note that I said at that point). My nurse came in with these two huge syringes filled with what can only be described as a Kool-Aid red colored substance. I wasn’t sure how she was going to get those things into this teeny tiny port that’d been sewn into my chest since the beginning, but I soon found out. She took a seat next to me and for the next 15 minutes, she slowly pushed the drugs into my body through the port and that was that. We followed that up with some cyclophosphamide and that was that. Three and a half hours and a Jayhawk win later, we were out of there. At least for another three weeks.

Why every three weeks, you ask? I’d love to tell you. When you get the AC cocktail – Adriamycin and cyclophosphamide – you’re only able to get it every 21 to 28 days. But why, Autumn? You got the other one every week. Yes, yes I did. The difference here is that getting AC sooner than every 21 days can cause some serious problems with your heart. I’ve got enough problems – let’s not add anything else to my plate right now. K? Thanks.

After we were done, Brian and I popped over to the brewery to grab an early dinner while I still felt like myself. From everything I’d heard about the side effects of AC, I knew this might be the last time I really felt like eating for a while. We had a fantastic dinner and headed home to relax.

The fatigue I experienced the next couple of days was unreal. I’m not sure how much I slept, but I’m pretty sure that my Apple Watch might’ve thought that I was dead. It stopped prompting me to stand every hour, if that tells you something.

But on the third day, oh boy. That’s when it all came to a head. Have you ever had a red wine hangover? Like a really, really bad one? It felt like there were a thousand tiny ninjas inside my head trying to kick their way out. My stomach was roiling and at times, I thought even water and crackers might be too much for me. It was the red wine hangover from hell but without any of the fun of the night before. (I guess a red wine hangover is an appropriate feeling, given the color of the drugs that caused it.)

As I lay on the couch, silently begging for the sweet mercy of a coma, Brian emerged from the other room. Apparently, I looked every bit as awful as I felt because he took one look at me and asked what he could do to help. I don’t usually ask for much but this time, I sent him to the store to snag some Jell-O and Diet 7-up. He quickly returned and I consumed these tiny saviors before going straight back to bed.

I awoke on the fourth day feeling much better than I had the previous three. Apparently utter exhaustion and a devil-sized hangover are the price I pay for life for a few days. I slowly gathered my strength over the next ten days and by week three, I was good to go again. You get two weeks of feeling super crappy and then kind of crappy before you’re on top of the world, only to have to repeat the cycle all over again the following week.

My second dance with AC and its aftermath was much the same, though this time my trusty companion was my dad and I was wearing an amazing new shirt from my cousin, Ginny. I’m gearing up for dance number three tomorrow and this time, my mom gets to see for herself what all the fuss is about.

After that, there’s only one more round left! Stay tuned for more information about what other fun plans cancer has in store for me this summer. I promise, I won’t keep my stories to myself as long this time.

I had an assignment in my Leadership Lawrence class this week to work on a poem for our final retreat. (I can’t believe that’s here already!) I haven’t felt much like writing lately (stupid chemo) but this one got me going, and now I’m sharing it with you.

I am from an ordinary life,
From baseball and long summer days.
I am from a small home with love seeping through the beams.
I am from the green grass,
The smell of summer wafting up from the freshly cut lawn.

I’m from faith and family,
From Janie and Paxton.
I’m from hard headed stubbornness,
And a caring ear,
From “you can do anything” and “keep your head on straight.”
I’m from blind faith,
And a spirit of hope.

I’m from Texas and Kansas,
Cowboy caviar and chicken fried steaks.
From the girl who believed that gullible was a word taken out of the dictionary to becoming one who always works to see the best in people.
I’m from doing what’s right and giving the benefit of the doubt,
From caring less for myself and more for others.

It occurred to me the other day in the shower – yes, I do some of my best thinking when I’m in there – that I’ve broken down one time about my diagnosis. I didn’t dissolve into body wracking sobs when I learned about this foreign invader, though that would seem like the logical time.

It wasn’t until about three weeks after my diagnosis that I woke up in the middle of the night and just lost it. Brian woke up and while I’m sure he didn’t understand what was going on, he just held me until I calmed down and went back to sleep. When I told him the other day that was the only time that I’d broken down, he was shocked.

