Aly's Fight Read online

  WORSE THAN WE THOUGHT

  —ALY—

  After the near-miss peeing incident, I was taken for an ultrasound. They were targeting the site where I’d had the lump removed, and they also mentioned wanting to check the lymph nodes. The ultrasound technician and I had a great chat as she performed the scan. It had been a long day, and I was relieved it was almost over. Even though I had an aggressive cancer, I knew we had caught it early—early enough, I hoped, that it hadn’t yet spread anywhere else in my body. The relief I felt evaporated when the ultrasound tech’s tone and expression abruptly changed. She told me to sit tight for a minute and that the doctor would be in soon. That’s never a good sign.

  The doctor told me I had several swollen lymph nodes in my armpit. There was a good chance that was caused by the biopsy surgery I’d had a couple of weeks earlier, so they needed to do a quick needle biopsy of the lymph nodes to make sure no cancer cells were present. They took the cells and asked if I wanted Josh to come back to sit with me while I waited for the results. With panic starting to creep in (again), I said yes. Everything was happening so fast; I had a hard time processing it all. Tears were streaming down my face when he walked in. I told him about the swollen lymph nodes and that we had to sit there and wait for yet another biopsy report.

  Just five minutes later, the doctor returned with the same expression I had seen on my doctor’s face back home nine days earlier. The news wasn’t good. She explained that I had cancer in my lymph nodes and that this cancer was far more serious than anyone had previously thought. What is happening? I thought. How could it be more serious than the aggressive cancer they already told me about? What’s more serious than the most aggressive kind of breast cancer you can get?

  Everything changed. Again. More appointments were made. More tests were scheduled. They hadn’t staged my cancer yet (telling me where I was on the Stage I–IV scale), but any hopes we had for a low-stage diagnosis were out the window—possibly along with our hopes for starting a family. We’d find out for sure the next day.

  CHAPTER 3

  WALKING OUT HEALING

  —JOSH—

  “Do you guys want to have children down the road?”

  The question hung in the air like a lead balloon. I can still hear the oncologist’s exact somber tone as she hit us with that loaded question at the start of what would be an excruciatingly long day.

  Aly’s ultrasound and biopsy the day before had shown cancer cells in her lymph nodes, and we had spent a mostly sleepless night wondering what this new information meant. When we left the hospital the day before, all we knew was that Aly had cancer, and it had spread from her breast to her lymph nodes. That didn’t sound good, but we still clung to the hope that we caught it early enough to cut it out, burn it out, and pray it out without putting her life in even more danger. Those hopes were challenged when the doctor staged Aly’s cancer: Stage III.

  Ouch. That news hit us pretty hard. Previously the doctors had seemed worried, but we’d been hearing Stage I thrown around loosely. Now things seemed much, much worse. While the doctors confirmed that Aly had caught the cancer early—she probably hadn’t had cancer long at all—she had an extremely aggressive form, and it was growing faster than anyone expected.

  While we were processing all of this, the oncologist asked us the baby question: “Do you guys want to have children down the road?” The doctor couldn’t have known that we had been trying to grow our family for the past few months. She didn’t know that’s how Aly had discovered the lump in the first place. That lump. Had it really been only a few weeks since she’d found it? So much had changed since she’d stepped out of the shower that day and asked me to feel that little knot in her breast. We had been frustrated about not being pregnant after two months of trying. Now my wife had Stage III breast cancer that was already spreading throughout her body. It was hard to process.

  Aly and I shot a look at each other when the doctor asked about having children, and we told her we’d been trying. She listened and then launched into a speech I’m sure she’s given to hundreds of couples. She strongly encouraged us to talk to a fertility specialist as soon as possible. Aly’s cancer treatment, she explained, would inevitably include an intense cocktail of chemotherapy drugs and radiation that would make a future pregnancy unlikely. It was weird to hear that the drugs used to save her life would also prevent us from bringing a new life into the world.

