I've never been particularly busty, just carrying around some average grapefruits for most of my young life. But when I got pregnant, I woke up one day with a rude awakening when I found watermelons in my bra instead. I just could not get it right. So, I finally decided to just take the shortcut and get cancer so that I could get new *custom* boobs completely. Well, maybe that isn't exactly how it went, but po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
Fast forward to present day... it has been nearly two months now since my bilateral mastectomy and oophorectomy. I have been feeling great and once my recovery was underway, I started going in weekly to get my expanders filled. To recap for you, an expander is an empty and deflated implant. They were put in during my initial surgery and filled with 50 cc's of saline solution. From there, the plan was to go in weekly and have them inject an additional 50 cc's in each side to slowly begin stretching out my skin to allow for full reconstruction. So basically, what took me at least a solid decade to fully develop via puberty, I have now managed to surpass in 6 weeks.
Initially, I expected the worst when it came to the expansion process. I didn't imagine that even the sweetest lollipop would be able to coax me out from under the examination table to allow the nurse to stick needles into what were once my boobs and now stood to exist as pitiful little mounds of skin. But, I was wrong and thus, pleasantly surprised. I hadn't realized that my entire chest was numb and I wouldn't actually feel the needle being inserted. As the expansions went on, I would gradually begin to develop more sensation but it was never intolerable, it just made my chest feel tight and very full. I was handling it so well that I went from one visit per week up to two visits per week in order to speed the process up. In order to do so, that meant my last visit was going to be a double dose and instead of the normal 50 cc's, I would be receiving 100 cc's in each side. This was a lot to take in, literally, and I could see my bust increase right before my eyes. This was the most uncomfortable fill for a few days following as my skin stretched to fit the growth; but, it was also the most important fill because it meant... I was done. And, I was done fast.
One thing that I have been continually Blessed with throughout my cancer journey? Doctors that get me. Each of my doctors, and nurses for that matter, have seen me for who I am and believed in me. My plastic surgeon was no exception and he knew that I wanted to fly through this process and regain some normalcy in my life. I'm not joking when I say that I know that I'm going be okay. Its not a futile attempt at being a martyr, it is my only option. And, its working. In fact, my oncologist commented that she was impressed because she had never seen anyone go through the reconstruction process so quickly. Maybe my cancer had tried to get the best of me by outsmarting the Tamoxifen and progressing, but I evened the playing field with my first surgery and now I'm about to take back the lead by continuing to kick ass with reconstruction and rehabilitation. Ashley: 2, Cancer: 1.
So, now that my expanders have been filled to their max, I'm ready to move on to the second step in the reconstruction process and that is to have the expanders removed and replace them with implants. This is another surgery aaaaaand, it takes place... tomorrow! It will take less than two hours and as along as everything goes well, it should be an outpatient procedure and I will be back home, in my own bed tomorrow night. The recovery will be far easier than my first surgery; however, I will still be uncomfortable for a few days and have some restrictions on my physical activity... aka picking up my baby. Grrr.
But what's a little gain without a little pain? I'm gonna rock it tomorrow and come away with some sweet custom melons that make the whole produce aisle envious.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
I Did It!!
I got to the hospital two hours early on the day of my surgery and the walk through the revolving door, spun me into a whirlwind of activity. After registering as a patient, I was placed in a pre-op room where I was given a gorgeous, dusty blue, hospital gown that could easily rival couture apparel found on the runways at Fashion Week. The neat thing about this gown, however, was that it was attached to a tube that circulated heat through the gown in order to warm my body temperature in preparation for the cold and sterile operating room. In reality, the toasty garb just intensified my hot flashes while blowing in so much air that it poofed up and made me look like I had already gotten a triple Z size boob job. My surgery was scheduled to begin at 11:30 but because of it's extensiveness it ended up being delayed until 12 o'clock. That doesn't sound like a long time but when you are about to surrender yourself to three surgeons who are planning to remove everything that makes you a woman...30 minutes feels more like 30 hours. Finally, it was time and the anesthesiologist gave the go-ahead to release the flow of medicine that would begin to make me sleepy. I vaguely remember the trip to the operating room, down a hallway of all windows that featured a stunning view of the Chicago skyline. The last thing that I remember was seeing a familiar set of eyes of a surgical team member, hidden behind a mask before I fell asleep............................
.......................I don't remember much about being in the recovery room after surgery. I remember opening my eyes but finding it impossible to keep them open before they fluttered shut again. It wasn't until I was on my way to my room that I started becoming more coherent. I could hear the voices of the hospital staff that transported me and as we got closer, those of my family members, but they seemed so far away. However, the more coherent that I became, the more pain that I realized that I was in and I became very emotional. I remember the only part of my body that I could move, without being in severe pain, was my index finger. Attempting to move any other part of my body reduced me to tears. That pain followed me into the night and the next day. I would like to think that I have a fairly high tolerance for pain, but when the discussion of removing my catheter arose, I lost it. The mere thought of adjusting myself to get comfortable in bed, let alone walking to the bathroom seemed impossible and it was at that point, on the second day, that a pain team was brought in to reassess my pain management and not only treat my surgical pain but also to be cognizant of my bone pain as well.
