My story
Fair warning, despite the current trend to keep it short and sweet, I tend to fail at that rule so I expect this to take up a bit of your time. So, here we go. The start of my life was incredibly normal. I grew up with my parents, two siblings, a dog and even a wonderfully stubborn grandmother who lived in our house. I have a large extended family which meant aunts, uncles & cousin-friends were (and still are) a regular part of my life.
As I grew up, I went through the public school system in my hometown, Danbury, CT (go Hatters???). Generally speaking I excelled in the classroom, and dabbled in a few sports (parental requirement) as I worked my way through school. Come my Junior year, I began dating my husband, Ryan, which means this spring will mark 20 years of being together – High School Sweethearts what up!!! 
Fast forward through college, and an amazingly disastrous 20s with the Stamford Crew, once we were approaching 30 it felt like it was time to “settle down.” We’d been married a few years and had that “oh, we could maybe figure out how to handle a kid” moment, so we got that whole thing going.
**WARNING – the upcoming portion of my story is related to some pregnancy woes, so please pause here if you are pregnant or have had pregnancy issues and may be prone to an emotional reaction.**
In 2018, my husband and I were pregnant with our first child. The pregnancy itself was pretty uneventful. The beginning was the standard beginning, the middle felt the same but with some added weight, but the end was quite horrifying and has continued to haunt me and a lot of my pregnant / potentially pregnant female tribe five years later.
In December of 2018, I spent a lot of time dealing with (or trying to deal with) my OB because I was feeling reduced movement in my 3rd trimester and had grown concerned. I’d spoken to the on-call doctor on a Friday evening, but since the office had closed and an ultrasound “would require going to the hospital which would be a pain in the butt,” per his guidance I had instead “laid on the couch after digesting something sugary” (no joke, that’s what he told me to do when I described concern over reduced movement). I’m generally pro-doctor vs google-MD, so I heeded his advice and got through a few more days.
The uneasy feeling stuck around so on December 13th I left the office to get an ultrasound. My husband met me there, which happened on a whim as he didn’t typically come for each visit (2024-Danielle, who has become an expert in the Universe’s way of swirling around, would say this was the Universe in action). The tech began her ultrasound and within seconds excused herself to go get one of the doctors.
As newbies in this whole pregnancy thing, my husband and I looked at one another confused, and a touch concerned, but nothing beyond that. After a minute or two one of the doctors (who had previously told me drinking sugar was a good idea), came in and took over the ultrasound. Within a few seconds, he looked at my husband and I and said something along the lines of “your baby is no longer living, you’ll need to leave here and go straight to the hospital. Let me show you how to get out the back door.”
That’s no joke. I’m paraphrasing because I cannot remember exactly what he said, but I can tell you that I hope he someday stumbles upon this page to better understand how horrifying his communication and lack of empathy or concern were for us. He literally ushered us to a back door exit and encouraged us to go home to get some clothes (????????) on our way to have me induced to deliver our son.
Not fragile like a flower, fragile like a bomb.
-A nod to Notorious RBG (and all other badass influential women)
The last time we saw him was when he checked in a bit after our arrival at the hospital and with the most lackluster and borderline rude approach, told us our baby was a boy (this was something we’d planned to surprise us upon delivery). Fortunately, one of his partners got us through the situation, so we never dealt with him again. And I’ve since suggested that friends dodge him, too.
Anyhow, James was delivered December 15, 2018. It was horrible, sad, terrifying, and frankly an experience that I didn’t know existed in the 21st century since this was before women had grown bold and begun to share similar experiences with the world (go female empowerment!!!). We were surrounded by friends and family anticipating the births of their own children and getting through it all was a one day at a time, with potential meltdown, situation.
Fast-forward to December 20, 2019, our daughter Leila was born. Her prematurity caught us off guard and was a challenge to adjust to, but in hindsight it was probably better than having our first living child, which was incredibly terrifying post James, during Covid.
As much as life can suck, it always beats the alternative.
–John Green
Let’s fast-forward again, since we all dealt with our own versions of Covid bullshit, and come March 7, 2022 we had daughter number two, Scarlett. Covid was still a wee-bit present at that point, but she was born approaching warmer weather so we were able to compromise on our Covid fears by socializing outdoors.
Scarlett started daycare mid summer in 2022, and I returned to work (in-person for the first time since Leila was born!!). Life started to feel normal for the first time since 2017. We adjusted to having two kiddos, working from our new home which meant some commuting, and having a life that wasn’t so full of Covid fear.
Come January of 2023, I was feeling a bit funky monkey and had grown tired of the “oh you’re still dealing with postpartum nonsense,” so I went to a naturopath to see what was going on. She checked about 3,820 blood levels, and ultimately we decided I should see my Endocrinologist for a 2nd opinion. Based on what my doc was seeing, she decided to send me in for an MRI to scope out my endocrine area.
The MRI was completed in late April, and the results came in rather quickly, on a day I was home with my daughter who had a stomach bug, and was quite literally puking in a bucket sitting next to me when I stopped playing phone tag with my Doc. When we finally connected she rapid fired information about a “UBO” – Unidentified Bright Object – on my brain, and included the doctor I needed to call ASAP. I met with him and then spiraled into the challenge of figuring out a diagnosis and plan for treatment.
After some additional scans, lots of testing, and ultimately a biopsy in August, the docs determined I had a grade 4 brain tumor in the left temporal lobe region. To provide a little clarity, grade 4 = glioblastoma.
How I handle the stupid BC
In short, I try my hardest to maintain a KIP attitude, something my husband would refer to as “Keep it Positive!” Upon Googling to remind myself what the acronym was (my memory is garbage), it turns out that across the pond “kip” is slang for taking a snoozer, which is something I haven’t ever really done until all this cancer treatment nonsense was in full swing.
My diagnosis sucks, my treatment is annoying, there are some shitty things you’d expect BUT, I do insist on more of a glass half full (with a touch of sass) attitude:
- I’m not 100% bald so I could hide my issues from strangers (if I wasn’t such a big mouth);
- I have the most absurdly generous, loving, supportive group of humans surrounding me and it sometimes makes me ill to think about the magnanimous nature of it;
- I get to do oral chemo, so no infusions!;
- I’ve found the most wonderful crew of doctors and literally miss my radiation crew at MSK – shout outs to Stacy, Sharon, Layal & Vince;
- The kids are still under the impression that life is normal.
Nevertheless, she persisted.
–Feminist rallying cry (that also works with keep-it-going women!)
Despite the fact that we’d already gone through one of the worst experiences ever, this was, or is, yet another disaster in our lives. All of your love and support is genuinely keeping us afloat. I’ll continue sharing on this blog to update those of you who are interested and want to continue reading my blabbing. Please stay tuned for more to come
BCCTWB 