  The doctor told us about a fertility practice in Houston that specialized in cancer patients. She needed us to let her know immediately if that was something we wanted to pursue, but she at least gave us an hour to talk and pray about it. The bottom line was that if we wanted to have a child with both Aly’s DNA and mine, we needed to get a fertility doctor’s help as soon as possible. This would delay Aly’s cancer treatment for two weeks (which is why the oncologist needed an answer), but it would probably be the only way to ensure we’d be able to have a biological child someday.

  NO TIME TO WAIT

  —ALY—

  Devastated. That’s the only word that describes how I felt. Devastated that I had cancer. Devastated that my family was walking through this nightmare with me. Devastated that I had to consider fertility treatments. Devastated that I was about to start cancer treatment. It was all happening so fast. Every time we got one piece of bad news, we barely had time to get our feet back under us before the bottom fell out again with even more bad news. It was only through the guidance of the Holy Spirit that we were able to make sense of any of this craziness.

  When I was first diagnosed a few weeks earlier, someone made an offhand comment about fertility options. I had no idea what they were talking about at the time. I remember thinking, Fertility options? What do you mean? I have cancer; my fertility is fine! Oh, naïve me.

  Josh and I discussed the fertility option with our family in the waiting room, and we were all in agreement. We were going through with the fertility treatments. Sure, it would delay my cancer regimen by two weeks, but it was worth it to protect our future Baby Taylor. As much as we wished we didn’t have to have this conversation, it was exciting to think about creating a little Josh or Aly to put inside my body after this cancer ordeal was behind us. It gave us a glimmer of hope and joy that helped us see past the cancer looming over us. Our family prayed with us over this decision, and we felt a peace about it all. Well, for a second or two, anyway.

  Our group had barely said “amen” before Josh and I were called back in to see the oncologist. We had my mom come back with us, too, as we knew this conversation would be an important one. I thought, That was fast. They told us we had an hour to discuss fertility before we had any other tests or appointments. The oncologist came into the exam room, and Josh and I were ready to tell her that we’d decided to delay the cancer treatment in order to have the fertility preservation procedures. She started talking before we could, though. It was then that I noticed the new stack of papers in her hands and the new look of devastation on her face.

  Almost immediately she started apologizing to us. She said she’d just run a new test on the cancer cells they’d removed the previous day. Although she knew I was Stage III and that I had an aggressive form of cancer, even she was shocked at how quickly the cancer was growing. I’m no doctor, and a lot of these things were hard for me to grasp, so she put it in terms we’d understand. She explained that, if you ranked cancer’s aggressiveness on a scale of one to one hundred, mine would likely be a ninety-eight. As if that wasn’t bad enough on its own, that also meant we couldn’t afford to wait two more weeks before starting my cancer treatment. There was no time to preserve my fertility.

  Josh and I were shocked, scared, and horrified. I asked, “We can’t even wait two more weeks?” I thought (but couldn’t say aloud), Does this mean I’m going to die? And if I don’t die, does this mean I’ll never be a mother? I was processing so many emotions at once. The oncologist said the decision to delay treatment was up to us, and we asked her what she woul
d do if this were happening to her daughter. Her words still echo in my head to this day. She said, “If it was my daughter, I would have wanted her to begin treatment yesterday.” Any flash of joy we’d had in the waiting room talking about Baby Taylor was gone. We were back to life-and-death decisions. Again I prayed, Jesus, please heal me!

  —JOSH—

  The room was spinning. We just kept getting hit by one piece of bad news after another, and Aly and I had to find our footing. I asked the doctor and Aly’s mom to leave the room so we could spend a few minutes alone together to pray and process everything. Neither of us spoke much in that moment. This day… this week… this entire month had been an absolute nightmare, and so much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Aly and I collapsed into each other. We hugged and wept. We prayed. We asked God to guide us. We begged Him to save Aly’s life. We asked Him to bless us with children.