To be honest, once my pain was under control, I became a new person. The new medications had been added to my repertoire, adding up to 6 total. They had been administered that morning and by the afternoon I was out of bed, sitting in a chair. Even better yet? That evening, I was cruising down the hallway, albeit at a pace so slow that a snail could race me and beat me twice... but, at least I was walking. Because of my pain, I stayed in the hospital for three days instead of the assumed two. The day that I was discharged, the ride back home to the suburbs was carefully piloted as I clung to a pillow which creating a barrier between my chest and the relentless tightness of the seat belt. Yes, I was still a rule abiding citizen and gritted my teeth in the name of safety. I've told you before that I am rule follower and some things never change. Besides, if I'm not going to let cancer kill me then I'm sure as hell not gonna allow myself to possibly be ejected from the car to become roadkill in the event of an accident.
The subsequent days at home were spent in a bit of a fog. I maintained a uniform of yoga pants and zip up hoodies that I had stocked up on prior to my surgery. The zipper front allowed me to have easy access to the two drains that were attached my surgical sites. I would refer to my surgical sites as my boobs, but I didn't really have those anymore. Luckily, I wasn't entirely carved out like a Thanksgiving turkey and was instead left with small mounds that each housed an expander filled with 50 cc's of saline solution. Before leaving the hospital I was fitted with a special surgical bra that opened in the front and that I was required to wear 24/7 (swapping out for clean ones daily, of course). The drains that were attached to me were long tubes that were sewn into a hole below my incision site. The drains themselves looked like grenades. This term was coined by my friend Dana and her mom Laura, whom is also a breast cancer survivor, and whom has offered me a lot of valuable surgical advice. The purpose of the grenades was to catch the excess fluid forming in my breasts. I had to empty and measure the amount of liquid twice a day and keep record of it. As time went on, the amount would lessen but I was still extremely protective of my drains. In the shower, I had to wear a lanyard around my neck that I could clip the grenades to and when I was wearing my signature hoodies, I would carefully place them into the pockets. I say carefully because I learned the hard way what would happen if one fell....it was incredibly painful and felt like something was being ripped out of me. I had developed such a complex about my drains that my friends nicknamed me "T-Rex," because I would walk around with my arms protectively folded up in front of my chest with my hands just hanging there.
Going to bed at night was slightly a production. I had to sleep sitting up while having pillows to prop up each of my arms. I also had to have my fan positioned ever so specifically to help ward off hot flashes, just as a child might use a night light to keep away monsters. Then, I would take my medicine and fall asleep for a half hour. After that initial 30 minutes, I would wake up and request a snack of cheese and crackers. For some reason, I didn't have much appetite during the day but once I was good and doped up for the night, the munchies set in. My mom, aka Nurse Nancy, would bring them in and sit next to me (to make sure I didn't choke) while I ate them...with my eyes closed. Yep, I was sleep eating and it was slightly ridiculous but became a nightly ritual during my first week home.
During the day, I behaved slightly more normal and would spend most of it sitting on the couch and visiting with my amazing friends and family that stopped by to keep me company or I would read books in bed with Avery. And, sticking with the original theme and title of my blog, I still got up and showered everyday, got dressed, and put on makeup. The only thing that I couldn't do was raise my arms above 90 degrees, so doing my hair was impossible. I was at the mercy of whoever was nearby and sported some extremely fabulous hairdos, let me tell you. Perhaps my overall look wasn't what one would describe as "cute," but I was still determined that I was going to get up and do something with myself, even if it was crooked eyeliner (silly narcotics made it hard to focus) or a lopsided bun. I knew that my recovery would be more successful and faster, if I made an effort.
It turns out, I was right. In the follow up appointments with my surgeons, I was told more than once that I am healing remarkably and looking very healthy. The recovery from having my ovaries removed was extremely easy because the surgery was laparoscopic, so it was the bilateral mastectomy that would take longer to heal from. But, 10 days after my surgery, I was able to cease all medications -during the day- and also have my drains removed. It was a huge victory for me and being drain free made me feel like a new person. Although, the feeling of a nurse yanking plastic tubing out of my body is something I hope I never have to experience again and after that pain subsided, is technically when I started feeling like a new person.
But now, I am nearly a month out of surgery and I am feeling great. I started taking small field trips out of the house each day, to now being able to resume mostly normal life, I say mostly because I have 3 more days until I am allowed to pick up my daughter...and yes, I'm counting them down. It was a big surgery to undergo and a somewhat challenging recovery, but I would do it again tomorrow, if I had to. Every time that I look in the mirror, I pause because I see the scars that will never completely disappear and I know that everyday they will be a reminder that I'm different from other women who have natural breasts or who are able to have children. But, to be honest, I don't really care. In fact, I'm proud of that difference because it will also always be a reminder of the courage and strength that I possess... just in case I forget...
