Understanding . . . Life.

Our lives are made up of events. Each moment in our history has impacted who we are today, some insignificant and unknowingly and some monumental and memorable. We never truly realize at that instance the impact that those events will have on our future selves.

I have no idea how I ended up in the series of unfortunate events that have plagued me through my 20’s. I stopped wondering “Why” a while ago. I can’t figure it out, it makes no sense; and I realized the chaos in the question was just never meant to be answered. The events of the past two weeks, have left me withered and feeling defeated.

Monday had just started out bad. My Mom became sick and couldn't watch Stephen so I could go to meet with the Radiation Oncologist. She sent my Dad over, which was great, but, it left me to finish getting the girls ready for school by myself instead of being able to rely on her to finish up. I was running late to get there. I hate being late.

I am not sure where the lines of communication get mixed up. Different doctors interpret scans in unique ways. They type reports differently and then there are the doctors that read the reports to their patients who analyze the results in different ways. That leaves the patients with a small portion of the actual results. It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating and there’s not a damned thing you can really do about it unless you are staring at the actual scan. I never asked for a copy of my scans, and never really had a doctor sit down and show me what my scan looks like. That is, until Monday. Monday I sat down with the Radiation Oncologist and he showed me the screen of my pelvic MRI. The arrows pointed all over my pelvis to black dots. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight- I lost count. My pelvis is covered in cancer. I never realized or was told how many lesions are in my pelvis. And just because it’s news to me doesn't necessarily mean it is news to anyone else. It’s like playing telephone and unfortunately I am at the last person to hear so it is a bit garbled up by the time it reaches me. He explained that the lesions in my upper pelvis, left to right, are small, but seem to be causing me the most pain. As you move down my pelvis, they get larger. The ones along the bottom of my pelvis are triple the size of the ones along the top. Apparently, in not-so-technical radiation terms, your body is split into different sections. You can only have one portion of your body radiated at one time. Your pelvis is usually split into two sections. He wasn't sure if he would be able to radiate my pelvis in one round (one round equals 10 sessions, 5 days a week for 2 weeks) or if it had to be done in two. I was to report back the following day to have a special X-ray scan and a CT scan to measure my pelvis and then come up with a treatment plan . . . a palliative treatment plan. Not one meant to cure, just one meant to help improve the quality of my life. 

I wasn't expecting to get a call that my sister and Dad had called an ambulance for my Mom. She was rushed to the hospital for pretty severe symptoms. I am pretty sure I had a mental breakdown later that day, one of many to come over the course of the week. I was on the treadmill walking and I looked out the window, only, I was back in the hospital. I was on the hospital bed, just staring out the window. The doctor was sitting in a chair across from me telling me how they found cancer all over my body. I looked at her, in shock, and just asked “Am I going to die?” My very existence on this planet was immediately threatened and I could no longer see my future, I couldn't see my kids growing up, I couldn't see me growing old with my husband. I saw black, I saw nothingness. I cried, like I have never cried before. I wasn't at the hospital anymore; I was home, back on the treadmill and crying. My life is still threatened. It doesn't move forward, I am stuck here, in Cancerland. I feel like I am stuck in jail. The whole world moves on with their lives. Friends are getting new jobs, new opportunities, finishing school; they are buying houses, having more babies, and I am here. Just doing what I need to do to live yet feeling like I am not getting to truly live my life. I am stuck with the mundane activities of a terminal cancer patient. You know, just doing what I can to improve the quality and time span of my life. I’m only 30. Sheesh.

Then it just spirals out of control. I go back the next day for the scans and lay on this table. For. 45. Minutes.

