Grateful

We got the call as we were leaving for the airport last Thursday.

"Mrs. Willis, we need to schedule a second mammogram to re-image your left breast."

A million thoughts flooded my mind. But the question that came out of my mouth...?

"I'm leaving for the airport right now. Can it wait until I get back?" I asked tentatively.

"When will you be back?"

I explained my itinerary and they scheduled my follow-up on the day after I returned from Denver.

"A doctor will be in the room with you to explain what's happening. You'll have answers right away."

And thus began five of the longest days of my life.

While we were in Denver, I touched my boobs more than I'd ever touched them in my life. Felt all the idiosyncrasies, all the asymmetries, all the bumps and striations. I had many hours alone to think about what might be happening, what I might find out, what course may have been mapped for me.

I spent anxious nights letting my mind wander and penned long-winded emails to Jenny who has brought me to a whole new level of consciousness over the past few months with her wisdom and guidance. And, as always, she stood beside me. But she made me promise one thing: no fear. She was unwilling to let me work from a position of fear. Anxiety? Okay. Unrest? Fine.

But no fear.

So I made her a promise and I gave up the fear.

And everything changed.

As our Denver days passed, Chris and I drank a great deal of wine and talked unabashedly about our future, our options, our dreams and desires. And during the course of that time, I developed a firm resolve to handle whatever came my way with dignity and grace. If I had cancer, I intended to live. I intended to be a bald, beautiful ass-kicking survivor.

And I was no longer afraid.

It's interesting to examine the thoughts that run through your mind during a time like this. I'd always thought that sacrificing my boobs for my life (if the time ever came) was a no-brainer. But these saggy, baggy has-beens once fed my babies. (Well, all of them except Sam. And Chris will argue to this day that my unwillingness to breastfeed our firstborn is the source of all his lifelong problems and insecurities.) My mind raced back to those foggy, sleep-deprived moments when I would sit with my newest baby in the dark of the earliest morning hours and calm, comfort, and sustain him or her with nothing more than my body. Those were magical moments -- the rosy-cheeked, half-sleeping baby in my arms, the gentle tugs, the milk-drunk smiles.

From the beginning, Chris was convinced that whatever the doctor was seeing on my films was nothing more than an overgrown milk duct. After all, I was a freak-of-nature milk producer. When a baby would cry in the night, I would aim one of those milk-engorged weapons right at Chris's face and spray him until he woke up. When Gus was in the NICU, I would pump and freeze endless bags of milk. The other NICU mothers would rejoice over their hard-earned half ounces while the bin in the communal freezer with my name on it overflowed, doubled, tripled. Once when I was adding more milk to my obscene collection, a NICU nurse looked at me and stated simply, "Oh, YOU'RE the one."

A milk-producing legend, I was.

I vacillated between wanting Chris to be with my at my follow-up appointment and wanting to be alone. But it felt right for him to be there. And that's where he wanted to be. Thus, we ventured into the unknown together.

After the 2nd mammogram, the technician came back into the room and told me that the doctor wanted to follow-up with an ultrasound.

That was Step Three, my friends. (OF COURSE I'D BEEN SEARCHING THE INTERNET.)

Step One - Mammogram.
Step Two - Follow-up mammogram.
Step Three - Ultrasound.
Next step? Biopsy.
And after that? Consultation that will alter the course of the rest of your life.

So, Chris waited in the ultrasound room with me, nervously drumming his fingers at warp speed. We didn't speak many words -- we just sat together in solidarity.

The doctor returned, performed the scan, and assured me that what he was seeing was normal breast tissue. In fact, he explained that the denser tissue on the left was actually more pronounced milk duct tissue than what he was seeing on the right.

I'll be damned if my husband didn't call it. I mean, he IS almost a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that an MD and an EdD are two vastly different things.

I was ultimately sent on my way with a clean bill of health and an order to come back at the regularly scheduled time next year.

And as we left the building, I truly felt like I might be able to fly. That's how pronounced the relief was, that's how heavy the now-lifted burden had been.

Today, I embraced my strong, healthy body. I jogged in the wee morning hours, met Jenny for breakfast, shared a mid-morning walk and talk with her, met Erin for lunch, and rejoiced in the everyday blessings that were mine to enjoy.

I am more than grateful. I am abundantly blessed.

And The Girls seem pretty happy that they get to stick around for awhile longer, too.