Does this make me weird? Let’s face it, I’m weird anyway (a fact that I embrace) but I don’t think this adds to it. I think I’m afraid that if I allow myself to fall into a thousand pieces, I won’t be able to put myself back together. But I also know that having a positive attitude goes a long way, so that’s how I choose to deal with my fight against this disease.

Am I scared? Absolutely. Am I going to let that fear dominate me? Fuck no. The fight goes on.

Funerals are weird, especially family funerals. There’s a strange juxtaposition of the sadness you feel mourning someone you love deeply and the excitement of seeing family members you haven’t seen in quite some time. It was with these mixed emotions that Brian, Rachel and I set off for Fort Worth on January 13 to remember and celebrate Uncle Garland.

Having just had chemo the day before, you’d think that I would shy away from an eight hour car ride to Texas. You’d be wrong. I wouldn’t have missed the trip for the world. I don’t know if Uncle Garland knew how much he meant to me, but his sense of humor and quick wit always brought a smile to my face.

We set off that Friday morning with Rachel driving, me as the co-pilot and Brian sleeping in the backseat. I’ll never figure out how he can sleep that comfortably for that long, but it works for him. Rachel, who has a talent for finding amazing eats wherever we go, insisted that we stop for lunch at Big Truck Tacos in Oklahoma City, which I now agree is a must-have if you’re able to go, and we then made the pilgrimage to Buc-cee’s as we entered the DFW metro. (Spoiler: We stopped there again on the way out of town. That place has everything!) After making it to our hotel at City View, we met Mom and Daddy for some dinner and then turned in for the night.

We were up bright and early on Saturday to ready ourselves for the reason we’d made the journey – to say a family goodbye to Uncle Gar. Heading into the cemetery for the graveside service was familiar, having been there as an almost teenager for Daddy Buck’s funeral and again for Grandmommie’s little more than eight months after Rachel was born. I’d also visited a couple of times in college when I just wanted to sit – to just be alone with my thoughts and talk to Daddy Buck about what I was feeling, even if I was probably just talking to myself. It made me feel better somehow. And I felt better on this crisp, beautiful day knowing that they’d be there and have Uncle Gar right beside them.

Heading over to South Hills Christian Church from the cemetery, I couldn’t help but to take in the places I remembered from visits to Fort Worth from my childhood and during my brief time at TCU. Was that selfish? This trip wasn’t about me. I somehow don’t think Uncle Gar would have minded my trip down memory lane. He was the keeper of our family stories, after all. He would’ve loved it.

The service was amazing, just as I knew it would be with Daddy at the helm. He’d told me the week before that he knew it would be hard, but who knew his brother better than he did? I’m constantly amazed at my dad’s fortitude and grace, and this time was no different.

You’re getting mushy, Bishop. Tell us more about the weird.

Okay, fine. Yes, family funerals are weird because of the juxtaposition I mentioned earlier. I was excited to see folks that I hadn’t seen in a long time – my cousins Ginny, Amy and Paige, Ellen and Karen, to name a few –to share memories and stories with them and to mix that with the sadness we all felt at Uncle Gar’s passing. But you get a whole different perspective on it when you’re there and you’re also not well. The love and support of my family has always been a constant, but it was so enveloping, so much more intense this time. I can’t really explain it – maybe you can’t really know what I mean until you feel it too.

Bishop…

Sorry, sorry. Less mush coming up. After lunch at Spring Creek BBQ (also a must-have when you’re in Texas), we headed back to the hotel and readied for the second part of the day – the Fort Worth Rodeo. Yep, you heard me right – it was rodeo weekend and we were going. After driving through the Stockyards for a bit and marveling at the mass of humanity, we parked near Billy Bob’s and headed off on foot to see what all the fuss was about.

Spending some time walking around the Stockyards, it’s clear that the rodeo does not disappoint. We saw cowboys riding their horses in the street, saw some longhorns in their pens and caught the smells of Riskey’s Steakhouse, home of the world-famous Calf Fries. IYKYK. Alas, I tired out after about an hour or so – you know, having experienced chemo, travel and all in the previous 48 hours – so we headed back to the hotel, where I proceeded to sleep for the next 12 hours. Rachel and Brian had dinner, saw some other cousins and I was just out in a glorious slumber.

