KRISTEN'S STORY

In 1997 you could see her catching the curve on the 200 meter dash, sporting the team uniform of a Milford Tiger. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin, bronzed from the sun, brought out her blue eyes, and her family and friends and community cheered her on as her legs carried her across the finish line before any other competitor on the track. She had trained, and she was determined. She had heart and fight and hope. There was no stopping her.

Today, you can find her raising three beautiful girls and cuddling up to the love of her life. Still physically fit and working as an operations specialist in Provo, Utah, she would be easy to recognize. But in rare moments when she takes off her wig and washes the bronzer from her face, you might also just as easily recognize the signs of breast cancer. Her blue eyes still sparkle, determined to win. Her family and friends and community are still cheering her on. She is determined. She has heart and fight and hope. There is still no stopping her.

Her name is Kristen Bailey Branin, and this is her story.

Kristen and Jeramie had just welcomed their third baby girl Maycie in 2010. She was as beautiful as her sisters (Aleiah & Katie). Kristen was enjoying every minute of her maternity leave, but when the baby was four weeks old, she noticed a lump. Her husband agreed it should be looked at. It was too big to ignore. She had experienced mastitis and clogged milk ducts with Aleiah, but this was different—maybe a benign cyst. Both her sister and sister-in-law were familiar with those. In any case, she had a post labor check up in a few weeks. She could bring it up to her doctor then.

And so the exam on November 30 began as a routine check. When things were finished, she asked the doctor to take a look at the lump on her right breast, and an ultrasound was ordered and performed two days later. It showed a significant mass. They moved on to the biopsy scheduled for December 6, 2010. What could really prepare her for an oversized needle the size of a caulking gun that entered the skin and pulled out tissue? On a positive note, the radiologist agreed that it was probably a benign cyst as Kristen was so young with no family history of breast cancer.

She waited for three days, and when the phone call and results didn’t come, she called the clinic. They didn’t have an answer yet, but the nurse would call for them. It was just a few short minutes until Lori, the nurse, called back and asked her to come in to the office. She left Jeramie home with the kids, took their only vehicle that held all three car seats, and told her little family she would be back within an hour. She had to be back. Jeramie was due at work.

It wasn’t long before she sat in front of Dr. Baxter, staring at his lips moving, listening to the words like they were meant for someone else…, “Well, there really isn’t any easy way to tell you this. You have breast cancer. It’s called Infiltrating Duct Carcinoma.”

She wouldn’t be home in an hour. It would take her that long to control the crying. It would take her that long to calm down. And while she cried, so did her nurses. After all, Lori and Raquel had been there to help deliver two of her girls. She managed to tell her husband over the phone. It was the call she never wanted to make. The call he never wanted to receive.

And now they were making more phone calls, extending her work leave, making appointments at the Huntsman Center. In fact, she was due to meet Dr. Nelson, a surgeon on December 20th. At this appointment they found an enlarged lymph node and ordered another biopsy. It now seemed to pale in comparison to the plan he was making for treatment…chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, reconstructive surgery.

Kristen tried to stop time to process that word, “chemotherapy.” It is such an ugly word, and until now she had handled the diagnosis in stride. But the doctor said chemotherapy, and for the first time she realized that this was real. She will lose her hair. They will give her just enough meds to keep her alive, yet kill the cancer.

A nurse named Vicki asks her why she is so afraid. “I’m going to lose my hair.” It’s a statement made through tears. But the nurse is resilient and positive. It must come from experience. That should be the least of her worries. There are wigs and makeup. They will take care of that. And so Kristen picks herself up and carries on.

The days move faster but are somehow painfully slow. Another appointment is scheduled with a Dr. Werner who specializes in this type of cancer. They get her in within two days because her cancer is aggressive, and no one is taking chances.

And then at eight weeks old, she weans baby Maycie. There is no more breastfeeding. The disease takes that from her.

Genetic testing reveals that Kristen is negative. Perhaps it is a little silver lining for Kristen and her sisters and her daughters. Dr. Werner lays out the plan of attack: every other week of chemo for eight weeks followed by a double mastectomy followed by five weeks of radiation and then three months of waiting will finally be followed by a fourteen hour surgery to reconstruct her breasts. It will be a long fight, but Kristen is a fighter.

January 4th it all begins as they install a port in her chest. It will keep her vessels from collapsing and serve as a direct route into her system for the chemo and other meds. Among these appointments, Kristen receives cat scans, MRIs, more biopsies, and blood work. They are uncomfortable to say the least, but nothing prepares her for the first round of chemo. The word “round” is used because it is a boxing match, and chemo gets its punches in. But Kristen figures out the meds and fights back.

After just two and a half weeks of chemo, Kristen notices her hair slowly falling out. She feels like she is wearing a tight pony tail and finally takes it out at the end of the day. It stings, and she avoids combing her hair. When her wig finally arrives, her mother cuts her hair, and her husband shaves the rest.

Her dad, usually upbeat and resolved, breaks down.

But Kristen finds comfort in her wig called the Aleiah, like her first born’s name; and she manages to keep her eyebrows and eyelashes because, of course, she is a fighter.

She is finished with four treatments of AC chemo and moves on to four treatments of Taxol chemo. And as much as she wants to knock this cancer out, she has to let the chemo knock her around. Taxol makes her feel arthritic, like an 80 year old woman. She tries to climb the stairs and ends up collapsing, finally crawling to the top. She gathers enough strength to feed the baby a bottle, but that is all she can offer for the day.

It’s hard to explain the kind of sick that accompanies the chemo. Her mind tells her to pick up the toys or finish the dishes, but her body forces her to rest. Among the bad and the awful and the pain, she sees firsthand the love and support that rallies around her.

There is her husband, Jeramie. She calls him Superman. He is the kind of husband that would take the cancer for himself if he could. But since that is impossible, he cleans the house, makes meals, cares for the children, financially supports the family, and emotionally supports Kristen. And then he works on finishing his Masters program.

There is her mother, Jaynell, the rock. She is the kind of mother that would take the cancer for herself if she could. But since that is impossible, she travels almost four hours for every chemo appointment, leaving work and her life behind.

There is her father, Phillip, the patriarch. He is the kind of father that would take the cancer himself if he could. But since that is impossible, he gives blessings and shows Kristen he’s not too tough to cry with her.

There are her brothers and sisters, the support group. They are the brothers and sisters that would take the cancer for themselves if they could. But since that is impossible, they send money and frozen meals and substitute for their mom when needed.

There is Brooke, her friend and confidant. She is the type of friend that would take the cancer herself is she could. But since that is impossible, she meets Kristen whenever she is needed to help pick out the right kind of make-up--to help her feel better.

There is a community, her heritage. The type of community that would chase the cancer off if they could. But since that is impossible, they sell t-shirts and organize bunco tournaments, and raffle off donated prizes.

And then there are her girls. Kristen would never let them take this cancer, so she stepped in line herself. They notice their mommy’s hair is gone, but it doesn’t faze them. They have avoided being passed around from babysitters because of their grandma’s sacrifices. They only need their mother’s love, and that has always been evident.

Unlike her racing days fifteen years ago, Kristen has realized that in life there is no finish line. You just keep running. You go as far as your legs will carry you, and then you rely on the ones you love, the ones that love you, to carry you until you can stand and then walk and then run on your own.

She has yet to tackle the double mastectomy and radiation and reconstructive surgery, so this ends up being just part of Kristen’s story, the toughest girl I know.