Me. On this table. For 45 minutes. This table is flat and not cushioned- I cannot lay flat. It shoots pains in my hip down my leg. I swallow hard and breathe heavy but the pain overwhelms me. Just when I think I cannot lay there another second, the test is done. I don’t think the tech realized how disabled I actually was laying there. See, I put on a good front and everyone sees it because everyone tells me. I hear “If you didn't tell me you had cancer, I wouldn't have known.” or “You don’t look sick” and the ever famous “But you look great!” Well, I am not sure how a person with cancer is supposed to look? Skinnier maybe? Not happening. Tired? I wear makeup. Groaning in pain? Not a chance. It’s called sucking it up, and that kids is what I do best. So I try to sit up, and I physically cannot. I make a little noise and the tech comes over to help me. I cannot even sit up myself so here he is actually lifting me, dead-weight, to sit up and I just start screaming and crying. The pain is unbearable. And it only got worse as I went for the other scan. I should have brought someone with me. Augh, stupid, stubborn me. They told me they would call me in 2-3 days with a treatment plan. I’ll officially start radiation next week. Side effects include but are not limited to: skin irritation on the area, vomiting, diarrhea, trouble urinating, fatigue and a couple other fun not-gonna-mention stuff. You’re jealous, aren't you?

The news on my Mom wasn't looking great. Not dead bad, but like need surgery bad. So it’s up to me and my other sister to make sure my Dad has food, and their dog is taken care of, and someone visits Mom and make sure Dad doesn't go ballistic on a nurse. The stress was mounting and absolutely no one, and I mean no one could understand. Not even the closest of friends could grasp how hard life is to juggle when shit literally hits the roof. I've gotten the most slack from people over my lack of ability to returns calls and texts, to get on Facebook every minute of every day, hang out or go out. I know for a fact that each one of my friends at one point or another has gotten annoyed with me over this. So, let’s add in that to this mountain of crap and I was headed straight for a mental ward. I’m not exactly sure what everyone wants from me? I am trying my best here. I am trying to not die while raising three little kids, be a wife, a daughter, a sister, an Aunt and a friend. Contrary to popular belief, it really isn't as simple as it seems.

Remember those events I talked about? A simple comment of an Instagram picture of mine flashed me back to my childhood. I was where I loved to be: the softball field. Nothing else in the world can touch me, can bother, or interrupt me. It’s just me and the game. It smelled of spring, the warm sun on my skin, my adrenaline rushing just waiting for that line drive to come straight to my glove. It’s one of those times, however oddly inconsequential it may appear, is one that molded me to the person I am today. The innocence of that little girl is something I will never have back, but her sheer persistence, ingenuity and dedication is what followed me all through these many years later. And it was in this moment that I realized that no matter what is thrown my way, I got it.

My Mom was released from the hospital this weekend and really needs to start taking better care of herself (MOTHER! I KNOW YOU ARE READING THIS) or she will end up back in the hospital and next time it will probably require surgery. I will figure out the next weeks of my life with the same fortitude I learned playing softball. Radiation won’t be easy but it will help me, and even though I may not be able to buy a house, have more babies and start a new business, I will be able to move around easier and not have pain while checking things off of my Mommy Bucket List. And that is pretty much all I can ask for.  

Radioactive

All I wanted to hear on Thursday was "no more chemo".

I know that my cancer will return full force again; it is just a matter of time. Since I am missing the gene that suppresses one’s tumor growth in the body (Li-Fraumeni Syndrome), I will always been threatened with new cancers or the progression of my breast cancer. I was doing so well, chemo worked great but it was horrible. I felt horrible and I looked horrible but it did its job. Mostly all of my tumors showed vast improvement in regression; which is great but I hated chemo. Did I say that already? Well, I did, I hated chemo. I went 11 straight months, every week- I deserved a break. I guess we just hoped the cancer would stay at bay, at least for a while.

I feel bad for my Oncology PA, I am pretty sure I hit her with close to 45 questions I wanted answers to. She wrote them all down on a piece of paper. We discussed some there, and some needed to be answered by “the man” . . . my oncologist. When he walked in the room, he said to me “Why should you keep living with this pain?” I don’t really have a logical explanation why. I can’t take pain meds; I cannot function as a wife and mother on them. I will not be attached to a pain patch that makes me sick and makes me have to take more meds to counteract the reactions. I most certainly will not sit my ass on a couch and cry and complain every hour of every day. I would rather just deal with the pain because the alternatives outweigh the benefits. “Let’s try some radiation.” he added. Radiation will reduce the size of the lesions and alleviate my pain. This is a palliative treatment. It will not cure my cancer; it is simply being used to relieve symptoms.

