Never surrender.

Whenever anything happens now, my husband says, "You should blog about that," or "Add that to the blog." It's true that so many little blog-worthy anecdotes keep making themselves known, and I have to fight the urge to just post and post and post. I'm trying to find that line where I share what's going on with me, yet keep a modicum of privacy, too. The thing about this blog was that it was never really intended for an audience, more for my own sanity and also a way for me to keep track of my journey. But, now there's an audience.

So.

Uh.

Hello!

Ugh.

Did that scare you?

Sorry.

Didn't mean to sound so chipper.

Hey.

Too casual?

Okay.

Hi.

That's better.

Moving on.

My name is Nari.

I'm half-Korean, half-Caucasian.

I just turned thirty about a month ago.

I'm married with two kids.

I work at a major Ivy League university.

I have a graduate degree in creative writing and film theory.

I have hobbies but have very little time to indulge them.

I have friends but have very little time to indulge them.

And I have cancer.

Stage 4 metastatic her2neu+ invasive ductal breast cancer.

If you want to be specific.

As much as I hate to do it, I feel like I have to tack on this last part. About the cancer. Having cancer doesn't define me as a person, at least I hope not, but it sure is a major part of my life right now. But, you know, I'm okay with it. It was a shock at first - after all, I just turned thirty! - but in this case I think it's more important to just accept it and move on than to dwell in the depths of despair, to quote Anne Shirley. So, I'm moving on from the initial shock. I'm getting the best possible treatment I can get. This past week was pretty rough, but I got through it. And there's going to be more rounds of chemo coming up, and those are probably going to be even worse, but I'm going to get through those, too. Because life is short as it is. And when there's so much to live for, you tend to focus more on the quality rather than quantity of life. This is all just one big means to a very significant end.

Remission.

The climb to the top of the mountain is steep and rocky and arduous, without many opportunities for reprieve, and maybe you fight off a few predators along the way. But, man, would you look at that view?

Freya's story.

I was going to the bathroom and my daughter, Freya (age 5), wanted to keep me company, of all places. She asked if she could tell me a story, and this is what she said - I transcribed it right after we left the bathroom but forgot to post, so it's backdated for posterity:

"Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Freya. She had a mommy, a daddy, and a little brother. One day, Freya's mommy was really sick. It's the kind of sick that doesn't make other people sick. Freya wanted her mommy to get better so she went to the Great Magic Wizard, who told Freya that her mommy would get better but Freya had to do one thing. She had to find and bring back all of the dragons of the world and then Freya's mommy would get better. So she and her brother went around the world and searched everywhere for all of the dragons. It was a really long trip and it was really hard to capture all of the dragons, because some of the dragons breathe fire and fire can hurt you. But Freya and her brother were brave because they wanted her mommy to get better. So can you guess what happened? (No, what happened?) They found all of the dragons! And they brought them back to the Magic Wizard and then Freya's mommy wasn't sick anymore and she never got sick ever again. And they all lived happily ever after."

Non sequitur.

FREYA: Mommy, how come you're so tired in the morning? Is it because you have cancer?
ME: Yes, I think it might be because of that. Or maybe also the medicine.
FREYA: Oh, okay. I thought it was the cancer. Hey, Daddy, can I fly in a rocket ship?
DADDY: Not quite sure what Mommy's cancer has to do with rocket ships, but sure!

Side effects.

I pride myself on having a very high pain threshold. I've endured multiple surgeries and procedures (including childbirth) with very little assistance from anesthetics and/or narcotics. After a while, you kind of see yourself as superhuman.

I've been warned going into this experience that I would feel some pain. I was given a shot of neulasta, which is supposed to help boost my white blood cell count. One major side effect is that it causes bone and joint pain. But pain is good, my doctor says. Pain means it's working. Pain means you're alive. It's a small price to pay, when you think about it: Temporary pain in exchange for life. I'll take what I can get.

I didn't feel much the first couple of days after chemo. That's probably due to the "steroid sandwich" I was prescribed - steroids twice a day on the day before, day of, and day after chemo. The side effects were that I had a surge of energy (I literally was puttering around the house at 2 am) and a voracious appetite. The hard part in this case was what I wanted to eat everything in sight, yet everything tasted like ash. A side effect of the chemo, which comes from yew bark. So, as a visual, imagine grinding tree bark into dust and putting that in your mouth. I'd say it's an acquired taste.