  As we finished praying, a Bible passage filled my mind. It was Psalm 128, which was spoken over us at our send-off prayer party before we left for Houston:

  Blessed are all who fear the LORD, who walk in obedience to him. You will eat the fruit of your labor; blessings and prosperity will be yours. Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your children will be like olive shoots around your table. Yes, this will be the blessing for the man who fears the LORD. May the LORD bless you from Zion; may you see the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life. May you live to see your children’s children—peace be on Israel.

  We believed that for our family. We chose to believe that my wife would be a fruitful vine. We trusted that our children would be like olive shoots around our table. We trusted and believed that we would live to see our children’s children. That does not mean there wasn’t doubt or fear; we just chose as best as we could to believe in that moment. We were like the man in Mark 9 who came to Jesus, desperate for Him to heal his sick son. When Jesus responded by telling him that all things were possible to the one who believes, the man cried, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (v. 24).

  It is important to note that when we say we “prayed and believed,” we still had doubt. We struggled at times to fully believe, especially when doctors’ reports were so grim. If you are having trouble believing in something you are praying for, pray this prayer with us: “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.” Our Father in heaven understands we are human.

  We called Aly’s mom and the doctor back in and told them we’d decided to start the cancer treatment immediately—the following day, in fact. As much as we wanted a family, Aly and I knew the only way that would ever be possible would be for Aly to live through this ordeal. That was our primary goal. We were choosing to believe that God would protect Aly’s womb and that He would completely heal Aly of cancer through the doctors and treatments at MD Anderson. The doctor ran off to put the plan into motion, and we went out to update my parents in the waiting room.

  Once again the plan had changed. I couldn’t stop thinking, Can I please get off this roller coaster?

  THE NEW LIFE PLAN

  —ALY—

  Josh and I used to joke about my life plan; I thought I had everything figured out when we first got married. Boy, was I wrong! I had a new plan now, and it literally was a life plan. It was the plan to save my life. That second day at MD Anderson was a wake-up call for me. I realized I had to stop getting knocked around by all the bad news and find my feet again. I’d been a proactive person my whole life; I’m a list maker, a goal setter, and an action-oriented high achiever. Why was I letting cancer push me around now? As heartbreaking as the last few days had been, a new spark started growing inside me. It was the spark to fight back.

  After two full days of tests, scans, and consultations, we finally had my cancer treatment protocol: I would undergo sixteen rounds of chemotherapy that would last six months. After chemo, I would have a bilateral mastectomy, which meant removing both of my breasts, followed by thirty rounds of radiation lasting six weeks. Then I’d have a choice whether to have breast reconstruction. If I wanted to do that, I was told to expect a couple more procedures. In all, I was looking at two full years of treatments, surgeries, and recovery time. I wasn’t excited about any of it, but my attitude at that point was, Let’s get started. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to cancer treatment, but I was looking forward to beating cancer. I wanted it out of my life, and the faster I started, the faster I’d be done with it for good.

  During this time we asked the doctors to stop telling us statistics. We found that medical people love throwing stats around, telling you what your chances are for this or that. Josh and I realized that, more often than not, those statistics made us worry even more about what was happening. So we chose not to hear them anymore. I believe a key to getting through any difficulty in life is to fill your mind with things that build your faith. As much as we needed to grasp the seriousness of this situation, we knew that learning the statistics would only bring doubt and fear. Instead, we asked our doctor to tell us in general terms what we needed to know in order to make decisions and to leave “stats for stats’ sake” out of our conversations.

  Here’s what she told us with as few statistics as possible: I was diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer. The cancer was triple negative, meaning it was not grown by the normal three types of hormones typically associated with breast cancer. This type of cancer I had is extremely aggressive and may or may not respond to chemotherapy; it was unpredictable. She told us this type of cancer has a high likelihood of recurrence, especially in the first two years after treatment. However, if I made it without recurrence after the first two years, my outcome would probably be very good. And if I made it five years without a recurrence, my outcome should be excellent. This was honestly more detail than we would have liked, but we knew we needed a few specifics to pray about. The two- and five-year milestones became especially big prayer targets for our family.

