Happy nails is the newest trend of applying a powdered dip on to your existing nails. It lies somewhere on the spectrum between acrylics and a regular manicure. A long-lasting manicure that is not supposed to chip, break or easily peel off. On Tuesday Oct. 1, 2019 — the day after my birthday — I ripped my happy nails off, one by one.

Dazedly swimming in the earth-shattering news I had been given a few hours prior, I was curled up on my bed, detaching the hardened polish from my own nail beds. Tears clouding my sight, fogging my contacts and soaking my sheets.

Hogdkin’s Lymphoma. The words reverberated like a fiery pinball bouncing off every corner of my mind.

I relived it over and over. The moment my doctor said it. The way he said it. The timbre in his voice. The words laden in empathy. The look of sympathy draped across his face. That stupid, stupid face. With his kind eyes and friendly smile and perfect nose. OK, so my doctor is amazing, but every time I recall him saying, “It came back as Lyyyymmmphooooma,” I recoil in anger.

“No. No. NO. You’re kidding. This is a joke. You’re joking.” These were my first words.

Denial is a real thing, my friends. So are out-of-body experiences, shock, misplaced anger and bone-chilling fear. And I experienced all of them, all the emotional colors of the cancerous rainbow in minutes. And in a room overlooking the most antithetical backdrop, no less: the Intracoastal. The water was calm, I sure as hell was not.

“I wish I were,” he replied, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“I don’t have cancer. Not me. It’s a mistake. You’ve made a mistake. I am 37 years old, I feel fine, I’m healthy, I’m active, I have two babies.”

My God, my babies. 

Julian, who will be 4 on Christmas; and Keanu, who’s a day shy of being 9 months old, are — like many children are to their parents — the loves of my life.

“They need me,” I continued. I need them.

There was a woman in the room with my doctor, a breast health navigator. I suppose when you see her, you should know bad news is coming. In retrospect, the tissue box she carried in tow should have been a dead giveaway, but never did I imagine the results from my fine needle aspiration, a biopsy of sorts from a swollen lymph node under my left arm, would turn out as cancer.

I have cancer? Me? No f-ing way.

“And you! You were loitering outside my room being way too nice to me. I should have known something was up,” I said to her.

She patted my back, handed me a tissue and explained who she was. Even amid her reassuring words and gentle demeanor, I remember thinking, this woman is so nice and so pretty and has such white teeth, how can she be giving me such horrid news?

“Is there someone you would like us to call?”

“What? Um … My mom is with my boys and my husband is working.” I turned toward the doctor. “You were so hopeful this was breast feeding related.”

“I know. But we’re going to take care of you. You’re showing no other symptoms, which makes me think that we’re catching it early and …”

“But you don’t know that,” I interrupted. “I had swollen lymph nodes when my milk came in almost 9 months ago, and everyone overlooked it because they said it was normal. It went away, but now they’re back and it’s lymphoma?? We don’t know how long this has been in my body.”

He continued talking. He talked about staging, the next steps and how, as crazy as it sounds, he was glad it wasn’t breast cancer.

I dropped F bombs like a parrot, who had just learned the word, apologizing after each one. I have never cursed that much before and especially not in front of strangers. I looked toward the water, teetering in and out of awakened consciousness. Then I spoke.

I talked about my postpartum after I had Julian. I explained how my problem wasn’t that I didn’t connect with him, rather I connected too much. I never loved anybody or anything so unhinged like I did this little being. I couldn’t manage my emotions. Much like the 4 and 5 year olds I coach, they were hard to rein in. I became irrationally afraid of death and slightly agoraphobic. At every turn, I thought I might die. The irony, of course, is now I feel fine, only to get this diagnosis. Did I put these thoughts into the universe? A self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts? Did I give myself cancer? Or, I am being punished? I haven’t prayed consistently in the last few months, right around the time the swollen lymph nodes appeared. Is my disconnect with God the cause of this?

“You did all the right things. There was nothing you could have done to avoid this. The oncologist knows all about you, and she’s very aggressive and … ”

I checked out again. I thought about the nightmare I had the other night. I was on a plane and it was going down. Covering my son’s body with my own, I prepared for crash landing. Then I said, “Sandra, you’re dreaming. Wake up. Wake up!” I did, and relief washed over me.