And the next morning, it was time to pack up and head back to Kansas. We were leaving beautifully warm Texas – it was in the 60s in early January – and heading home. After eating at Yolk in downtown Fort Worth – which was another winner from Rachel, we headed north (and stopped at Buc-cee’s again).

So why did I regale you with a story filled with funerals, tacos, gas stations and rodeos? I guess to show you that my life isn’t cancer all the time. Yes, it has stress and sadness, but it also has life and light, family and friends, and barbecue and tacos. And god knows, we all need some barbecue and tacos.

Today sucks. I mean it really sucks. Why? Thanks for asking. I’d love to tell you. (Thanks, Elyse Myers.)

Today is the day that my hair meets the buzz saw – clippers, really. It was a week ago today that Brian and I met my hair guru, Brad Hestand, and he helped me go from long to short hair. Small bits of hair had started to come out of my head, so I knew that I needed to go shorter so that it wouldn’t be such a shock when it was time for it to all go.

I’ve begged, pleaded and prayed to sweet baby Jesus this week for my hair to hold on, just through the weekend and Uncle Garland’s funeral. But it looks like it’s all been for naught because the hair just keeps falling out. I guess that it’s time.

I keep telling myself over and over again that it’s just hair. It’s going to grow back. Maybe it will be a different color or maybe it will be curly, but it will come back. That’s what my head says but in my heart, it’s a different story.

I don’t think I’m a particularly vain person but my hair is inextricably tied to my identity. It’s part of what makes me – well, me. It was tough going from long to short but to go from short to not at all? I knew it would happen but somewhere, in this teeny, tiny part of me, I was really holding out hope that it wouldn’t.

I really really wanted to keep my hair. I wasn’t asking for a whole lot – just that. And not to have a misshapen head. And to cure my cancer. (I felt as if adding an ask to win the lottery this week might be a tad too far.)

So we will see in a couple of hours just how pale and misshapen (or not) my head is. I’ll keep loving my baseball hats and beanies and the fact that they cover up my noggin. I’m not ready for it, but it’s where I am today. And at least now my dad and I will have matching haircuts!

UPDATE: My head is symmetrical!!!

I won’t bore you with all the details, but the port placement went off without a hitch (a huge thank you to my trusty sidekick, Alexis). The ECHO and chemo class both went well, and I was cleared to start treatment on December 22. It had snowed the night before so after Brian warmed up the car for a bit, we headed off into the unknown. (Wait, isn’t that a song from Frozen II? And now I’m singing it…)

We got to the hospital, shut off the car and headed into the clinic. There wasn’t any turning back now – not as if there had been before. I got my wristband, sat for a few minutes and then it was time to head back to my treatment room with my nurse. I got situated on my throne – fine, my very comfy recliner – and it was time for the adventure to begin.

If you don’t know how a port works, it’s a small device about the size of a quarter that’s implanted just under the collarbone and is used to carry chemo into the bloodstream. It keeps them from having to constantly stick me in the arms, which I am eternally grateful for. I put some numbing cream on it about 30 minutes before my appointment, which means that there’s no pain when they stick the needle in the port.

The nurse starts by taking my vitals and making sure there isn’t anything wonky going on. Then I get doses of Pepcid, Benadryl and long-acting anti-nausea medication through my port before my first infusion of steroids. No, I don’t turn into the Hulk (though that would be pretty badass) but it does help in case I start to have any kind of reaction to the chemo meds. After the steroids are done, there’s a 30-minute wait until the first drug is hung and the process really begins.

I started with a dose of Keytruda – the monoclonal antibody that’s been shown to be effective in people with TNBC, which I get every third cycle. Then we moved on to the Carbo and then the Taxol. With the Taxol, the nurse stays in the room with you for the first 15 minutes because if you’re going to have a reaction, that’s when it’s most likely to happen. No reactions for this girl!