I documented each step of the experience with photos to share on my blog. I should probably be embarrassed of some of them; but really, my blog is about being real...
.......................I don't remember much about being in the recovery room after surgery. I remember opening my eyes but finding it impossible to keep them open before they fluttered shut again. It wasn't until I was on my way to my room that I started becoming more coherent. I could hear the voices of the hospital staff that transported me and as we got closer, those of my family members, but they seemed so far away. However, the more coherent that I became, the more pain that I realized that I was in and I became very emotional. I remember the only part of my body that I could move, without being in severe pain, was my index finger. Attempting to move any other part of my body reduced me to tears. That pain followed me into the night and the next day. I would like to think that I have a fairly high tolerance for pain, but when the discussion of removing my catheter arose, I lost it. The mere thought of adjusting myself to get comfortable in bed, let alone walking to the bathroom seemed impossible and it was at that point, on the second day, that a pain team was brought in to reassess my pain management and not only treat my surgical pain but also to be cognizant of my bone pain as well.
To be honest, once my pain was under control, I became a new person. The new medications had been added to my repertoire, adding up to 6 total. They had been administered that morning and by the afternoon I was out of bed, sitting in a chair. Even better yet? That evening, I was cruising down the hallway, albeit at a pace so slow that a snail could race me and beat me twice... but, at least I was walking. Because of my pain, I stayed in the hospital for three days instead of the assumed two. The day that I was discharged, the ride back home to the suburbs was carefully piloted as I clung to a pillow which creating a barrier between my chest and the relentless tightness of the seat belt. Yes, I was still a rule abiding citizen and gritted my teeth in the name of safety. I've told you before that I am rule follower and some things never change. Besides, if I'm not going to let cancer kill me then I'm sure as hell not gonna allow myself to possibly be ejected from the car to become roadkill in the event of an accident.
The subsequent days at home were spent in a bit of a fog. I maintained a uniform of yoga pants and zip up hoodies that I had stocked up on prior to my surgery. The zipper front allowed me to have easy access to the two drains that were attached my surgical sites. I would refer to my surgical sites as my boobs, but I didn't really have those anymore. Luckily, I wasn't entirely carved out like a Thanksgiving turkey and was instead left with small mounds that each housed an expander filled with 50 cc's of saline solution. Before leaving the hospital I was fitted with a special surgical bra that opened in the front and that I was required to wear 24/7 (swapping out for clean ones daily, of course). The drains that were attached to me were long tubes that were sewn into a hole below my incision site. The drains themselves looked like grenades. This term was coined by my friend Dana and her mom Laura, whom is also a breast cancer survivor, and whom has offered me a lot of valuable surgical advice. The purpose of the grenades was to catch the excess fluid forming in my breasts. I had to empty and measure the amount of liquid twice a day and keep record of it. As time went on, the amount would lessen but I was still extremely protective of my drains. In the shower, I had to wear a lanyard around my neck that I could clip the grenades to and when I was wearing my signature hoodies, I would carefully place them into the pockets. I say carefully because I learned the hard way what would happen if one fell....it was incredibly painful and felt like something was being ripped out of me. I had developed such a complex about my drains that my friends nicknamed me "T-Rex," because I would walk around with my arms protectively folded up in front of my chest with my hands just hanging there.
Going to bed at night was slightly a production. I had to sleep sitting up while having pillows to prop up each of my arms. I also had to have my fan positioned ever so specifically to help ward off hot flashes, just as a child might use a night light to keep away monsters. Then, I would take my medicine and fall asleep for a half hour. After that initial 30 minutes, I would wake up and request a snack of cheese and crackers. For some reason, I didn't have much appetite during the day but once I was good and doped up for the night, the munchies set in. My mom, aka Nurse Nancy, would bring them in and sit next to me (to make sure I didn't choke) while I ate them...with my eyes closed. Yep, I was sleep eating and it was slightly ridiculous but became a nightly ritual during my first week home.
During the day, I behaved slightly more normal and would spend most of it sitting on the couch and visiting with my amazing friends and family that stopped by to keep me company or I would read books in bed with Avery. And, sticking with the original theme and title of my blog, I still got up and showered everyday, got dressed, and put on makeup. The only thing that I couldn't do was raise my arms above 90 degrees, so doing my hair was impossible. I was at the mercy of whoever was nearby and sported some extremely fabulous hairdos, let me tell you. Perhaps my overall look wasn't what one would describe as "cute," but I was still determined that I was going to get up and do something with myself, even if it was crooked eyeliner (silly narcotics made it hard to focus) or a lopsided bun. I knew that my recovery would be more successful and faster, if I made an effort.