I was also warned that my energy levels would be lower as the days progressed, especially once the steroids have worn off. A friend referred to this as a "crash." But, there was laundry to be done and the kids were especially clingy, so I kept up with my normal routine last night. I did "take it easy" but only to the extent that I didn't work as efficiently as I normally would.

For the sake of posterity (and not as a form of complaint), here is what I'm feeling right now on Thursday morning, four days after chemo:

- Pounding headache (it sounds like someone is doing construction outside, but my husband insists that it's completely silent; also, hard to keep my eyes open)

- Aching bones and joints (it's not as bad as childbirth, at least I can breathe, but I definitely am having a hard time moving, particularly my jaw and lower back, and when I get back into bed from walking around it feels like my legs are going to fall off)

- Muscle fatigue (in my opinion, there is nothing more degrading than having to ask for assistance to get out of bed just to go to the bathroom)

In addition, it's hard to speak, my mouth can barely chew food, the light hurts my eyes, and I have no desire to do anything. There is so much pain throbbing in my entire body that it feels like I'm being attacked from all sides (and, more importantly, from within myself) without any kind of defensive shield as protection. Again, I'm not complaining, merely trying to articulate the experience.

I'm told that these particular side effects are cumulative as the treatments continue. All I can think right now is: if this is how it is after Round 1, imagine what Round 5 is going to be like...

In a way, I am grateful for this perspective. I went into chemo not really knowing what to expect. I thought I could handle it, and, I mean, I can (for now, anyway). But this is all one big learning curve, and at the end of the day I have to remember that I have been given a very unique opportunity. I have to learn to let go of certain aspects of myself - pride, stubbornness, arrogance, self-reliance - and to just ask for help or accept help that is offered. There is no shame in having limitations. So I have to remember that I am not superhuman. I am human, and I feel pain. And that's okay.

Because pain is good. Pain means it's working. Pain means I'm alive.

Round 1: In the beginning.

So, I had my first chemo/immunotherapy treatment yesterday morning (01/19/15). It all went smoothly, and I was fortunate to have an incredible support team at my side: my husband, both of my parents, and my older sister (my #1 cheerleader who was diagnosed with sarcoma on her 25th birthday, but has luckily been cancer-free since then...fingers-crossed).

Up until this point, people have commented on how impressed they were with me because I seemed so level-headed about this whole ordeal. I'm not an emotional person to begin with, so it was easy to essentially adopt a pretty calm demeanor when publicly explaining my diagnosis. And I kept up with my daily routine of taking the kids to school and going to work and doing chores around the house and running errands on the weekends.

The truth is, I have been in denial about my cancer.

I basically had the attitude that if I busied myself with work and kids and home stuff, then I wouldn't have to think about the fact that I was sick and probably dying. Not only that, I fooled myself into thinking that I was totally okay, that all of this cancer talk was for someone other than myself, that I just happened to be very closely involved with this poor cancer patient's story.

But the day before my first chemo treatment session, I had a total meltdown. Because I realized that once chemo started, it would mean without a doubt that I, indeed, had cancer. And there was no going back. And I hated that so much. I hated that I had no control over this experience. I don't deny that I'm a controlling person by nature, very neurotic and obsessive-compulsive. But it's like someone made a deal with the devil on my behalf without my consent, and I didn't even get some selfishly irresponsible request in return, like ever-lasting life or fame and fortune. I had all sorts of plans for the future - who doesn't? - and it was like watching these plans disappear in a puff of smoke,

I couldn't wait to take my daughter on college tours, even though we both know she is going to Princeton anyway (like her father and aunt before her), because that has been her dream since she was 3-years old. I couldn't wait to hear all about her studies in chemistry and how she's developing the latest breakthroughs in perfume creation, because she has always wanted to be a chemist and make love potions for a living since pre-K. I couldn't wait to meet the one with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life and give him SUCH a hard time, because no one is good enough for my daughter.  I couldn't wait to watch my daughter act like a total bridezilla on her wedding day (like her mother before her) and then totally put her in her place, because I'm her mother and mother knows best. I couldn't wait to be in the delivery room with her and try to convince her to let me name the my first grandchild, because that's something I'm really good at doing and she knows it.

