By Sarah Okin

On March 13th, 2020, my family of five began sheltering-in-place. My husband and three children (and our dog) spent a blissful week juggling our two full-time jobs, raising our three full-time children, and fulfilling our responsibilities as co-owners of two local businesses, all amidst horrendous March Michigan weather. We had similar worries, concerns and new challenges as most people we know, and we laughed with friends as we shared strategies for managing children and work and staying sane.

Then, on March 20th, just one week into quarantine, in what felt like an overdue self-exam due to years of breastfeeding, I discovered a lump in my breast. Being too young for routine screenings, there was no choice, I had to go the doctor. After a few visits to the coronavirus-ridden healthcare system to undergo several images and one biopsy, and following two excruciating waiting periods, I was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma (HER2+) with DCIS. 

Thus began my third career: beating cancer during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Apparently, this type of cancer is common and beatable, and I am quite lucky. I emphatically don’t feel lucky. I did feel lucky when they gave me the excellent news that my lymph node appears normal and clear of cancer. I also felt lucky when my surgeon told me this was going to be a difficult year but then it would all be behind me. But overall, I don’t feel lucky: I’d be well within my rights to choose from a number of injustices with which to be furious, in fact. If not my diagnosis (unfair for anyone), then my age -- I’m just 38 -- or my bad luck in developing an illness for which my immediate family lacks any history. The timing - we are in the middle of a global pandemic with no clear end in sight. If those aren’t cutting it, try the fact that my daughter and my niece now have a higher risk of developing this themselves. And I started losing my hair just 12 days after my first treatment. The list could go on.

For the first two weeks of this experience – from identification of lump to elimination of lymph nodes – I was in a constant state of stress and anxiety, which is new for me. Prior to COVID, I was practicing yoga 3-4 times weekly and that final pose, shavasana, was always the most challenging for me: focusing my mind on nothing, no planning, no prioritizing, no nada. At present, that practice is critical to my emotional success. Not ruminating, not going to the dark place, not worrying about what they will find during surgery in August. Practicing a sort of shavasana 24/7 without slipping up as I run after three young children, indoors, in a pandemic. Quite honestly, parenting these three children is more than a full-time job and has an important benefit: it has kept my mind busy and occupied, protecting me from dark rumination and possibly depression. As with others quarantined with their families, alone time has been scarce. But for me that is an exceptionally good thing. My sporadic moments alone are now spent reading, having a small cry in the shower, writing this. None of this has had more impact (like a punch to the face) than a fleeting glance in the mirror now has.

(I did say the list might go on.) 

But a few words define me and have done for as long as I can remember: determined, optimistic, productive. These characteristics should support me in the fight of my life. They are also exhausting me. Remaining optimistic about the length of treatment (“it’s less than half a pregnancy!”), the timing of surgery (“I’ll be fully back to normal by winter 2021!”), the diagnosis itself (“totally beatable! I’ll outlive you all!”), and the side effects…is grueling.

Remaining productive (I knocked out four 5ks including one ‘socially distant race’ since my first infusion, plus countless miles walked with the children and the dog), managed produce meaningful work for my clients - will likely not be sustainable as the weeks progress. 

And finally, being optimistic no matter what is thrown my way, a skill I have practiced my entire life is being put to the ultimate test. Since beginning chemotherapy on April 10th, we have had to isolate even further. Reducing my exposure to the virus-at-large is paramount so treatment is not interrupted. For groceries and other random needs, we have turned to our community. These individuals have displayed a humbling level of generosity and thoughtfulness. We are even more physically isolated than ever before yet are experiencing a higher level of connectedness with friends and family around the world.

My summer is looking bleak at best: a 10th wedding anniversary meant to be spent in Rome will be spent celebrating my final infusion, my husband’s 40th birthday will be spent recovering from a bilateral mastectomy. “Surreal” comes to mind first and strongest when I attempt to take a hard look at my new life. I understand that Matt Damon sheltered in place with his family in the Irish Amalfi Coast and so the residents are also feeling like life is surreal. My friends, you could not find a more supportive bunch, feel like life at home in isolation balancing careers and children is surreal. Images shared from friends around the world -- Camden in London, Times Square, Tel Aviv, Cape Town, even downtown Ann Arbor: all empty of visitors and locals – all surreal.

Does my version of surreal win? Is there even a contest? Focusing on not focusing on the unfairness is my reality. Teaching my two-year-old words in two languages, teaching my nearly-four-year-old how to communicate more effectively when she’s upset, stimulating my six-year-old’s mind so he is prepared for 1st grade, this is my reality. I walk around pretending everything is normal. I run, work, support my family, clorox groceries, prepare meals, walk the dog, all while poison courses through my veins and organs murdering all the good and bad cells I’ve got. What’s really happening is unfair, unbelievable, insane. I appreciate I’m not the first (nor the last) woman to experience this. But it sure feels like a rather exceptional situation. And I am ashamed to admit how green the grass on the other side is appearing at present. 

So: Is it selfish to long for others’ current versions of surreal?

My now six-year-old, who had his birthday in quarantine (before we knew if my cancer had spread – a day riddled with joy, deep sadness, and fear) volunteered to buzz cut his head with me after my hair was falling out faster than I could keep up. My other son, aged 2, wanted in on the action once he saw it happening. My husband, who has been shaving his head since his 20s, brought out his clippers and we three lined up. 

My husband, a saint on all fronts but one -- tidiness -- lingered in the bathroom long after we three were downstairs exploring each other’s freshly shorn scalps. I discovered later that evening he had been cleaning up after this experience so that when I returned to the bathroom I would not be traumatized again. Among all this unfairness, I will remind myself that I am successfully raising compassionate children and that I am supported by the best people in the world.

Sarah Okin is an entrepreneur, a dedicated mom of three, a runner, and an indebted partner to the love of her life. She is a person who wants their cancer journey to be firmly in the past, and does the work every day to make that reality.