Now, radiation for me is a complicated. There are certain guidelines to follow when dealing with LFS; one of which being to avoid radiation therapy if at all possible. Here’s why: there is a small chance that radiation can cause secondary cancer because of the radiation. Well, if a patient with a P53 gene can get a secondary cancer due to the effects of radiation, the percentage is even higher for a person without that gene. If you are still following me, because of my LFS I am at in increased risk of developing another type of cancer normally, but having radiation would double that chance.

Doctor’s don’t normally like to be questioned, but mine takes it in stride. I said, “Uh, what about the LFS?” and he just smiled. The plan is to start me on radiation, very small doses of radiation, for one session. One session could be 10 or so rounds of radiation. I would go every day for a couple weeks. There should not be any higher risk to me with this low amount of developing any new cancer. I will have radiation a lot closer to my house, and meet with the Radiation Oncologist next Tuesday. This doctor ultimately decides exactly how much radiation I will receive- my oncologist simply recommends what he would like to me to have.

This next step is frightening, but it’s better than chemo, it’s better than being in pain and it’s better than being dead. If it’s gonna help then I’ll rock it in good ol’ Kate fashion.

I’m gonna be Radioactive, radioactive.

The Potholes in the Road

Life is full of bumps in the road; mine however, seems to be filled with potholes. As soon as one pothole gets patched, another storm brings new ones.

I have posted numerous times on our Facebook page how I have been suffering from this horrific back/hip pain. It’s more like the back of my hip, my pelvis, which has a stabbing pain in it just about every single second of the day with little to no comfort. I have endured the pain, not taking pain meds because they make me loopy. I simply cannot afford to be out of it while being a full time mommy and wife. I started seeing a great orthopedic doctor who seemed to generally be interested in helping me. First, he wanted to pinpoint my pain with a MRI of my pelvis. That MRI was the absolute worst non-invasive testing I have had done. The test itself was about 45 minutes long, and I had to lay with my arms above my head on a hard table in an itsy-bitsy tube. Halfway through I became desperately sick because my arms had started to hurt tremendously. I am stuck in this tube that I barely fit in and it is in that moment that even though I am not, I feel myself becoming claustrophobic. I just kept singing in my head “This girl is on fire . . .” The song empowers me. Needless to say I was elated to be done with that test and never once gave a thought to the reason my prescription said I was there: “To rule out Metastatic Disease”.

I figured today when I went in to have my results read I would be leaving with an answer besides the one I received. There are new lesions in my iliac crest (pelvis). Sigh. These are not previously noted on any scans, giving the reason to suspect the cancer has progressed. This is the reason for my pain. The lesions are exactly where my pain radiates. There is nothing my orthopedic doctor can really do for me now. He ordered some PT (physical therapy) in hopes to desensitize the area so I am not in constant pain. I have an appointment scheduled with my Oncologist on Thursday to discuss these new findings. I know it’s selfish but I seriously just don’t want to go back on chemo. I just feel like I am starting to feel “myself” again. I started losing weight, I have hair again, and my life doesn't revolve around chemotherapy and doctor’s appointments every week. I am ready for this pothole to be patched up. Do you think I could tweet Pittsburgh’s 311 Service to take care of this? Augh, I didn't think so.


James 1:12 
Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.

Dreamer.

I’m a dreamer, always have been. Dreaming isn't a bad thing. At night, in bed, as I fall asleep I love dreaming of what my life may be. And I think I am closer to many dreams than I thought I was one year ago.

It’s been one year since I sat in the ultrasound room with the doppler on breast as the doctor told me how abnormal my tissue was. There was an urgency of having a mammogram done that day, and I sat in his office twisting my toes, trying to keep my composure.

Here I am a year later, still suffering from the same ‘scanxiety’. Afraid of what test results may bring because let’s face it; I am not used to get good news. The past couple scans have surprised me and today’s didn't let me down either.

