Kate's Story

I was about 24 weeks into my pregnancy with triplets when I discovered a lump in my left breast. Yes, triplets.

I felt the hard spot on my chest one morning when my husband, Chad, gave me a hug goodbye as I lay in my hospital bed at St. Luke's Regional Medical Center in Boise. I had landed in the hospital unexpectedly about a month earlier because of pre-term contractions, and I had at least two more months of strict bed rest to go.

I have a family history of breast and ovarian cancer. But I was only 34 years old. I was healthy and active — and blissfully unaware that the estrogen produced by my three placentas during my pregnancy was fueling a tumor.

At the hospital last summer, my world revolved around having healthy babies. I ate 4,000 calories per day to help the triplets gain fat early — not exactly the anti-cancer diet. Carrying the babies to a viable gestation was not only a physical feat but also a journey requiring mental stamina. I knew that I needed a calm and positive emotional outlook to get us through the many weeks ahead.Chad brought in objects that helped make my hospital room feel like home. I surrounded myself with visitors with upbeat attitudes. I hung a giant calendar to mark our daily progress.

So I was more than happy to believe one of my four high-risk obstetricians who dismissed the small lump in my breast as a normal part of pregnancy. But three weeks later, the lump seemed larger, so I asked a second obstetrician to check it. He ordered an ultrasound of my breast, which showed nothing of concern. But the cancer kept growing.

At 30 weeks pregnant, I saw a coin-sized spot of blood on my shirt. My first thought was that it had dripped on me from one of my regular needle pricks. But the blood was also inside my bra, and I realized it had come from my nipple. Concerned about being able to breastfeed my future preemies, I pleaded with a third obstetrician to figure out what was wrong. He, too, told me not to worry. He actually said the lump would resolve itself when I began to breastfeed! The next day, I pushed a fourth obstetrician, Dr. Stacy Seyb, who listened to me and sent a breast cancer surgeon to meet with me.

Dr. Mark Szentes measured the lump and said he would return in two weeks to re-measure. If the lump grew, then he would order a biopsy. When he came back, it had grown by 2 centimeters. I tried not to worry as I awaited my biopsy results over a weekend.

Finally, on Aug. 21 — two months after finding the lump and 33 weeks into my pregnancy — I learned I did have breast cancer. When Dr. Szentes told me the biopsy results, I thought it was the sickest, most wrong thing that could happen to me. I was about to have three tiny babies who need me. I already knew I may not be able to hold my babies for days or weeks after birth, depending on their medical needs. Though heart-wrenching, it was a possibility I had prepared for mentally. Now, cancer threatened to take away the nourishment I longed to provide. The thought that I would not be able to breastfeed was almost unbearable.

I also worried about my husband. He’d just seen me through 12 long weeks in the hospital. We had thought we were nearly to the finish line, only to find out we still had a mountain to climb. I wondered if he would crack.

I thought about Aunt Vicky, who left behind four children when breast cancer took her life. I wondered what she and my dear mother, who died of ovarian cancer seven years ago, were thinking from their heavenly perches, watching this unfold below. I asked, ‘What more could I learn from cancer that I have not learned already?’ I had watched my mother and aunt die because their fear of cancer was so crippling that they waited too long before catching it. They were afraid because they had watched my grandmother die. Growing up, I often heard my mother describe the appearance of my grandmother near her death as like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. I wondered if denial kept my mother from getting checked out sooner. By the time Mom’s ovarian cancer was diagnosed, one tumor was the size of a football and the other was the size of a grapefruit. I, too, had carried the fear and had vehemently refused genetic testing because I did not want to know.

What I’ve learned is that if you live with that kind of fear, it's almost worse than the cancer.I credit doctors Seyb and Szentes with saving my life, but I know my persistence did, too. I was able to survive breast cancer because I listened to my body, not to doctors who told me not to worry.

I shudder to think what would have happened if I had dropped the subject, had my babies and gone home. Like most women, I would have been too busy taking care of everyone else to notice what was happening inside my body.

