plot twist!

Two paths diverged in a yellow wood for Frost. He took the one less traveled by and it apparently made all the difference.

Ok. Cool. Same really.
But there was only one path. And the wood wasn’t yellow.
Ok, so maybe not the same at all. But there has been a divergence from the aforementioned path and boy, has it been the pivot of a lifetime.

Let me set the scene:

Summer is emerging out the picture windows in my living room and every other day David asks when it is the appropriate time to prune the lilac trees.

Once they are fully blown and a bit crispy has been my continuous answer, but now, the time has finally come.

This weekend, we will be trimming the lilacs so that next Spring they’ll flourish even more. There’s a lilac in the side yard that has only ever developed two to three blooms on it each year as it’s been heavily shaded by the mature maple ten feet away. Last year, David and my Dad pruned the maple and opened up spots of sun the yard hadn’t seen in years. This year, that lilac tree exploded with blooms.

Last year as I hand washed all of our dishes, I lamented looking outside at that lilac tree shrouded in shade, with it’s few tiny blooms. This year, we have a dishwasher and I’m almost sad that I don’t get to spend more time at the sink just to stare at the tree from the kitchen window.

Two paths, one wood. One year, no light, few blooms, and much time at the window. This year, more light, weighty blooms, and less time at the window.

All from letting more light in via heavy pruning.
But of course, this has nothing to do with me.

This was to be an ordered summer.
Monday through Thursday we would spend the mornings at home, or running errands, with the occasional play date sprinkled in. Sam would go to camp in the afternoons and I would go work out at the YMCA or hunker down and write/plan for the class I would be teaching at Whitworth University in the fall. I’d read the books my advisor would have given me and be thinking and writing my way through the summer, waiting for my first residency in July where I’d meet my fellow MFA classmates where we would then pour over words together.

Because I got into graduate school and am finally pursuing the MFA in creative writing I’ve wanted for 20 years.

20. Years.

That would be June and July. In August, our little family would drive three hours north to Canada for a week of hiking, swimming, and exploring. We’d grill and nap and read and swim. The agenda would be no agenda. Then we’d come home for another week of camp for Sam, and then school would start. Shortly after, I would meet my students and joyfully attempt to balance work, life, and school of my own.

This was the plan. And the plan (according to me) was good.

I was sitting in meetings and receiving books and planning the year. Everything was coming together. Summer was set. A long time dream was being realized. Hallelujah, bless it up, we were on a roll.

But for whatever reason, none of it felt real.

You may remember from my last post that I went on a cheeky little brunch date with two girlfriends to reward ourselves for scheduling mammograms.

After being called back for a second round of pictures, an ultrasound, and a biopsy, I received a call while at the final women’s bible study of the year.

Is this Emily Hoos? This is [nurses name], and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this…

The other shoe had dropped.

Ductal carcinoma in situ is honestly one of the best breast cancers you can get. It’s considered stage zero, even pre-cancer in some circles, but it didn’t detract from the fact that a problematic milk duct in my right breast had grown a pea size tumor. From what they could see, nothing else was inflamed, nothing else was problematic. But if left alone for too long, my particular DCIS would not only become invasive, but aggressive.

So then came the calls.
I now have a surgeon, a surgical nurse, a nurse navigator, and a social worker. Some I hear from often, some very little. My inbox is exploding with appointment reminders and my voicemail has more messages from medical professionals than family and friends. I’ve had an MRI, genetic testing, and another ultrasound was ordered yesterday. And that was just this week. Soon I’ll have a surgical plan—but when and what kind of surgery are still to be determined.

Meanwhile, if I don’t give Whitworth University an answer on whether or not I will be attending the summer session by next Friday, I’ll be charged whether I am able to go to school in July or not.

Everyone needs something from me and I have very little to give. Thursday was spent on the phone with various financial aid offices (medical and academic) pleading for more time. Daily I am pouring over articles about surgical options and post surgery drugs and their side effects. Yesterday I ordered the novel my advisor is having everyone read for the first residency in July, whether I’m there or not.

If much depended on William Carlos Williams’ red wheelbarrow, much more depends on the conclusiveness of these results.

Will I get a lumpectomy, radiation, and then go about my merry way to the writer’s workshop in July?

Or

Will I need a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery and need to defer until January?

And will this come back?

Who is in the box?
Minor surgery Emily or major surgery Emily?
Will this be just a blip on the radar, or will I be rolling up to therapy, crying about my newest scars and the body that turned on me and forced me to make drastic decisions?

This all feels a bit like Schrödinger’s cat. Will I be able to go on about my life without the greater world knowing about my diagnosis or will I be convalescing at home for the better part of two months, waiting for my body to heal enough to attempt my longed for degree program (let alone the regular life I’m currently living). I am in the box and I am both fully dead and fully alive. I recognize the situation is not that dire, but I can’t shake the feeling of being in two very different places at once, both places feeling uncertain.

And the timing. Gosh dang it if the timing of this whole thing isn’t nauseating.

This is likely where that Christian would say “But the Lord holds your future, and He wants good things for you.”

I think we can all agree that “good things” would have been not getting cancer right before starting graduate school. It wouldn’t be sitting in an oncology ward where every person has at least 20 years on me. It wouldn’t be trying to hustle these tests results along just so I can acquiesce to the financial aid department at Whitworth University (with whom, may I make it known, I have no beef).

But good things also don’t necessarily include having the opportunity to get an advanced degree. They don’t even include having good health throughout my entire life. The definition of “good things” is not some Americanized version of financial stability with the tract home and a 401K. And yet, I am pretty damn sure that any sort of cancer is not included in the list of good things.

That said, I have no intention of wasting my cancer diagnosis on self flagellation or pity.

My brain fog has been severe and my executive functioning skills have not been online, but slowly I am emerging from this pivot. One thing I know for damn sure is that I am not focusing on what “God is teaching me,” as though He’s some cosmic math teacher, ready to smack my knuckles with a ruler if I can’t give an answer to the cosmic question of “why is this happening to me?”

I don’t know why and I’m not sure it’s my job to know.

But this is what I do know. I am going to need to add spaghetti to the grocery list because Sam prefers spaghetti noodles over rotini. The floor needs to be swept and mopped. Likely it’s now warm enough outside for me to try to seed some zinnia seeds. Pentacost is Sunday and I want to make sure we all show up to church in shades of red. I will be attending this MFA program, whether in July or January. Today, I have breast cancer, but I won’t always (praise God). My daily life is still worth living fully, with joy and grief and confusion and anger and hope. It’s a real laugh, cry, punch, dance situation but it’s mine, and I will cling to it with gratitude and a furious will to press on.

I am the cat in the box and there’s no need to open it to find out if I’m alive or dead. Put your ear up to it, and depending on the day, you’ll either hear weeping or singing. But either way, I’m alive.

As for act three, I’ll let you know when I know.
Today, I am being pruned.

Always,
Emily

P.S. Ladies, go get your tits checked.