Yep, you read that right: “favorable response to therapy with significant decrease . . .“ Even though that report was for my liver, the same goes for my bone metastases.  Minimal radioactive tracer was seen in my bones, meaning there is a decreased size in my bones mets. My right breast still shows no evidence of disease and only a tiny tumor in my left breast.  

*Don’t read too much about that last part- I get ovarian cysts and every time they see them on a scan, I have to go have an ultrasound done to rule out metastatic disease- classic case of CMA (cover my @$$).

The pain I have been having could be arthritis or sciatica, both can be common from the bone mets but not too much to do for it besides pain meds. I just move slower these days and rest more often.

The Plan:
January 16th, 2014 will be my last chemotherapy for now. It will not be the last chemo I will have in my lifetime, I will need it again; but, after 11 months and 33 cycles of it, I am beyond excited to have a break, whether it is for 5 months, 5 years or 15 years. I am not cancer free, Stage IV is incurable and my P53 gene defect (LFS) guarantees my cancer will progress again, or be found in a new location. But, I am responding, and I am securing my life for a lot longer than I expected.

I will continue on my targeted therapies (Herceptin and Xgeva) indefinitely every 3 weeks. As much as I love my nurses and my hospital I would rather much see them once a month than once a week and for shorter intervals.

Next week I will meet with my oncologist and we will start talking about setting this plan in stone and start planning for surgery.


Until then, I am off to dream sweet dreams without care and thank God for His grace.

Confessions of a Young, Bereaved Mother and Terminal Cancer Patient

In my 29 years here on Earth I have learned more about the ways of the world than many will in a lifetime. I have shared many thoughts, but most of my deepest darkest ones I have kept hidden, until now.

2013 has been one of the worst years of my life, 2007 being the worst. It was the year she died.

I remember that first year after she died. I cried myself to sleep for 7 months straight. My eyes were constantly dry and cracked from the tears. They would burn with every droplet and I felt as if you could actually see the bags under my eyes. I would scream in my head "I hate you, Shannon!” I hated her for dying. I did. She left me. It wasn't how life was supposed to be. She wasn't supposed to die before me. My future shattered. I never wanted to lose her, but forgetting her was my actual fear. Every month in the first year after she died I dreaded the 16th and the 19th. The first time a month passed and I didn't realize the 16th came and went, I was sure I already started forgetting her. As each day passed, I thought about her less and less. She no longer consumed my every thought, and I guess that was a good thing. I always said if I lost another baby, I would have no purpose and would not need to live. I would rather die than lose another one. But, I did lose our second baby, and I didn't die- I lived. I learned then how to survive.

And one day I felt this rush over me. It was peace. It was Shannon. She was okay, and I was okay. I felt at peace with her passing, and the loss of my second pregnancy. My grief seemed to plateau after that point. I have watched other mother's who have lost children go years past their child's passing and yet still be enveloped in that first year of grief. It's detrimental to your well being to be stuck in those frames of life as if they were to play out forever. I am not.

I am a bereaved mother. That is one thing that will never change about me, like it, leave it, love it, hate it- it is what it is. I am deprived of a daughter that I should have with me. I also lost a baby that never had the chance to even hear my heart beat. I should have 5 children with me, not just 3. I was asked, shortly before my diagnosis, if I had "gotten over" Shannon. The answer is no. You can never 'get over' a child that has died. Just because Shannon is not here does not mean she is easily forgotten. You see, my grief, it is a very nasty scab now, covered by a bandage. And sometimes, my bandage falls off, and my scab is exposed; and like any other scab, it bothers me; it itches, it hurts and sometimes it seeps. Then it needs time to heal again. One day, my scab will turn in to a scar, and I will no longer need a bandage to cover it, but I am many years from that. Healing is a delicate and extensive process. Shannon is, and always will be a part of my life, like any of my other children. I miss her, but my grief does not dominate me. Love does. On special occasions, when the wind is just right and the sun is at the perfect angle in the sky; I see my three little children running through the fallen leaves and I think to myself "Shannon, I wish you were here". Although my family will never feel complete, it is the love I have for her that now enables me to move forward.

