Word of the day

Fuck.

That’s a word that has been used around our house a lot recently.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

It’s equal parts anger, fear, exasperation, and everything in between. And with good reason.

My wife has breast cancer.

Fuck.

That’s a hard thing to type, let alone say out loud.

My wife has breast cancer.

Fuck.

Where to begin.

Early in October, my wife had a mammogram. Not because anything was wrong, or she felt something. Rather, it was because we had talked about the idea of her “getting her boobs picked back up where they’re supposed to be.” Because – to put it delicately – kids, breastfeeding, and well — life — can do a number on them. And in her case, they did.

She had talked with several friends who have had similar procedures, and a doctor in Utah was mentioned repeatedly. So she scheduled a consultation with them, and was planning to drive down to the Salt Lake City area for the day and meet with them.

Before doing that, however, she remembered a previous conversation she had with a surgeon’s office in Boise, and they recommended mammograms before any procedures were done. In Utah, however, they didn’t.

Fuck.

And now, we rewind. In 2016, she felt a lump in her breast, and had it examined. It turned out to be dense tissue, and nothing more. That being said, however, combined with the earlier conversation, led my wife to the idea that a mammogram would probably be a smart idea, even before the initial consultation in Utah.

By chance, she was able to get in right away. But they saw something suspicious they wanted to take a closer look at. So a diagnostic ultrasound was scheduled for the following week. And from there, a biopsy.

Fuck.

On Thursday, October 18th, the biopsy results came back. Cancerous cells.

Fuck.

Since then, it’s been a whirlwind of calls, doctor’s appointments, tears, anger, fear, laughs, smiles, and everything in between.

And a whole lot of fuck.

Fuck. I’m tired. But we roll on to the next day.

Because there’s no other fucking option.

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