It turns out, I was right. In the follow up appointments with my surgeons, I was told more than once that I am healing remarkably and looking very healthy. The recovery from having my ovaries removed was extremely easy because the surgery was laparoscopic, so it was the bilateral mastectomy that would take longer to heal from. But, 10 days after my surgery, I was able to cease all medications -during the day- and also have my drains removed. It was a huge victory for me and being drain free made me feel like a new person. Although, the feeling of a nurse yanking plastic tubing out of my body is something I hope I never have to experience again and after that pain subsided, is technically when I started feeling like a new person.
But now, I am nearly a month out of surgery and I am feeling great. I started taking small field trips out of the house each day, to now being able to resume mostly normal life, I say mostly because I have 3 more days until I am allowed to pick up my daughter...and yes, I'm counting them down. It was a big surgery to undergo and a somewhat challenging recovery, but I would do it again tomorrow, if I had to. Every time that I look in the mirror, I pause because I see the scars that will never completely disappear and I know that everyday they will be a reminder that I'm different from other women who have natural breasts or who are able to have children. But, to be honest, I don't really care. In fact, I'm proud of that difference because it will also always be a reminder of the courage and strength that I possess... just in case I forget...
I documented each step of the experience with photos to share on my blog. I should probably be embarrassed of some of them; but really, my blog is about being real...
This was my size Z boob job via my heated gown.
Here we go!!!
After surgery... I probably wouldn't have known your name at this point.
The morning after.
My first time sitting up, out of bed. I was already rocking my signature
hoodie and enjoying my favorite kale smoothie!
My sweet angel came to visit mommy in the hospital.
Time to go home!
The best part of my recovery.
Four weeks after surgery- I did it!!!
Monday, September 9, 2013
Round 3...Total Knockout!
I was watching Avery sleep the other night and as I bent down to kiss her, the lavender fragrance of her blond curls filled my senses. The sweet smell of my baby got me started thinking about how fast she is growing up and how her personality is really starting to explode. She bounces around the living room singing songs in her own Avery-language and loves all things duck, ball, and book. She is so busy that it is becoming a rare occasion when I can scoop her up for a snuggle, so I used this silent and rejuvenating moment to refocus my energy and to promise her, with my kisses on her soft baby cheeks, that I will fight. And I will fight hard.
Then, those tiny blond curls started to tickle my nose and I desperately tried to conceal an impending sneeze as I attempted to escape the room, tripping on everything on my way out...typical.
In this particular fight, I'm not going to give the cancer a chance. So, just when it thought it faked left and gained the upper hand by outsmarting the Tamoxifen... I'm going show up in round 3 with a new game. Surgery.
On Friday September 13th, I will have surgery. Go ahead, I will give you a second to get over the irony. However, feel free to dance with a black cat, shatter a mirror the same way I break plates, or even walk under a ladder 17 times if you wish, because Friday the 13th has a new meaning now! It is a lucky day and on this day, I will be having surgery to have my ovaries removed, have a double mastectomy, and to start the beginning stages of reconstruction. It is a huge overhaul and the recovery will be rough, but I'm not backing down now. The surgery is not a part of any trial, it is completely elective. I have a wonderful oncologist who heard me; she saw me for my age and as a mother and she stepped into my corner to help me be as aggressive as possible.
The surgery will be about 4-5 hours and it will begin with an oophorectomy to remove my ovaries. If you ask me, the name oophorectomy sounds like they ran out of actual medical terms and picked up this ridiculous name off the cutting room floor. Pun intended. Regardless, this is actually the next treatment, as I explained in my last blog, because I have to be post-menopausal to continue on with any further medications. Sure, I'm bummed about hot flashes and the lack of any more Barrett Babies; but, on the flip side, the benefit is pretty obvious.
Once that portion of the surgery is completed, the breast surgeon will step in to do the double, or bi-lateral, mastectomy. This is not standard treatment for Stage IV and is completely elective but the end result will be the removal of my breasts and thus, two of the tumors and original sources of my cancer. I opted for a bi-lateral mastectomy for aesthetic purposes and achieving that will be the third, and final, part of my surgery performed by a plastic surgeon. It will be his job to create pockets in which he will place expanders. An expander is essentially an empty implant and will be filled slowly with saline in the weeks after surgery, to stretch my skin out and allow it to fit actual implants. The examples that I have seen of his work are reassuring and promising.
My surgery will require a two-day hospital stay, so as long as everything goes well then I will be headed home on Sunday. The recovery will be about 6 weeks with the first two weeks being the most difficult. In that first 14 days, I wont be able to lift my arms above 90 degrees, so that includes picking up Avery. That will be a big challenge for me, but the instructions are strict and if sacrificing two weeks means that I have a better chance of being at her high school graduation, or even her wedding...then it is a small price to pay.
There is a lot to consider and a lot of planning to do in preparation for such a large surgery. As the days of September starting closing in on the 13th, it is all becoming more real. I think it even makes the fact that I have cancer seem more real. But, I'm not scared... I'm positive and I'm determined. I'm positive because I believe that only great things can come of this and I'm determined to win this fight.