After the twins were born I finally felt like I was a "real" mom. I finally was able to actually hold a baby, feed a baby, change diapers, hear cries- this was real. I welcomed every fit, every poopy blow-out, and every single drop of vomit on my shirt and every single cuddle. Even though being a NICU mom for the second time was a hard experience, having that role for a third time proved even more difficult. I nearly died having Stephen, and that is no understatement. I literally needed life saving measures, 3 surgeries and 7 blood transfusions to save us. All of which left me without the capability to ever bear children again. It has been hard for me, I never experienced that whole naive pregnancy, natural birth, bring your baby home from the hospital with you sort of thing. It is something I struggle with, I felt robbed of the normalcy of pregnancy, delivery and a newborn. Although at times it plagues me, I accepted it for what it was. A blessing. I was blessed to now have three children. I became a stay at home mother shortly after the twins had turned one. It was a hard adjustment, but I did adore it. Things became increasingly harder after Stephen was born. He had so many special needs related to his prematurity, so I always spent extra time with the twins. Life became easier to juggle, and even though at times I longed for a night out, I did truly love being a mom. It was what I was meant to be.

When Stephen was almost 3 is when the big blow came. We always had appointments and therapies for Stephen, and we were always ensuring that he thrived but it didn't control our life. After an appointment down at the hospital last fall, it was suggested that he was farther behind than what I thought. They suggested he needed intensive therapy 6 times a week. I felt like a failure. Maybe I was too selfish, focusing more on others needs instead of that of my son. It hit me like a ton of bricks. We started within a month having therapy one to two times a day five days a week on top of the girl's pre-school classes three times a week. Being a mom is tiring work, but being a mom to a special needs child, whew boy- now that takes nothing short of a saint to maneuver. It was rough, and it was tough, but I did it and I looked forward to learning from this experience in every way possible. And I was doing a good job. I was mom to three beautiful, loving kids.

And then, I became this: A Terminal Cancer Patient. As if I haven't gone through enough, as if I haven't bled, cried and begged to be a Mother for long enough, this came, and it threatened my very existence.

There are so many things that suck (seriously no other word), that just absolutely, unequivocally and downright suck about having a terminal cancer diagnosis. It's a huge burden of responsibility, unlike one I have never felt before. It wasn't one of my kids that I had to take care. That, compared to this, was manageable. I could handle being a mother that had to watch your child fight to survive. I wasn't the one fighting in those situations; I was a bystander watching everything unfold before me. I could handle the decisions, the pain and the anguish because it wasn't for or about me. As a mother, I have seen other mother's nightmares play out in my own life, like when my daughter's ventilation tube was drawn out of her mouth and she held on tight to my husband's hand and spent the next minutes dying in my arms.

Maybe, as a mother, your worst nightmare isn't your child dying- it's you dying. And there I was, sitting in a dark hospital room; having a doctor tell me she would try to save my life, realizing that all along, I should have been fearing the day that my children would be without me instead of the day I would be without them.

I try to act as if my life hasn't been disrupted, that I can still manage the kids, the husband and everything else but the truth is: I can't. I know, I know- I look okay, right? I got this huge smile on my face, and I am happy and laughing, but, don't you mistake all that for me feeling great, having it all together and worked out 'causeeee I don't. I have never felt so tired so quick, and have been in so much pain, have so many emotions run through my mind and have never been so unable to control a situation in my entire life. You have no idea how hard it is for me, the outgoing, gotta-help-everyone, can't-say-no, always-on-the-run, in-to-something-new-all-the-time, cooking-dinner-every-day, has-such-a-clean-house-you-can-eat-off-floors, has-everything-UNDER CONTROL----to not. This situation is uncontrollable. It is unable to be controlled. Even though I hate every bit of having cancer, I will be damned if I let it consume me so I try hard to put on a brave face, to be inspiring and uplifting.