I wanted so badly to wake myself up in that room, to realize it was all just a nightmare. But I couldn’t. Because it wasn’t a dream. This is not a dream. I have cancer. And now my poor nails have never looked so unhappy.

How I found Out:

A common question I get is what were my symptoms or what prompted me to go to the doctor. Here’s the condensed timeline:

• More than two months ago, lymph nodes under my arm were swollen. It was very obvious. It felt similar to when my milk first came in after I had Keanu. The difference was I was producing less milk.
• Sept. 9, 2019: I had a follow-up physical with my general physician. I told her about the swollen lymph nodes, and she said, very casually, “Oh yeah. Let’s schedule an ultrasound.”
• Sept. 16, 2019: Ultrasound of the left axillary. That same day, I received a call saying there were several enlarged nodes, axillary lymphadenopathy, to be exact.
• Sept. 18, 2019: Bilateral breast ultrasound. Results came back clear.
• Sept. 24, 2019: Fine needle aspiration. Samples from the largest lymph node were taken.
• Oct. 1, 2019: Results are in … Lymphoma.

Here’s What I know:

• It’s classical Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
• It’s one of the most curable and treatable cancers, with a survival rate in the 90th percentile for both stage 1 and 2.
• My CBC, complete blood count, came back as normal, all save one: my platelet count is a tiny bit high.
• I have the most amazing family and friends. As I’ve said to a couple of different people already, under any other circumstances, I’d be bragging as to how popular I feel right now.
• It’s going to be a hard road ahead, but I’m going to be OK.

What’s Next:

• Therapy. I’ll be seeing a counselor to help me throughout this process. I already had my first session, and apparently it was determined that I may have a flair for the dramatic. Somehow, I can picture many of you saying a resounding, “duh,” to this assessment. Anyhow, I need to practice being mindful, so I am praying and meditating every day.
• PET scan. It’s scheduled for next Wednesday, Oct. 9. This will determine where exactly the cancer is in my body.
• Excision of the left axillalymph node. This will take place the following morning. Basically, they’re taking out the largest lymph node to determine the sub-type of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Apparently, I’m not allowed to shave my armpit until then. So I’m a little concerned as to what kind of hairy labyrinth the surgeon will find under there.
• Treatment. This is only determined after we get both the results from the scan and excision.

Silver Linings: 

• Preferred parking. They actually have parking spots reserved for cancer patients, so that’s pretty cool.
• I’m writing again.
• I’ll be making healthier lifestyle changes, i.e. essential oils, vitamins and a cleaner diet.
• I can pull the cancer card. Anytime anyone complains to me I can say, “Oh yeah, well, I have cancer.”
• That this happened to me and not to the boys.
• This is an opportunity to connect with God again.

Final Thoughts: 

I am scared. I am angry. I am confused. But I am hopeful. Even right now, as I type, I oscillate between outrage and composure.

I am writing all of this, though, not just for my family and friends, but for me. To help me. I have often read stories like this one wishing I would never have to go through anything similar, probably like some of you are doing right now. But this is my new journey. And if you see me on the street, at a restaurant, at a store or on the soccer field, please don’t feel awkward. Talk to me if you want. About the treatment, about your life, about anything. I warn you, though, I am eating raw garlic and I may reek.

Every time I read one of your messages wishing me well, telling me you’re praying for me and that you’re behind me, I cry. I cry because although I am sad that this is my reality, I’m so grateful you’re thinking of me.

And I just want to say thank you.

Thank you to my family, who have reached out, who have put my name in their churches, dedicated mass in my honor, and who are doing prayer circles for me.

Thank you to my friends who have messaged, called and cried with me.

Thank you to my best friend, who has researched so many  homeopathic remedies.

Thank you to my immediate family. My mom and BJ, who have received the news harder than me. I know it’s not fair. This is affecting you, too, but I appreciate you being with me.

And thank you to everyone who is sending their prayers, positivity and healing thoughts. Please keep ’em coming, I will accept them with open arms.