In the days after the diagnosis, Chad and I began gathering information, interviewing surgeons and making battle plans. We shared the bad news with family and friends so that we would not have to announce the birth of our babies at the same time. We selected a surgeon who was both aggressive and supportive of my commitment to breast feed. I also finally agreed to have genetic testing.

The stress of the diagnosis brought on stronger contractions, and medications could no longer keep my pre-term labor under control. I had decided ahead of time that no matter what, the day my babies were born would be a joyous day. Four days after the diagnosis, on the morning of Aug. 25, I was 4 cm dilated and was rushed into an operating room for an emergency C-section. With Chad at my side, I cried with joy as each baby was delivered and announced his or her arrival with a soft cry.

Chad and I were blessed with three healthy children: Claret, 2 lbs. 9 oz., Treysen, 4 lbs. 3 oz., and Jumelle, 2 lbs. 7 ½ oz. Treysen needed to be on a ventilator for a few days. The girls were breathing fine. I was able to hold Claret in my arms the day after she was born. Soon, the triplets were regarded as the easiest nursing assignment in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit because they needed little medical care and just needed to gain weight before going home.

One day in the NICU, a genetic counselor brought the results of my genetic testing. I was positive for the BRCA2 mutation, making me prone to breast and ovarian cancer. This information made me feel sure of my decision to have a mastectomy, as opposed to just a lumpectomy.

We scheduled my mastectomy for Sept. 6. For about 10 days, I pumped milk from my healthy breast to help nourish the babies in the NICU. I had to pump and dump my milk for a few days to allow radioactive dye to identify my sentinel lymph nodes before surgery and to receive antibiotics after surgery. Luckily, my lymph nodes tested free of cancer, and the tumor was labeled stage 1.

We brought Claret, Treysen and Jumelle home on Sept. 22. We fed and diapered them eight times per day, around the clock, for the first month they were home. As they grew, we were able to feed them greater amounts, less often. Claret was colicky and could not be set down for her first two months at home. Those months, our lack of sleep was borderline dangerous. Chad would walk Claret around the house – the only way to soothe her – and he would fall asleep and crash into the furniture. Luckily, he never dropped Claret. We realized we needed more help and hired a nanny part time.

I was able to breast feed until Nov. 9, when I started 12 weeks of Taxotere and Taxol chemotherapy and Herceptin. My oncologist said I could wait a maximum of 2 months after my mastectomy to start chemo, so I took every day I could to breast feed.

The babies started sleeping through the night in December, about the time that the chemo fatigue really set in, on top of recovering from muscle weakness from bed rest. Chad decided to stay home for four months to take care of us.

Chemo ended Jan. 22, and I was told it would take 6-8 weeks to feel normal again. I eagerly awaited that feeling, but it didn’t come at that time. I still was very susceptible to infection, as were the babies, and we came down with a cold each month through June. Many times I would sit in my rocking chair and feel too weak to get up. Chad would bring me babies and bottles. I kept telling myself that my babies could not wait until I was feeling better to have their first year of life.

Because of the genetic test results, I had surgery on Feb. 26 to remove my healthy breast and my ovaries to prevent recurrence. Some days, I wondered if I would ever feel like I used to. I worried the fatigued feeling would be my new normal.

With a lot of help from friends in caring for the babies, I had my first reconstructive surgery in April. Chad, the babies and I participated in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on May 10. As a former marathon runner, it felt strange to walk 1 mile, wearing the pink T-shirt and hat of a survivor.

I used to have so much more energy than my husband. Now, I watch him do laps around me in caring for the babies. I had to trust that it would get easier, and slowly it did. This summer, I have gained energy and feel more like myself, just in time for Treysen, Claret and Jumelle to start crawling.

I continue to get an infusion of Herceptin every three weeks, and I am taking Tamoxifen for five years. I may have lost my breasts and ovaries, but I have gained confidence in my gut, peace with my slower pace, and the indescribable feeling that came when I conquered my worst fear.

I am more alive now than I was before.