Four hours and a nap for Brian later, round one was done. I didn’t feel any different than when I went in and really didn’t have any after effects, except for being pretty tired by Sunday evening – which also happened to be Christmas. Fortunately, my family’s Christmas is pretty chill and between birthday presents, lunch, Christmas gifts and playing with my niece, it was a relaxing day. Round one was over. Eleven more to go.

Our appointment with Dr. Barr was set for Friday, December 16. We’d learn what the final pathology report showed, the cancer’s stage and what our plan of attack would be. That’s all I wanted – a plan. The not knowing had been the worst part. I felt like I was living in limbo, unsure what path my life was about to take. I was ready to have something tangible to hang on to.

Brian and I walked through the doors at the LMH Health Cancer Center and I felt like I’d entered a new world. Sure, I’d been in the clinic before to interview doctors and to take photos for articles I’d written, but this was different. It had never been about me before. This time I was the patient, the one with a story that someone might write about someday.

It was all so surreal, even when Dr. Barr walked into my exam room. You couldn’t ask for a kinder, more caring oncologist to have in your corner. I don’t recommend getting cancer just to meet her – in fact, please don’t – but you’ll love her if you meet her. She came in, gave me the biggest hug and told me how sorry she was that this was happening to me. I introduced her to Brian, who later asked me if all of my doctors hugged me, and off we went with the appointment.

She confirmed that the initial pathology was correct and I did have triple-negative breast cancer. That meant that the best course of action would be to start with chemotherapy. I’d have 12 rounds of chemo – one treatment each week for 12 weeks – starting mainly with Carboplatin (carbo) and paclitaxel (taxol). There have also been great strides made in therapies for people with TNBC, so every three weeks I’d also get an infusion of a monoclonal antibody named Keytruda. Yes, it’s the one you see airing as about every third TV commercial. After 12 weeks, we’d break and do scans to see if and how much the tumor was shrinking, and then go into another 12 weeks of chemo with other drugs. Fortunately, the second batch of chemo would only happen every three weeks, along with some other infusion the day afterward. (More to come on that later. Like later, later.)

Once Dr. Barr explained everything and we asked a few questions, she left and my nurse navigator, Amy, came in to give us a schedule for the next week. I would get my port placed on Monday morning, then have an echocardiogram on Wednesday to get a baseline assessment of my heart and then go into chemo class. Yes, you take a one-on-one class about chemo, what it is and what to expect and honestly, it is super helpful in answering all of those lingering questions. And then I’d start chemo that Thursday, December 22. Just in time for Rachel’s 26^th birthday and Christmas.

Brian and I were set to meet with Dr. Hawasli the following Tuesday morning but before we did, I had to have yet another mammogram. When Dr. Patrick performed the biopsy, he placed a clip about the size of a grain of rice near the mass to help mark its location. One quick scan showed that it was exactly where it needed to be. So I gathered my things and moved to an exam room where I’d meet with the doctor. A nurse brought my bewildered looking husband back and we began to wait.

Dr. Hawasli came in a few minutes later, her first appointment having run over a bit. She was every bit as kind, calm and gentle as she had been on the phone when she delivered the news the previous week. We talked for a few minutes, went over family history and then another exam. My boobs hadn’t ever seen so much action in a week.

I got dressed when the exam was over and Brian and I were led to a consultation room where we’d learn more. We sat at a table and looked around to find a bucket full of what looked like breast prostheses, which I later found out are called Knitted Knockers, and a handmade quilt on the wall with sayings like “breast cancer can’t take my joy” and other missives.

I took it all in, looked straight at Brian and told him that under no circumstances was that going to be me. I wasn’t changing my wardrobe to pink, wearing clothes and pins with cancer ribbons on them or turning toward a holistic lifestyle. I was going to remain me – the same weird girl who loves football and basketball, wants to work out and then watch Marvel movies on a Friday night. He gave me a look of bewilderment – like he couldn’t believe I even had to say that out loud – and just told me he already knew.

Right after that the door opened and we met Amy, the nurse navigator who’d be by our side throughout this journey. She prepared us with a binder that would eventually contain the information that we’d get from all of my doctors. Then Dr. Hawasli came in to give us all the details.

