T-FUC(k)

Team Fuc(k) Uterine Cancer

I’m writing today to bring you up to date on some health issues I’ve been dealing with and to tell you what it means. I also am writing to tell you what I would like to ask of you, what I think I need, what I don’t need, and what I don’t want. I’m writing today – to all of you – because I want you to know what is going on and because each of you is important to me.

I’m writing to all of you at the same time so I don’t have to live in the retelling of this story as I’ve lived the past two years in the telling and retelling of my partner's hand surgery, my back surgery, my partner’s cancer, my dog’s death, my bike theft, and who ever remembers what ever of all of the other life’s horrors that have unfolded during the past two years.

It’s exhausting to live in the retelling of bad stories and I’m sick of it. It’s why I’ve been isolating myself– I can’t bear telling those fucking stories anymore and the only way I can steer clear of them is to not see people. So, today, I’m telling you another story. It’s got some bad news and some good news and it’s probably going to be a cliffhanger of sorts because there is a lot that I don’t know and won’t know for some time.

But I want to tell you what I know. It’s not meant to be a secret. Most of all, I want you to know that although this originally was a semi-mass email (and now is a blog post), I’m telling you all because you all are so important to me and I want you in my corner. 

We don’t need to whisper about this. This isn't a secret.

My Story

Today is a day when I join a new team.

I’ve always liked being on teams, ever since my mom started girls’ softball in my hometown of South St. Paul where she and Mrs. Karg coached us in fourth, fifth, and sixth grade. Lincoln Elementary. We had green t-shirts. After every game, we’d go to Skyline for ice cream, crammed in the VW Bug and in the back of the Karg’s pickup truck.

From there, in middle school, I joined volleyball, track, and basketball. Then, swimming, basketball, and softball. In college, I swam and was on crew. In my work life, I’ve always sought to be part of a team and often succeeded.

If you know me, you know I’m competitive. And you also know I like to win. And you also know that I can be an asshole in the pool and in the boat because I want to win. I don’t just want to win. I want to crush and humiliate my opponents.

This instinct, or honed attitude, is part of what makes me good at my job in public relations. My job is really a job in sales. I have to build relationships and then sell stories. I’m pretty good at it because I know that I should only be on the pitcher’s mound with stories that will give reporters good hits. If my product won’t do that, I don’t try to sell.

This competitive attitude is also part of why I don’t miss Masters Swimming, even though I miss being fit. I was able to swim with those I call the “slippery boys,” the boys in lanes 5 and 6, the fast lanes, where -- at Macalester Masters -- I was the only girl in the fast lanes. I worked hard to crush as many people as I could so I could be with the slippery boys.

But this competitive part of me actually disgusts me. And I don’t talk about it much because it’s repellent. I’m telling you today because this weakness of mine, this propensity to be a total asshat in competition and the drive to crush others I see as competitors, is likely to serve me well as I join a new team.

The Chapter that Starts with a 'C'

At the 2016 Nobel Peace Prize Forum, I was lucky enough to
have a portrait taken to honor those living with prostate cancer.
Kind of funny today. 

Today, I join a team because it picked me. Kind of like in gym in grade school. I was picked today to be part of a team. I was picked early and, just like in gym class when the good kids got picked early, I feel lucky to be named to this team early.

Today, at 8:02 a.m., on Friday, March 17, 2017, I joined the team of people with cancer. I was picked to play for Team Uterine Cancer.

I say I was picked early and that I’m lucky because I was picked for the Stage 1 team. I’ll tell you more in a few seconds why this is a good team.

I want you to know that I was ready to hear the word “cancer.” I’m a “prepare for the worst” kind of person. It works for me because it means I’m rarely crushingly disappointed by anything.

I was ready to hear the word “cancer.” I’ve been undergoing tests for the past six weeks because I’d had some bleeding after several years of menopause. (Yes, menopause hit me early and it’s why I sometimes flash like a squid in meetings or suddenly have rivulets of water running down my face and feel like I’m on fire from the center of my bones, out. It’s a humbling thing, menopause.)

I was ready for the doctor’s clinical delivery of the word “cancer.”

But I wasn’t ready for the way it sunk like a stone into the well of my belly. And I certainly wasn’t ready to hear the thud echo back up through me, an airy haunt, “cancer.”