And sometimes, well, most of the time, well, all the time- I feel sorry for everyone. I feel sorry people know me. I feel sorry people care about me and I feel sorry people love me; because, I am going to die on them. I know what it's like when someone you know, care about or love dies; it's horrible. It's a cruel tragedy. It can shape a person, it can break a person, and it can have long term effects on a person. I feel sorry for them because I know what my death could do to those people and I am afraid. I am afraid of hurting people more once I die. I am afraid of forging new relationships. I am afraid of getting close to anyone. I am afraid of continuing relationships. I am afraid that I will die at an age that my Godson will remember me. I am afraid that the people I inspire will be devastated. I am afraid my friends will have to endure things without my shoulder to lean on. I am afraid that my nieces and nephews will forever hold on to the day they said goodbye to me. I am afraid that my sisters will always say "I wish Katie was here". I am afraid that my parents will feel a pain I felt after Shannon died, a pain they will never recover from. I am afraid that my husband will feel abandoned yet again. Above all, I am afraid that my kids will never heal. I am so in love with so many people that it hurts my heart to the deepest depths to know that I will cause them pain; pain that may last for weeks, months, or years. I cannot handle that and some days my fear for everyone is enough to drive me in to solitude.

But the anger drives me in to isolation as well. I am naturally a short-tempered person. I become very angry, very quickly. I get angry at having cancer. I get angry at friends who stopped being good friends. I get angry at the family who has no regard for me. I get angry at people that take advantage of me. I get angry that people who take so much for granted. Their utter thoughtlessness and wanton cruelty boggles my mind- cancer bewilders me. It makes me insane. I want to scream and shout about it all. How dare you? How dare you mess up my life, cancer? How dare you abandon me, family? How dare you not keep your promises, friends. How dare you not treasure every single second of your life, people.

Then there are days the depression creeps in. I can feel all of these feelings simultaneously erupt like a volcano and wish I just wasn't here anymore. If I wasn't here, no one would suffer, myself included. I just want to be with Shannon.

And then I have these miracle days. They make me forget everything. God doesn't always answer my prayers, but, He sends me these reminders to let me know He is listening. Sometimes it's a gift from a stranger, like the man who paid for my over $80 transaction at Wal-Mart, and sometimes it is as simple as my 5 year old grabbing my face and looking intently in my eyes saying "I love you so much, Mommy". These days restore me. They rejuvenate me. They fill my drained soul.

I am young. I am a bereaved mother and a mother to three very small children, one with special needs and I am a terminal cancer patient.

2013 had been a thousand mile an hour emotional roller coaster that I can't stop. I am strapped in and feel like I am going to hurl, cry, or fall off at any moment. I have grieved over many things beside my terminal diagnosis. I have grieved the loss of my daughter all over again; I have grieved my relationships and have grieved my motherhood. If 2013 has taught me anything, it was that the unexpected happens. I have seen the best, and the worst of life all in one year.

2014 will not be easy, but in my last confession: I am totally ready for it.

The Unexpected

I've decided something.

Cancer isn't a death sentence, it's a living sentence. It's an opportunity to live your life to the fullest in the midst of your own mortality. 

Only I can decide how to live my life, not cancer.




I wrote that on my Facebook page last month.

The unexpected happens. Finding out I had cancer at 28 was completely unexpected and made me realize how quickly life could change, but it's made me realize that no matter how hard I tried to control it, I couldn't. I could, however, control how I handled it. 

The past few months have been a test. It hasn't been easy, in fact, it still isn't easy. I don't know that it ever will be. I learn new things every day. I learn about my friendships, my family, myself, and the world around me. Hence my utter lack of motivation with my blog. I have been busy having many life lessons and trying to handle them. Some good, some bad and all unexpected.