I couldn't wait to help my son develop his love of music and then be totally disappointed when he tells me he has decided to forgo college in place of a music career (no matter how much I try to convince him otherwise). I couldn't wait to watch him become a famous musician and be so proud of him (and probably brag about it) for not giving into the easy temptation of adopting low standards, because he's had the raw talent since he was only 2. I couldn't wait to learn about all of the charities and scholarships to which he planned to donate his time and money, because he always had such a kind, gentle spirit. I couldn't wait to try to convince him again that perhaps college was still an option if he ever decided to take a break and he would consider it, because I'm his mother and mother knows best. I couldn't wait to see how he tries to fumble through growing up and becoming responsible enough to maybe marry and have kids, because he spent so much time comfortably in his sister's shadow.

I couldn't wait to celebrate 10 years of marriage this July with the man I have grown to love after all this time together. I couldn't wait to fail to convince my husband not to splurge on a new self-driving Telsa, because I know how much he reveres Elon Musk and he has always dreamed of owning a self-driving electric car that didn't look as conspicuous as some of the other options out there. I couldn't wait to grow old with him and celebrate having an empty house (for once), until the kids come back with their dirty laundry. I couldn't wait to use our new-found free time to maybe adopt a greyhound or a dachshund and watch Broadway shows and travel across the globe and be totally cantankerous about youths today. I couldn't wait to think back on the many, many decades and think to myself: what a lucky woman I am to have had such a full, prosperous life.

And now with this cancer diagnosis, I can't help but think to myself: man, life is so not fair. I mean, let's face it, five years might be great when considering the life expectancy of stage 4 breast cancer from ten years ago (about six months), but five years is still not a long time. I have so much left to give, I have barely made a dent in my to-do list, and I am devastated at the thought of leaving my husband and kids behind prematurely.

But I guess there's no point in dwelling in the negative. To look back on the past and wonder what could have been. What is important now is the future. And only to say, as the French would, "Aux armes, citoyens / Formez vos bataillons / Marchons, marchons !" To arms! To battle! Let's march!

Not to yield.

I have to remind myself every day that I am not DYING of cancer, but LIVING with cancer.

Because that's the nature of this vicious beast, isn't it?

Cancer is blind when choosing its victims. Cancer doesn't care whether you're old or young, male or female, black or white, Christian or Muslim, gay or straight, good or evil. Cancer doesn't care if it's your birthday or if it's Christmas Day. Just because you're young doesn't mean you're invincible. Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you're exempt. If you are a living, breathing human, then cancer will try to destroy you by using your body as its weapon of choice, leaving you a ticking time-bomb with only what is essentially poison to fight against your own mutinous cells. Talk about a catch-22.

Am I afraid? Yes. Contrary to what my kids will tell you, I am not a robot. But I will continue to wake up each morning and get my kids ready and send them to school and go to work and come home and try to do chores and cook and run errands and remember to tell my husband that I love him before going to bed. For a brief moment I can forget that it's not "business as usual," no matter how much I wish, that in between dropping kids off at school and going to work I also have to get a test done or visit a doctor or have blood drawn. But, hey: ob-la-di ob-la-da, que sera sera, the sun will come out tomorrow, there can be miracles when you believe. Sometimes when you lose, you win. It's just hair, and it WILL grow back.

I have to remind myself every day that I'd rather have this life than no life at all.

Because that's the nature of this precious gift, isn't it?

So, funny story.

I'm at the radiologist's office, waiting for my brain MRI to start.

Some old, white dude is chatting up my poor husband, who is clearly in need of a rescue. So, I start going over the upcoming schedule of food deliveries and scheduled play dates and family visits with my husband, while this dude is still trying to get a word in. Finally, he stops talking and I think to myself, SUCCESS! When all of a sudden, he peers over my husband and stares at me, all creepy-like. And says, I kid you not,

"Are you a child bride?"