Now, let's not end on a woe-is-me or worrisome note. Only positive thoughts need apply. And, since I have so many cheerleaders rooting me on...I came up with a cheer to celebrate the occassion... say it with me now!
1, 2... boobies off you
3, 4.... ovaries no more
5, 6.... brand new t*ts
7, 8.... hope doc puts em on straight
9, 10.... HEALTHY AGAIN!
Then, those tiny blond curls started to tickle my nose and I desperately tried to conceal an impending sneeze as I attempted to escape the room, tripping on everything on my way out...typical.
In this particular fight, I'm not going to give the cancer a chance. So, just when it thought it faked left and gained the upper hand by outsmarting the Tamoxifen... I'm going show up in round 3 with a new game. Surgery.
On Friday September 13th, I will have surgery. Go ahead, I will give you a second to get over the irony. However, feel free to dance with a black cat, shatter a mirror the same way I break plates, or even walk under a ladder 17 times if you wish, because Friday the 13th has a new meaning now! It is a lucky day and on this day, I will be having surgery to have my ovaries removed, have a double mastectomy, and to start the beginning stages of reconstruction. It is a huge overhaul and the recovery will be rough, but I'm not backing down now. The surgery is not a part of any trial, it is completely elective. I have a wonderful oncologist who heard me; she saw me for my age and as a mother and she stepped into my corner to help me be as aggressive as possible.
The surgery will be about 4-5 hours and it will begin with an oophorectomy to remove my ovaries. If you ask me, the name oophorectomy sounds like they ran out of actual medical terms and picked up this ridiculous name off the cutting room floor. Pun intended. Regardless, this is actually the next treatment, as I explained in my last blog, because I have to be post-menopausal to continue on with any further medications. Sure, I'm bummed about hot flashes and the lack of any more Barrett Babies; but, on the flip side, the benefit is pretty obvious.
Once that portion of the surgery is completed, the breast surgeon will step in to do the double, or bi-lateral, mastectomy. This is not standard treatment for Stage IV and is completely elective but the end result will be the removal of my breasts and thus, two of the tumors and original sources of my cancer. I opted for a bi-lateral mastectomy for aesthetic purposes and achieving that will be the third, and final, part of my surgery performed by a plastic surgeon. It will be his job to create pockets in which he will place expanders. An expander is essentially an empty implant and will be filled slowly with saline in the weeks after surgery, to stretch my skin out and allow it to fit actual implants. The examples that I have seen of his work are reassuring and promising.
My surgery will require a two-day hospital stay, so as long as everything goes well then I will be headed home on Sunday. The recovery will be about 6 weeks with the first two weeks being the most difficult. In that first 14 days, I wont be able to lift my arms above 90 degrees, so that includes picking up Avery. That will be a big challenge for me, but the instructions are strict and if sacrificing two weeks means that I have a better chance of being at her high school graduation, or even her wedding...then it is a small price to pay.
There is a lot to consider and a lot of planning to do in preparation for such a large surgery. As the days of September starting closing in on the 13th, it is all becoming more real. I think it even makes the fact that I have cancer seem more real. But, I'm not scared... I'm positive and I'm determined. I'm positive because I believe that only great things can come of this and I'm determined to win this fight.
Now, let's not end on a woe-is-me or worrisome note. Only positive thoughts need apply. And, since I have so many cheerleaders rooting me on...I came up with a cheer to celebrate the occassion... say it with me now!
1, 2... boobies off you
3, 4.... ovaries no more
5, 6.... brand new t*ts
7, 8.... hope doc puts em on straight
9, 10.... HEALTHY AGAIN!
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Cancer Fun Fact #54,798: I'm Shrinking!
Cancer Fun Fact #54,798: I'm shrinking!
This post is really just for fun, so it's going to be short and sweet... just like me.
For those of you who know me personally, you may be confused because the fact of the matter is that I'm not short. (You can stop there however, because we all know the rest of it to be true, I am sweet). Most of my post-puberty life, I have measured at about 5 feet 9 3/4 inches tall, rounded out to a nice solid 5'10". But now, I'm finding that in my post-menopausal life, I am instead measuring in at 5'7"....
<enter perplexed look>
This was a shocking revelation for me to say the least. I was at a Doctor's appointment at Loyola (when I was shopping around for the trial) and the nurse took my height. As she was mumbling the measurement to herself to record, I leaned in and asked her how tall I am. She replied that I'm 5'7" and I (being tall) shot a this-chick-is-nuts look over her head to my mom. I said, "I'm sorry but that cannot be right, I've been nearly 5'10" my whole adult life and I think we should double check."
The nurse agreed, so I stepped back up on the rickety scale and felt her maneuver that metal piece down onto the top of my head. This time, I was very careful to stand up extra straight and I hardly winced when the metal piece crushed the pouf in my carefully styled hair. When she was done, I gingerly stepped down so as not to disturb it's positioning, and I waited... STILL 5'7"!!!