The changing of the leaves wasn't the only thing the Fall brought. It brought a change all around me. My hair had started growing back in from the first rounds of Taxotere and I looked normal. But, looking normal and feeling normal are two completely different things. As September turned to October is when the changes began. The change around me, the way others treated me, the way I felt, the way I looked was different. I handled the change as best as I could. And as October went on, the LemonAid the CURE stands had me out and about 2 to 3 times a week. I noticed myself becoming sicker and sicker, until I stretched myself out so thin that I could not physically move from my couch. The LemonAID the CURE stands were beyond my expectation, raising $5,000- $2,000 over my original goal; but I couldn't bounce back from the cold. I noticed it was becoming harder to do. My weakened immune system left me sick every other week, and chemo became harder to recover from each week. I gained weight every week, my hair was becoming thin yet again, and I was now looking at what becomes of a person on chemotherapy for nearly 11 months straight. But, in true Kate fashion- you didn't know, 'cause I don't complain, never have been much of a complainer.

Then, the really, really, really unexpected happened. The results of my scans showed stable mets in my liver and bones, and no evidence of disease in my breasts! I asked the doctor to repeat it two more times. I couldn't believe it! I cried. I never thought I would ever hear those words. As long as my scans were stable in February, January would be my last chemotherapies and surgery looked to be in my future. A feat we never thought we'd make it to.

Sharing the great news, and yet feeling so incredibly ill was an unequal balance for me. Everyone assumed I was fine. They started expecting things from me. They became angry when I could not complete their bidding. They expected me to feel good since I looked good. Not that I expected to be treated special, but I did expect to be treated a little bit more like someone in active treatment for Stage IV Metastatic Breast Cancer and less like a perfectly normal and healthy individual. But, everyone just, forgot I guess. I don't have a very good explanation for it. The expectations people had for me made me withdrawn and irate at times. I don't think I expected to see those closest to me start to abandon me. I expected for them to be more understanding. But, maybe I should not have had expectations of others. Such is life . . .

And that's okay. It's okay to me now. I know now how to handle the unexpected. I have only one battle to fight right now, and that is my life. I have made the decision to survive using courage, humor and grace. I am the Queen of my own life, and the choices to be made are mine. What cancer has done to rearrange my life sucks, but I am going to live my life to the fullest: with or without cancer, with or without certain friends, with or without certain family, with or without knowing if I'll be here in 5 years. I will not let anything control how I choose to handle the unexpected except for me.


PS- I shaved my head . . . again. Why? Well, it was massively falling out and because I may not be able to control my cancer- but I will control how to handle it.

Cancer Stricken Mom Working On Bucket List

April 26, 2013 2:22 PM


Watch the video: http://pittsburgh.cbslocal.com/2013/04/26/cancer-striken-mom-working-on-bucket-list/

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Photo Credit: KDKA

Reporting Sarah Arbogast

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Health, Local, News,Syndicated Local

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Belle Vernon, Bubba, Bucket List, cancer, Chemo,Chemotherapy, Kate Crawford, Sarah Arbogast,STAR 100.7

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PITTSBURGH (KDKA) – A Belle Vernon woman is in the fight of her life, but you would never know it.

Kate Crawford is positive, optimistic, and upbeat despite battling Stage IV cancer.

Crawford was diagnosed with breast canceron January 25th. Within two weeks, she found out that the cancer had spread all over her body.

“The scans revealed that I was stage IV and that it had spread to both breasts, in my shoulder, down my ribs, in my liver, down my thoracic spine and into my pelvis,” said Crawford.

Crawford immediately started Chemotherapy treatments and came up with a “mommy bucket list.”

“I wanted to be able to record everything that I wanted to do and if I don’t get done with the list, at least they can look at it and they can know what dreams I had for them when I was a youngmom,” said Crawford.

One item on Crawford’s list was meeting Bubba, morning radio show host for Star 100.7. Friday morning, Crawford was able to cross that item off her list. She joined Bubba on the air to share her story.

“I’ve always been a listener and I love your show and you make me laugh so hard, on the way to chemo every Thursday, that is what we listen to,” said Crawford.

Bubba, almost speechless, says he was humbled to be on Crawford’s list.

“Hopefully we can look back at this bucket list and say oh my, I really never needed that, that would be the best,” said Bubba.

Crawford is asking others to help her with her bucket list. If you’d like to see it, click here.

If you’d like to follow her battle with cancer, you can click here.