The first thing she said to the both of us is that she was going to give us a lot of information and realistically, we’d remember less than a quarter of it. She wasn’t lying – there was a lot to know. The pathology report had come back on the tumor showing that I had triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC). This is the kind of cancer that doesn’t have any of the hormone receptors that are normally found in breast cancer.

The way Dr. Hawasli (and later the CDC) explained to us is that you can think of cancer cells like a house. The front door has three locks or receptors – one for estrogen, another for progesterone and another for a protein called human epidermal growth factor (HER2). If my cancer had any one of these three locks, there are a few keys to treatment – like hormone therapy or other drugs – than can be used to help destroy the cancer cells.

Since my cancer is triple-negative, it means that none of those locks are there and chemotherapy was my option. The pathologist was going to run the tumor markers again just to be sure since I was young and healthy, but this was most likely the road we’d be heading down.

With that in mind, we discussed the first step in my journey – getting a port. This is a device that a surgeon places under the skin just south of your collarbone so that it’s easier to deliver the chemo each week. (Trust me, this is much more preferable than being stuck in the arm each week.) It’s an outpatient procedure done under sedation (thank goodness) and I’d be in and out in a couple of hours. No big deal, unless you then consider that it’s just the beginning of the road. Before getting a port though, we needed to get the final pathology back and meet with my oncologist, Dr. Jodie Barr, on Friday afternoon. Great. More waiting.

Dr. Hawasli gave us more information (most of which I don’t remember) and then we were off – well, almost. I had to get one more scan – a breast MRI – which was going to take about an hour. Brian went home to get changed for work while I was going to be popped into a tube with a ton of loud bings and bangs signifying that some sort of imaging was taking place.

I’ve had an MRI before, so I expected that I’d pop a gown on, lay down on the bed and hang out there for 45 minutes or so. I was right – at least about the gown part. Getting a breast MRI is akin to kneeling forward, laying on a wedge and hanging on for dear life for about 30 minutes. And when they ask you what kind of music you want to listen to, don’t say 80’s pop. I quickly realized my mistake when I wanted to dance around during “Come on Eileen” and was grateful when the music cut out after that first song.

I was also grateful that I’d had the presence of mind not to drink any coffee that morning. With my luck, I’d be perched in the MRI and it would be at that point my body would decide that it was the opportune time to poop. Yes, my mind works that way and yes, it was something that I’d thought about. Repeatedly.

Fortunately for both me and the very nice MRI tech, I didn’t dance, I didn’t poop and the scan went off without a hitch. Brian came back to get me, dropped me off at home and went to work. And that was that. It was time to wait some more.

It came time to finally tell my folks about my diagnosis. To say this was a conversation I wasn’t looking forward to would be an understatement. But I was lucky enough to have my trusty sidekick with me, so Rachel and I set out on Saturday morning and headed to Topeka to share the news. Of course, we did this under the guise that we just wanted to have lunch because yes, we’re sneaky and yes, I’m a chicken.

We got to the house where we found Mom and Daddy in the basement – Mom at her computer and Daddy at his – which is a really cute setup. We chatted for a few minutes before we decided it was time to head out to lunch.

“Before we go, I need to tell you guys something…I’ve got some news,” I said.

And then I gave them the news. No frills, just the facts. The follow-up mammogram and ultrasound. The biopsy. The diagnosis. I wouldn’t know more until the next Tuesday, so I really couldn’t say more at that point.

I could see the news took them both for a loop, especially with everything that had gone on over the past two weeks with Uncle Garland and his passing, but my family is pretty good at taking in news and letting it sit for a while. So they asked some questions, I answered as best I could and amazingly enough – no tears. I’m not naive enough to think that there weren’t later, but hey, we made it through that part.

One can’t deliver life-changing news like that without immediately following it with comfort food, so we set out to for lunch and headed to the most comfort-y food place I know – Cracker Barrel. Give me a chicken fried steak, some fried okra and mashed potatoes with gravy and your girl is in the happiest of happy places for quite a while. Or maybe that’s a food coma – who knows?