What I Know Today

I have cancer in the lining of my uterus, the endometrial lining. The cancer cells from my biopsy were well defined. That’s good. It means those little bastards aren’t shape shifting yet. It means that this is Stage 1, for now.

It’s entirely possible there are cells in there that already have their tiny, Trump fists up in the air like they just don’t care, but we won’t know until later. So, I’m Stage 1 of 3 for now. My cells are well-defined. The cells are the least aggressive of the kinds associated with uterine cancer.

That said, it’s kind of a weird thing because my uterine lining is a normal thickness. I also have an ovary that is a hot mess and behaving like a little asshole. That’s a weird thing. The doctors don’t know if that has The Cancer or not. The way to find that out is through surgery, which I will be having sometime this spring.

On April 12, 2017, I will see the gynecological oncologist. I already know that I will have surgery in the weeks following the appointment. The surgery will remove my ovaries, uterus, and cervix. While they are ratting around in there, the doctor will look to see whether the cancer has spread. Before surgery, I may have some imaging done to see if the cancer is visible in the uterus and surrounding area, to see whether it is outside my uterus and reproductive organs.

I should also say that I’m not afraid. This will be weird to you, but I want to tell you this: During the first three months that Jamie and I were dating, I had a dream. In it, I was in the hospital following cancer surgery. In my dream, I knew I had a “girl cancer.” At Jamie’s side were my brother Vic’s children at the ages they are now -- almost 18, 16, and 14.

I never could figure out why they were so old in the dream. But they were there and we were all laughing. I expect that dream to come true. And I need it to come true. That’s what I know.

Tattoo and Other Fun Stuff

At 4 p.m., today, my friend Emilie Robinson is going to tattoo me.

I’m going to get a rose gold (if that color exists) tattoo that says:

Still Kickin’ 

17 March 2017 

It may or may not also say: “Fuck Cancer.” I haven’t decided yet. Then, I’m going to dinner with a friend before we go see my amazing niece dance with Eclectic Edge Ensemble. I’m super looking forward to seeing this. My niece is an amazing athlete and doesn’t quite know how stunning she is. 

Saturday, I’m going to go see my mom. We planned this before my Good Morning, Sunshine Phone Call from Doctor Good News.

Monday, I’ll go to work.

After that, I’ll wait until I know more on April 12. And I’ll share that chapter of the story.

A Request

I’m going to need your help. Help from all of you in some form or another.

I probably am going to need to ask for help financially through a fundraiser. My friend Nicole said she’d take this on when I holler “go.” I’m hyperventilating about the financial end of things.

After surgery, I’ll be out of work for a bit. Research says that recovery from this surgery is about six weeks. I don’t have that much sick time in the bank because, well, remember my back surgery 18 months ago?

I’m going to ask that, when we see each other, this not be the first thing we talk about. I don’t want to live in the telling and retelling of this story.

I know it will be awkward. It will be awkward. But so what. Lots of things are awkward in life. First kisses; the first day at a new job; the first fight with someone you really care about; the day your parents realize you are a sexual being and the day you realize they are sexual beings, too; trying to truly apologize to someone you adore.

Life is often awkward. But that doesn’t mean life is bad. It’s just awkward sometimes. Let this be one of those times.

Let’s talk about you and the good things in your life.

Let’s talk about what’s good at work and the fact that the fucking daylight is back after a grey winter. Let’s talk about my idiot dogs and how much dog poo I pick up each week.

Let’s talk about camping, something I haven’t been able to do for two years because of the shit show in my life the past two years.

I’m not asking that we don’t talk about cancer. But I am asking that we minimize it because all I know, I’ve already told you all of it.

Please don’t let me isolate myself anymore.

I’ve been avoiding everyone because I just keep having bad news to share and I haven’t wanted to keep telling the sorrow stories that have exhausted me. I’m so tired of them. I’m ready to fight. My fists are bigger than Trump’s.

I’m not afraid of what is in front of me. I’m not afraid of the outcome, good or bad or middle.

But I am afraid of having to keep telling the same story over and over.

Thank you, all of you. You all are important to me and I want all of you in my life.

Love you all.

Steffi
T-FUC(k)
(Who wants to be on "Team Uterine Cancer," anyway?)