Oscar Needs His Mommy

When it rains,  it pours.  July 25th there was a fire in our home.  We lost everything,  but we are safe.  The firefighters were able to find my cat as well. We are going to have to start over,  just as I'm starting chemo. I did not have insurance. 

A letter to my son:

Dear Baby Squeaks,

Here's the hard part: today might be the last day I can say that I don't have cancer. I'm calling it Day 0. Tomorrow I'm expected to get the results of my biopsies. The doctor isn't optimistic. He thinks it's invasive ductal carcinoma that has spread to my lymph nodes. If that's the case, I'm looking at Stage 2 or 3 cancer, months of chemotherapy, and then surgery to remove where the tumor was.

This is going to have a big effect on our activities, our pillow fights, our yoga practice, our bike rides, even our snuggles. Some days Mommy (that's me), won't be able to do much of anything. It's not because I don't want to play with you or hold you close, it's just that I might be very sick or in too much pain.

I wish I could say that I think everything is going to be okay, but I don't have that feeling. I think I'm going to leave you way before I thought I would, way before I'm ready. I have incredible grief and guilt that I'm not always going to be there for you. But I promise you this today, today before I know anything about the results, that I am going to be there for you as much and whenever I can.

You are my sunshine. I love you so much. My chest aches thinking that someday I won't be able to hug you, tickle your belly, or have you lift my hand to cheek as you suck on your finger. I don't know what will happen after I'm gone, but if it's possible I will try to be with you every day for the rest of your life. Then maybe someday we will be together again. Until then, let's make the most of the time we've got.

I love you, Baby Squeaks.

-Mommy

I'm Shelly. Just a few weeks ago I was diagnosed with stage 3B invasive ductal breast cancer, it has spread to all of my lymph nodes and is triple negative. This means that I need the most aggressive form of chemo. All of the nurses keep saying, "You're so young." It's strange to hear, because at age 40 with a 2-year-old. My cancer is very aggressive and my doctor wanted to start chemo immediately, but I made the difficult decision to delay 2 weeks so that I could harvest my eggs, in case I wanted Oscar to be an older brother. 

On August 5th, my doctor called to report they are unable to freeze any of our embryos. The chemotherapy will make me infertile. It seems that all we get is bad news.

When Oscar was born I started an email account for him so that he could have one with his name. I started using it to write to him everyday of my experience, in case I'm not here to see him grow up.

I wanted to share my first message to him with the crowd. It takes a village to raise a child, but it takes a crowd to raise a child with a sick mommy.

My real costs are (for now): $16,770

Cold caps and dry ice ($4,520)
Egg preservation medication ($5,250)
10% of treatment costs ($3,000)
1 treatment of uncovered new chemo drug ($4,000)

Any money raised beyond costs will be put toward Oscar's college fund.