Happy Birthday, you're Stage 2.

Not that there's ever a good or even ideal time to find out you have cancer, but in my case, we found out three days before I turned 35. I mean, come on. It's January. It's cold. And then this. Pretty rude if you ask me.

The first thing I remember was how many people started reaching out to get the ball rolling - nurses, my care coordinator, doctors, schedulers, financial planning managers, social workers, genetic counselors, and I'm sure I'm missing others. And they all call you. On the phone. For those of you who know me, my phone has been on vibrate since 2007 so that most people are forced to text me. I'm a millennial in that way, through and through. So right away I was exhausted just from talking to all of these amazing people and trying to remember everything they were telling me.

Wednesday, January 20, 2021: Two days after we got "the call," we met with our surgeon, who is wonderful. I wish I could regurgitate everything that was discussed, but I honestly can't remember all of it. The whole appointment was a bit of a surreal fog, but these were the highlights, based on the data the doctors had that day:

• What it is: invasive ductal carcinoma, the most common type of breast cancer (originates in the milk ducts and spreads to the breast tissue)

• The tumor is small, about 2cm

• Cancer type: ER+HER2+ which means a lot of things; a hormone-driven cancer and there is available treatment that can be highly effective

• Cancer cells: grade 3 (which means they're very active, and we learned later on is a good thing)

• Clinical stage: 1A based on current findings

• Chemotherapy would be part of my plan, and before I even left the office that day, I was set up to meet with the oncologist two days later.

After what seemed like an eternity, the doctor told us this was all good news and that she was really optimistic. "We are going for cure, here!" I sat there trying to smile under my mask while ugly crying at the same time.

She gave us a crash course in surgical options (lumpectomy / mastectomy), and then an overview of what each one meant, what each one would mean in the longer term. And by then our heads were spinning.

Finally, the doctor gave me a breast exam and felt my lymph nodes, helping us to understand if the cancer might have spread. Standard procedure for these appointments is to hold time afterward for a lymph node ultrasound and biopsy if needed. And wouldn't you know it - I needed both. The doctor felt at least one node that was more prominent that she wanted to take a closer look at. Could be something, could be nothing. The same radiologist who performed my breast biopsy, also performed my lymph node biopsy, and told me that cortex of the node was slightly thickened, about 1.5 cm. Could be a side effect from my breast biopsy. Could be cancer. Could be nothing. "Please be nothing. Please be nothing."

The next day was my birthday, Thursday, January 21, 2021. Yay...

My surgeon was the one who called that morning and confirmed my lymph node biopsy came back positive for cancer, increasing my clinical stage to 2A, and confirming that I would undergo chemotherapy first so as to have the least invasive node surgery later on. She reiterated that my case was still considered early stage, and the fact that only one lymph node appeared to be affected was a good sign. "We have so many reasons to be optimistic; we are still going for cure!"

After I hung up with her, I guess I should have tried harder to share in her optimism. But all I could think about was Sadie growing up without her mom and my heart shattered for the millionth time that week.

Un-happy birthday, Courtney.