consano blog

After our wedding day, Scott and I went through the typical ups and downs of newlywed life. Learning to live with the idiosyncrasies and quirks of one another was challenging, but we (mostly) made it through with humor and laughter. After the birth of our first daughter in 2006, our relationship catapulted to a new level. I grew to love Scott even more as I watched the bond that developed between a dad and his little girl. He was a very involved father, despite the fact that he was still in a demanding anesthesia residency program. Watching Clara smile at him and squeal with delight when we would look out the window and see him walking down the hill from UCSF, was priceless. That love only grew with the birth of our second daughter in 2008. The “in health” part of life couldn’t have been sweeter for us. I like to think that we truly appreciated each moment; I know we tried to be present as much as you can when life is comprised of the chaos that is raising two young children.

And then life changed for us. Scott was at work the day I went into the doctor to get my lump checked. I didn’t even consider asking him to take the day off as I was operating under the assumption that “it was probably nothing.” When a breast ultrasound led to a mammogram, which led to an immediate breast biopsy, it became apparent that this lump was highly suspect. I felt like I was in a fog as I walked from room to room. When I finally found my voice again, I looked at the radiologist and asked, “What are we thinking here?” She looked me straight in the eye and responded, “We strongly suspect that this could be cancer.” Cancer. The weight of that word crushed me. It felt like my world had exploded. 

A bilateral mastectomy took me out of commission for weeks. While my body slowly healed, Scott took care of everything else. He ran the house, took care of the girls and dealt with all of the day-to-day needs of the family. Again, our relationship was taken to a new level as we mourned our life “before cancer.” Amidst the fear and stress, I always felt support from Scott. He took on the role of caregiver in addition to his previous roles of husband and friend. I cannot express how grateful I am for that and how much it helped in my recovery process. I never doubted that Scott would be there for me, and that provided me with immeasurable comfort on my darkest days.

About a month after my surgery, I wrote a journal entry that sums up my thoughts on Scott’s support: “I am thankful for my husband. Not only has his medical expertise provided me with an invaluable medical advocate through this journey, but his love and support have literally kept me going. I never wanted to go through the “in sickness” portion of our vows so early in our marriage (and in life), but knowing that I will be loved without breasts and without hair takes away some of that fear of the unknown. Knowing that we are going through this together – that I am not alone – somehow makes everything more bearable. Knowing that the pain and anxiety that we are going through currently is going to give us more time together in the future makes it worth bearing now, tenfold.” 

When we vowed to love and stand by each other “in sickness and in health” on that beautiful, clear May afternoon, I never realized how much those words would mean to me. Going through “in sickness” with Scott showed me that love isn’t symbolized by hearts or cards or flowers or chocolates, but rather by sharing laughter as Scott shaved my head, or holding hands as I sat in a recliner being infused with chemo, or hugging tightly after those elevated liver enzymes came back normal. That is love, and I’m so grateful to have found it.

•   Cancer
•   Molly's Story

As I arrived at the cancer center, donning my “Yes they’re fake, the real ones tried to kill me” shirt (my motto: laughter is the best medicine!), I was greeted with a “graduation” tiara. As silly as it seems, I’ve never been more proud to wear a cheap piece of plastic in my life. I was hooked up to my IV and the drip commenced. My husband Scott was by my side, as he had been throughout every step of my journey, and we settled in to watch old episodes of “Arrested Development” to pass the three hours. I looked up periodically at the IV bag, full of the drugs that would hopefully kill any lingering cancer cells in my body, slowly emptying its contents.

As we moved into the final half hour of my chemotherapy, one of my favorite oncology nurses, Rob, came over and knelt down next to my chair. We started to discuss the idea of the “new normal,” and what that would mean to me as I went forward with my life. After that final chemo bag emptied, he told me, I would go back out into the world without the comfort of actively treating my disease. And that is a difficult adjustment. It is scary. But he also gently reminded me that no one knows when or how our life will end. The important thing is to keep living each day to the fullest, to embrace life.

Then the IV infusion pump started to beep. I was done. The bag was empty. Chemotherapy was over. And it felt like life was just beginning again. 

Molly’s life before cancer. BC. That is no longer my reality. Cancer is forever a part of the vocabulary of my life. The fear that every new ache or pain is somehow related to this disease is part of my everyday, but I try not to let that get in the way of living life. The part of this “new normal” that makes me the saddest is the fact that cancer has become a part of my daughters’ vocabulary. In trying to understand my various surgeries and treatments, my six-year-old summed things up most poignantly: “The chemo is the medicine that makes it so you don’t die, right Mom.” While she shared this in a very matter-of-fact, unconcerned tone, I was none-the-less choked up as I replied, “That’s right, sweetie. That’s right.”

•   Cancer
•   Molly's Story