I just said okay and mentally dismissed this poor girl as being confused. Yes, I'm aware that she does this as part of her job, everyday, but I also know that I'm tall and always have been, everyday. SO, one of us had to be crazy and I had already decided it wasn't me.
I proceeded on with that appointment and pretty much forgot about the height thing. It wasn't until another appointment with the ovary-surgeon that it came up again. This time, the nurse just asked me how tall I am. I started to answer, then looked at my mom and paused. I shrugged my shoulders and told her that I didn't really know and perhaps we should re-measure me. I repeated the same procedure, but this time had to wait for the results because the number was in centimeters and the nurse needed to convert it. Talk about strange suspense...
After a few minutes, she popped her head back in the room and confirmed that I am, indeed, five feet and seven inches tall.... So, that's it. I even typed it out so that you could be sure to read it correctly.
Huh. Interesting.
As it turns out, the cancer that is in my spine is wreaking havoc on my stature and has knocked me down about 2.5 inches closer to the ground. Being the tall the girl is not something that I ever thought that I would miss and although I don't technically feel physically different, it is still a strange phenomenon for me to wrap my mind around.
So, I guess, now I begin my life as a short person. Well, maybe not short per say, but if I continue with this trend then I might just secure myself a place in the circus as the "Incredible Shrinking Woman!" In the meantime though, bring on the higher heels!!
Disclaimer: If you, or someone that you know, knows the nurse from Loyola then I extend my sincerest, but still understandably baffled, apologies for thinking she was the crazy one.
This post is really just for fun, so it's going to be short and sweet... just like me.
For those of you who know me personally, you may be confused because the fact of the matter is that I'm not short. (You can stop there however, because we all know the rest of it to be true, I am sweet). Most of my post-puberty life, I have measured at about 5 feet 9 3/4 inches tall, rounded out to a nice solid 5'10". But now, I'm finding that in my post-menopausal life, I am instead measuring in at 5'7"....
<enter perplexed look>
This was a shocking revelation for me to say the least. I was at a Doctor's appointment at Loyola (when I was shopping around for the trial) and the nurse took my height. As she was mumbling the measurement to herself to record, I leaned in and asked her how tall I am. She replied that I'm 5'7" and I (being tall) shot a this-chick-is-nuts look over her head to my mom. I said, "I'm sorry but that cannot be right, I've been nearly 5'10" my whole adult life and I think we should double check."
The nurse agreed, so I stepped back up on the rickety scale and felt her maneuver that metal piece down onto the top of my head. This time, I was very careful to stand up extra straight and I hardly winced when the metal piece crushed the pouf in my carefully styled hair. When she was done, I gingerly stepped down so as not to disturb it's positioning, and I waited... STILL 5'7"!!!
I just said okay and mentally dismissed this poor girl as being confused. Yes, I'm aware that she does this as part of her job, everyday, but I also know that I'm tall and always have been, everyday. SO, one of us had to be crazy and I had already decided it wasn't me.
I proceeded on with that appointment and pretty much forgot about the height thing. It wasn't until another appointment with the ovary-surgeon that it came up again. This time, the nurse just asked me how tall I am. I started to answer, then looked at my mom and paused. I shrugged my shoulders and told her that I didn't really know and perhaps we should re-measure me. I repeated the same procedure, but this time had to wait for the results because the number was in centimeters and the nurse needed to convert it. Talk about strange suspense...
After a few minutes, she popped her head back in the room and confirmed that I am, indeed, five feet and seven inches tall.... So, that's it. I even typed it out so that you could be sure to read it correctly.
Huh. Interesting.
As it turns out, the cancer that is in my spine is wreaking havoc on my stature and has knocked me down about 2.5 inches closer to the ground. Being the tall the girl is not something that I ever thought that I would miss and although I don't technically feel physically different, it is still a strange phenomenon for me to wrap my mind around.
So, I guess, now I begin my life as a short person. Well, maybe not short per say, but if I continue with this trend then I might just secure myself a place in the circus as the "Incredible Shrinking Woman!" In the meantime though, bring on the higher heels!!
Disclaimer: If you, or someone that you know, knows the nurse from Loyola then I extend my sincerest, but still understandably baffled, apologies for thinking she was the crazy one.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Is it getting hot in here? Oh no, that's just my early menopause!
I got chosen for surgery!!!!
Ok, wait a second... let me back up.
It wasn't very nice to trick you in that way. I was actually chosen for surgery; but, not like you may think, it isn't a part of the trial. Let me explain...
If you are a Facebook friend, as well as an avid blog reader, then you know that last Tuesday was the day that I received my latest PET Scan. I get scans every 3 months to see how I am responding to my current treatment plan. Then, on the following Thursday, its results day. Dun. Dun. Dun.
Unfoooortunately, this time... the results were not so good.