It wasn’t an uneasy lunch but given everything that we’d all been dealing with, it wasn’t as jovial as a Jones/Bishop/O’Keefe family lunch would usually be. We talked about my diagnosis, about Uncle Garland and the trip to New Braunfels and a whole host of other things. I could see the sadness in my dad’s eyes, especially when he talked about his brother, and the way that my mom looked at him, trying to make sure he was okay when she wasn’t either. It was so sweet and so heartbreaking at the same time and at that point, I was more worried about both of them than I was myself.

After we finished our meal, we did a little shopping at the CB store (don’t judge me – there’s some cute stuff there) and headed back to my folks house. We said our goodbyes with lots of hugs, and Rachel and I hopped back into her car to head home. It was done. I’d shared the news without collapsing into a puddle of tears. Honestly, I felt so relieved not to be walking on eggshells holding the news in as a well-guarded secret from the people I love most. It was time to start moving forward in my new world.

On the outside, I stayed cool as a cucumber. I was sitting in the middle of the office, perched on my chair trying to take everything in and trying not to pass out. But I was screaming inside.

“Wait, what? I couldn’t have heard Dr. Hawasli right. Cancer? I’m 45. I don’t have any symptoms. This can’t be real.”

I know that Dr. Hawasli has delivered this news to many people before me and I’m sure that it doesn’t get easier. I was grateful that she wasn’t rushed in her delivery and asked me what questions I had off the bat. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything – at least nothing that I was ready to outwardly ask – so we set up an appointment for the following Tuesday morning where I’d get one more mammogram and we’d talk about my options.

I sat at my desk in silence for what seemed like an eternity once I hung up the phone. There were so many things racing through my mind. How was I going to tell Brian? What about Rachel and my sister?

The biggest question for me was when and where to tell my parents. They’d been in New Braunfels over the previous week. Uncle Garland, my dad’s brother, had been diagnosed with cancer a year earlier. He’d gotten sick just after Thanksgiving, it became pneumonia and he was admitted to the hospital. Mom and Daddy had flown down to be with Garland, his wife and my cousins, and they were there when he passed on December 5 – the day before my biopsy. They weren’t back yet and I had to decide when to tell them that I was sick.

But first, I had to tell Brian. I came home from work in the middle of the day, which isn’t terribly unusual since my team has the flexibility to work from home. Brian has Wednesday and Thursday off, thanks to the strange schedules of a restaurant manager, so he was at home napping. I came in the house, steeled myself to deliver news that I never imagined I’d have to, and headed into the bedroom to hop in bed. When he opened his eyes, I think he instinctively knew that it wasn’t good.

I used the same words that Dr. Hawasli had used with me. It wasn’t the news we’d hoped for. In that moment, I could see the sadness and fear fill his eyes. It broke my heart to have to share the news. Brian was stoic but he put his arms around me, gave me a kiss and told me that it was all going to be okay. I don’t know if he genuinely believed that in the moment, but it’s exactly what we both needed to hear.

We laid there in silence for a little while before I started explaining the next steps. We had the appointment with Dr. Hawasli the next Tuesday and then we’d meet with my oncologist, Dr. Jodie Barr, on Friday to learn more. Once it set in a little more, we both got up and I began preparing for the next conversation – the one with my daughter.

If you haven’t met Rachel, she and I are two peas in a pod. We look alike, sound alike and have the same ridiculous sense of humor. To say that she’s my mini me is almost an understatement. She’s also an amazing nurse who works in an emergency department, so I wasn’t worried about fumbling my words when it came to the diagnosis. She would know. She would understand.

And she did. I didn’t get to tell her in the ideal way – if there really is such a thing – because she knew the results were coming back and she wasn’t going to wait for an answer. So I didn’t tell her face to face which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t a bad thing. I don’t know that either of us would’ve been able to get through that conversation. I held it together, she held it together and we made it through. It wasn’t until we hung up that we both started to cry.

The same held true with my sister. I told her over the phone because I also couldn’t bear to tell her face to face. We both held it together and made it through that conversation, but I still don’t quite know how. Each time I told someone, I felt like it just got harder and harder. Or maybe that was just reality sinking in.