Now. I have been asked/told some pretty ludicrous things over the last three decades of my life, but NEVER have I been asked this question before. I looked around the room, like, Did anyone else just hear that? There was this black lady sitting across from me, staring at the dude with a total WTF? expression, so glad to know it wasn't just me. I admit I was so taken aback that it took a while for me to respond, which was, essentially, "What did you just say to me?" And before I could reply with anything else (retort, sarcasm, full-on animosity), my husband is like, "Er, she's older than me" (this is true). And the dude chuckles and says, "Well, she sure don't look it."

Later, as we were laughing at the incredulity of it all, I said to my husband, "Thinking idiotic thoughts are one thing. You can think whatever the hell you want. I just can't understand what compels a person to actively decide to SAY such idiotic thoughts out loud. To a total stranger, no less! I mean, what was he hoping to gain from saying that to me? Was he trying to get a rise out of me?" To which my husband responded, "Well, look on the bright side: He thought you looked young enough to be fourteen. He thought I was a pedophile!"

UPDATE: Brain MRI results showed negative for cancer cells. At this point, I am willing to take whatever victories I can get, however small. Always look on the bright side of life, as they say.

Thank you.

A HUGE thank you to all of my family, friends, coworkers, acquaintances, and even total strangers, for your encouraging words of love and support. It has been quite a shock and very difficult to process, especially after only having been diagnosed a month ago (a week after my 30th birthday), but my husband, Godfrey, and I are overwhelmed and grateful to be a part of such a wonderful community. 

Thank you for thinking of us during this challenging time - we certainly anticipate many trials ahead, but as we Koreans say, 화이팅!

Is this real life.

So, more news.

Not good news.

Actually, it just keeps getting worse.

And worse.

Deep breath,

Well.

Okay, so.

Remember how I found out I had stage 2B cancer like, a month ago? Anyway, my doctor was all, we need to have some more scans done to make sure nothing else spread. We tried to get a pet scan done back in December but my insurance denied it three times! Thanks, guys. So, finally I did a series of tests: BRCA gene mutation blood test, bi-lateral MRI, a full-body bone scan, a CT scan of the chest/abdomen/pelvic region, an echo-cardiogram to check my heart, a fertility visit to discuss options and to make sure my ovaries are okay, an OBGYN visit to make sure I don't have cervical cancer, and a dental visit to make sure I don't have cavities. And then after all of that, my doctor is like, so, good news: negative for BRCA, MRI report shows the cancer is localized in the right breast and some lymph nodes only (so, nothing on the left side), bone scan report shows no signs of cancer cells, echo-cardiogram report shows I have a good, strong heart, OBGYN report shows no signs of cervical cancer, and dental report shows I have perfect teeth. On to the bad news: While the fertility visit showed that I had perfect ovaries, it was clear that I wouldn't be eligible for any procedures, such as harvesting and freezing eggs (due to time constraints) and shutting down the ovaries wouldn't be really be worth it because it would mean giving me super uncomfortable menopausal symptoms on top of the chemo symptoms. And the CT scan shows that there are signs of "abnormal" growth in my liver and right lung, so I'll need to have to have a liver biopsy and a brain MRI done, and so I did the biopsy on the same day that I put in my port catheter (ugh, THAT is a story for another day) and the liver biopsy results came back today. Surgery/additional radiation are no longer treatment options, at least for now.  Because the biopsy confirmed that the growth is indeed malignant.

So now it's considered stage 4.

As in metastatic cancer.

As in terminal cancer.

Typical life expectancy for stage 4 breast cancer?

The median is 5 years.

FIVE YEARS?!

But... but...

I'm only 30!

My kids are 5 and 2!

Well, the HOPE is five years.

And then better treatments will come out.

Which would HOPEFULLY prolong my life a little more.

Maybe another 5 years.

So, 10 years.

At best.

That is the hope, anyway.

I just... I can't.

Silver lining.

FREYA: Mommy, you look really beautiful with short hair.
ME: Thanks, Freya.
FREYA: You will look even more beautiful when you're bald.
ME: Oh, honey...
FREYA: And you can have a wig for every day of the week. And you can borrow my crowns if you want. You don't even have to ask me if you want to borrow one, you can wear them any time.