As it turns out, my cancer is progressing. It has not invaded any other parts of my body; however, it is showing more activity in the currently affected areas than before. They can tell because the radioactive material that they inject into me, for the scan, is glowing a little bit brighter than it was last time. The increased activity is caused by the fact that my medicine, Tamoxifen, is no longer doing it's job of blocking my body's hormones from feeding the cancer. Uh what?! Someone at the big ole Tamoxifen factory is going to be getting a very heated letter from me later, demanding a refund!
While I sign, seal, and deliver my disgust for a "faulty" drug, the real next step is surgery. So, see...I wasn't completely lying... I did get chosen for surgery, only this surgery is to remove my ovaries. In doing so, my body will no longer be able to produce the progesterone, estrogen, or babies. This also means that I go into early menopause. Eeeks! I'm not sure that I'm ready for my body to jump ahead 25 years...I know I'm not exactly a spring chicken anymore but that seems like it could be a bit of an extreme change. I've experienced hot flashes with my current medication and let me tell you, multiplying those by like ten (a day) to where I'm suddenly watching my makeup drip down my face in a sweaty puddle, while standing in an air conditioned room, does not appeal to me. But this is how we will beat cancer because my body cannot have those hormones anymore, so it must be done. Please remind me to put a pocket fan on my next shopping list...
Additionally, in the wake of this slightly unnerving news, I also found out that my current status makes me ineligible to sign up for the surgical trial. I'm not gonna lie, that was a blow...or lack there of... that took the wind out of my sails. In fact, it caused my sails to complete deflate and tangle around me with emotion. I had previously decided that I was going to enroll in the trial and now it is not an option for me anymore. But I can't forget that my intention with the trial was to let "whatever is meant to be, be..." so I think I got my answer.
In reality, not much is going to change. Sure, I'm a little worse for the wear but really when it comes down to it, we are just trying a new technique. It is an event of trial and error to see what combination will best fit me and stabilize my cancer. It may be a shade of bad news, but it is not a darkness. We are moving on, as positive as ever.
Ok, wait a second... let me back up.
It wasn't very nice to trick you in that way. I was actually chosen for surgery; but, not like you may think, it isn't a part of the trial. Let me explain...
If you are a Facebook friend, as well as an avid blog reader, then you know that last Tuesday was the day that I received my latest PET Scan. I get scans every 3 months to see how I am responding to my current treatment plan. Then, on the following Thursday, its results day. Dun. Dun. Dun.
Unfoooortunately, this time... the results were not so good.
As it turns out, my cancer is progressing. It has not invaded any other parts of my body; however, it is showing more activity in the currently affected areas than before. They can tell because the radioactive material that they inject into me, for the scan, is glowing a little bit brighter than it was last time. The increased activity is caused by the fact that my medicine, Tamoxifen, is no longer doing it's job of blocking my body's hormones from feeding the cancer. Uh what?! Someone at the big ole Tamoxifen factory is going to be getting a very heated letter from me later, demanding a refund!
While I sign, seal, and deliver my disgust for a "faulty" drug, the real next step is surgery. So, see...I wasn't completely lying... I did get chosen for surgery, only this surgery is to remove my ovaries. In doing so, my body will no longer be able to produce the progesterone, estrogen, or babies. This also means that I go into early menopause. Eeeks! I'm not sure that I'm ready for my body to jump ahead 25 years...I know I'm not exactly a spring chicken anymore but that seems like it could be a bit of an extreme change. I've experienced hot flashes with my current medication and let me tell you, multiplying those by like ten (a day) to where I'm suddenly watching my makeup drip down my face in a sweaty puddle, while standing in an air conditioned room, does not appeal to me. But this is how we will beat cancer because my body cannot have those hormones anymore, so it must be done. Please remind me to put a pocket fan on my next shopping list...
Additionally, in the wake of this slightly unnerving news, I also found out that my current status makes me ineligible to sign up for the surgical trial. I'm not gonna lie, that was a blow...or lack there of... that took the wind out of my sails. In fact, it caused my sails to complete deflate and tangle around me with emotion. I had previously decided that I was going to enroll in the trial and now it is not an option for me anymore. But I can't forget that my intention with the trial was to let "whatever is meant to be, be..." so I think I got my answer.
In reality, not much is going to change. Sure, I'm a little worse for the wear but really when it comes down to it, we are just trying a new technique. It is an event of trial and error to see what combination will best fit me and stabilize my cancer. It may be a shade of bad news, but it is not a darkness. We are moving on, as positive as ever.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Gutting the Girls
Well, SURPRISE! I'm back! I know, I know... I have left you all with fear that my blogging days are over. It's been so long that you probably thought The Big C slithered in and stole me away for good.
...Too soon? Ok, I will be fair and ease back into the cancer jokes slowly...
Luckily, there hasn't been too much to catch you up on. The last few months have been rendering pretty positive results. In fact, next up on the treatment docket is for me to make a decision regarding a clinical trial that I am eligible for.