  I’m grateful that God told us early on to avoid unnecessary details that would have worked against our faith. In this day and age, it’s so easy to go down internet rabbit holes and dig up every dark, discouraging article about whatever illness we’re facing. I know cancer patients who have nearly driven themselves crazy reading every horror story they could find online.

  Side note: If all you are reading on the internet are negative stories, realize that oftentimes those are the ones people share. Very seldom do people take the time to tell a success story. I had to remind myself of this often, and that is one of the main reasons I am writing this book. If you’re facing a health crisis right now, I encourage you to step away from the computer and give your doctor some guidelines. If too many details are eating away at your faith, it’s okay to ask not to hear the details that don’t specifically empower you to make decisions. Stay informed, of course, with what you need to know to take care of yourself. Beyond that, immerse yourself in Scripture and other things that will strengthen your faith. Those faith reserves were essential for me during my cancer journey.

  LIFE-SAVING POISON

  The first step of my cancer fight was chemotherapy. A lot of chemotherapy. When we started, the doctor gave me a list of likely side effects. She told me I would probably lose my hair, gain weight, develop acne, have stomach issues, lose my fingernails and toenails, experience numbness in my fingers and toes, and more. Just what every woman wants to hear! It was scary, but we were believing that my side effects would be minimal and that the chemotherapy would go straight to my cancer cells and not damage any healthy cells. It was hard to wrap my head around the fact that to heal my body they had to fill me with poison. How do doctors come up with this stuff?

  I assumed I’d spend all day every day in bed once I started chemo, but that’s not what happened. After the first treatment, I felt good. Really good. It was weird. I also assumed I’d wake up the next morning and find all my hair in a big pile on my pillow, but that didn’t happen either. Sure, the side effects came, but it was a gradual process. Thank
God! I doubt I’d have handled it very well if everything happened all at once.

  I have noticed that oftentimes God builds our character and faith gradually. As badly as I wanted it to all be over, God was having me trust Him for each breath. Had He allowed me to be cancer-free immediately, I would not have the intimacy with Him I now feel or the character that cancer has built in me. Those are not things you buy or can muster up. Sometimes the only way you can experience a certain amount of intimacy with the Lord and build the godly character He desires for us to have is by going through unimaginable pain and gradually, sometimes for years, trusting Him until things get better. The truth that I later learned is that God loved me too much to take my suffering away in the way I wanted Him to. He knew the pain would cause me to draw near to Him and become the person He created me to be. Much easier said in hindsight, let me tell ya!

  After the fourth treatment, my hair started coming out whenever I washed or brushed it. I was extremely careful with it at first; I wasn’t ready to part with it, so I rarely touched my hair. Any time I did, big clumps would fall out. I had a wig as a backup because I saw the hair loss as a signal to the world that I was sick. When you see a woman who’s bald—eyebrows and all—your first thought is that she’s a cancer patient, and I didn’t want the world to define me as that.

  I had to keep reminding myself that the hair loss was a sign the chemo was working. One night, as a clump fell out in front of Josh, he wrapped his arms around me and told me how sorry he was that this was happening. I looked at him and said, “It’s okay, baby. That’s the cancer falling out!”

  —JOSH—

  Aly is a fighter, but I knew it was hard for her to face the effects of chemo. The cancer was life-threatening, of course, but it had never made her feel sick. That was always tough for me to come to grips with. Aly had no physical symptoms of having cancer, yet she was very, very ill. The chemo, however, was visibly wrecking her body. When she got worried about touching her hair, I volunteered to wash and gently dry it for her. I made a point of always telling her how beautiful she looked—and I meant it.