Well. Fuckballs.

This isn’t the lottery anyone hopes to win. It’s not the club you dream about joining. But here I am.

Some of you have been here before. Some of you might be walking it now.

To get my updates along the way, go HERE and click the heart to follow the page. It’s also has details how you might support if moved to do so.

Meal Train details are HERE.

Here’s the full story:

So, I went in for my routine mammogram. My self-referred, annual mammogram.

But this time, the radiologist saw something they didn’t like.  A spot at the 4:00 area on my left breast. Small, twin masses that raised enough concern to warrant a call-back.

An ultrasound biopsy call-back.

So, I went in and about 4 days later, I got the results. One mass came back benign—thank you, universe. The other? Not so simple. It was identified as IDC, or invasive ductal carcinoma, with DSIC—precancerous cells, nearby.

Breast Cancer. Caught early.

In that moment? I felt powerless. Worried. Numb. Shocked. Angry. All of it. And—just to make things more complicated—I also felt grateful, curious, relieved, and strangely hopeful. It felt like I got emotionally abducted, aliens hijacking the control panel, setting off every feeling inside me all at once.

I didn’t even know my body could hold that many feelings in one breath, but there I was—trying to make sense of it all while my Bowie dog was already curled up on top of me like a weighted blanket with fur. Just breathing with me. Holding space. Not asking me to figure it out, just letting me be. Breast Cancer.

Specifically, ER+ HER2-. That’s my current diagnosis.

Which means I am estrogen/progesterone hormone positive, BUT I am HER2-. It is the most common type of breast cancer diagnosed –with a 99% survival rate. Genetic testing? Negative. (Insert a massive exhale here.)

An MRI showed no abnormal involvement with right now, no spread to the lymph nodes. That is, hands down, the best-case scenario inside the worst-case situation.

What does all this mean? It means—I’m going to LIVE.

Again, caught early. That last part—caught early—is what I hold onto like a lifeline some days. It’s what lets me breathe a little deeper, even as everything else feels wildly uncertain. Like a blessing dressed up in a hospital gown.

Even with all the “good news,” the emotional rollercoaster came in hot. My calendar blew up overnight—appointments, scans, consults, second opinions, then third ones. My brain went into overdrive, trying to stay on top of everything. But my heart, emotions? They couldn’t keep up. My feelings were stuck in a thick fog, barely moving.

And my body… it felt caught in limbo—between the ME I was before and the ME I was suddenly becoming… the one with cancer.

I had no idea how complex this all could be. I thought “breast cancer” was A thing. It’s not. There are layers. Intricacies. And just when I thought I had a plan—a solid direction —one little test result could toss it all back into the tornado spinning me in a whole new direction.

This journey has been a wild, exhausting swing between gratitude and grief. One moment I’m holding onto every good sign. The next I was back in the what-ifs, hanging out bargaining – with myself, the universe, and whatever guides might be listening.

But after so much research, the consults, and more research, and conversations, and more consults—after diving into every piece of information I could get my hands on and really looking at my specific case—and then sitting still and quiet within my body, listening…and coming to acceptance of the situation, I’ve made a decision.

I’m going to have what’s called a 2S NSM—a two-stage nipple-sparing double mastectomy.

It gives me a deep, solid sense of peace about diminishing recurrence. Because let me tell you—I have zero interest in doing this all again. And I know I am just at the beginning of this right now.

Surgeries are set for April 24th and May 7th.

After that, then everything goes to pathology. That’s when I’ll get the full picture. That’s the gold standard—when they look at all of it and tell me exactly what’s happening inside. So no, I’m not out of the woods yet.

I still don’t know if I’ll need radiation or chemo. Maybe—miraculously—I won’t. I’m not clinging to that, but I hold on loosely. It’s a hopeful little pin I’ve stuck onto the edge of my new life calendar. A spark to wish on when the rest of it feels too heavy.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that small, quiet kind of hope is exactly what I need to get through today, tomorrow.

Please, if you do ONE thing today—make the call. Schedule the mammogram. Don’t wait for the three year reminder to tell you to do it. This whole thing could’ve been so much worse. And yes, it still sucks. It really does. But I caught it early. And that changes everything.

It gave me more choices. It gave me some power back. It gave me the space to navigate this path more on my terms. I will be sharing updates here.

The beginning ways to support me are shared here, and I imagine I’ll shift and expand as this tilt-a-whirl ride keeps turning.

Most of all, THANK YOU!

Tits Up,

Kate

PS: Call the person you’ve been meaning to. Hug your people tighter.

Take a deep, sweet breath—and take care of yourself like your life depends on it. Because it does.

If you wish to read further about my updates to date, I’ve posted them here:  4/21 post, 4/25 post. 5/4 post, 5/7 post, 5/17 post, 5/31 post, 6/13 post.

If you wish to support me in some way…

I LOVE snail mail! @ PO BOX 22453 Portland OR 97269 OR

Or via donation here.