The standard of care in Stage 4 Breast Cancer is to not perform surgery, the reason being that the disease is too far spread. My breast is not serving as the sole transmitter shamelessly shooting little cancer cells around my body like a Tommy Gun. Instead, they are now permitted to jump from my breast, or my bones, and claim any of my internal organs as the next victim. That's what makes it incurable, at this point, we just can't catch up. However, there is "someone" out there in the world that is questioning whether or not surgery could possibly make a difference, despite being Stage 4, and still add more years to my life. Hmm...more years. I'm 29, I could use a few more good years... please tell me more, oh-random-"someone."
The trial is being conducted at six places in the world. Lucky for me, TWO of those places are located right in the heart of Chicago at both Loyola and Northwestern University Medical Centers, respectively. It is a randomized surgical trial that includes either a lumpectomy or a mastectomy; but, I'm not one for technical terms so to explain better what that means...they either cut the "tumors" out or they cut the boobies off. Its that simple. A little slice, a little snip, perhaps a tuck, and I can be down two "tumors". But, as I mentioned before, the trial is randomized and that is where it gets tricky. You can't sign up with your heart set on extracting the cancer. Instead, your name is tossed into a lottery and a computer spits out your fate. If you are chosen for the surgery, then you will proceed in that direction. If you are not chosen for the surgery, then nothing happens and you remain on your current treatment plan. But, I think that is how God will tell me exactly which path is right for me. If I'm supposed to have it, I will be chosen; but, if I'm not meant to have it, then I won't be chosen and poof! Nothing changes.
For me, this whole idea has been exceptionally thought-provoking. Surgery is a big thing to undergo, but the idea of having at least a portion of the cancer being removed from my body...it makes me feel... I don't know...
Cleaner.
Safer.
More settled.
Because of this, I have set up appointments to meet with the breast surgeons at both the Chicago institutions in order to learn more. So far, I have learned that based on my age and the fact that I have two "tumors," I would have the mastectomy with the opportunity for immediate reconstruction. I also learned that less than 5-6% of women diagnosed with breast cancer are already Stage 4...and of that 5-6%, less than 1% are under 30. Those are some crazy odds... and I'm still struggling to figure out why my odds couldn't have swung in the opposite direction and won me the lottery or at least a raffle for a Discman or something...
I have another meeting and some more research to complete before I make my decision, but the cut off for the trial is that you cannot be beyond 8 months into treatment, and given that I am sneaking up on month 6...I need to decide. In my opinion, if gutting the girls offers me a CHANCE to live longer and be healthier, then it is something to consider. I'm young and otherwise healthy, so I have no doubt that I will heal from surgery very well. And let's be honest, at this point...I'm pretty sure I deserve an opportunity to get a nice new rack. Am I right, or am I right??
...Too soon? Ok, I will be fair and ease back into the cancer jokes slowly...
Luckily, there hasn't been too much to catch you up on. The last few months have been rendering pretty positive results. In fact, next up on the treatment docket is for me to make a decision regarding a clinical trial that I am eligible for.
The standard of care in Stage 4 Breast Cancer is to not perform surgery, the reason being that the disease is too far spread. My breast is not serving as the sole transmitter shamelessly shooting little cancer cells around my body like a Tommy Gun. Instead, they are now permitted to jump from my breast, or my bones, and claim any of my internal organs as the next victim. That's what makes it incurable, at this point, we just can't catch up. However, there is "someone" out there in the world that is questioning whether or not surgery could possibly make a difference, despite being Stage 4, and still add more years to my life. Hmm...more years. I'm 29, I could use a few more good years... please tell me more, oh-random-"someone."
The trial is being conducted at six places in the world. Lucky for me, TWO of those places are located right in the heart of Chicago at both Loyola and Northwestern University Medical Centers, respectively. It is a randomized surgical trial that includes either a lumpectomy or a mastectomy; but, I'm not one for technical terms so to explain better what that means...they either cut the "tumors" out or they cut the boobies off. Its that simple. A little slice, a little snip, perhaps a tuck, and I can be down two "tumors". But, as I mentioned before, the trial is randomized and that is where it gets tricky. You can't sign up with your heart set on extracting the cancer. Instead, your name is tossed into a lottery and a computer spits out your fate. If you are chosen for the surgery, then you will proceed in that direction. If you are not chosen for the surgery, then nothing happens and you remain on your current treatment plan. But, I think that is how God will tell me exactly which path is right for me. If I'm supposed to have it, I will be chosen; but, if I'm not meant to have it, then I won't be chosen and poof! Nothing changes.
For me, this whole idea has been exceptionally thought-provoking. Surgery is a big thing to undergo, but the idea of having at least a portion of the cancer being removed from my body...it makes me feel... I don't know...
Cleaner.
Safer.
More settled.
Because of this, I have set up appointments to meet with the breast surgeons at both the Chicago institutions in order to learn more. So far, I have learned that based on my age and the fact that I have two "tumors," I would have the mastectomy with the opportunity for immediate reconstruction. I also learned that less than 5-6% of women diagnosed with breast cancer are already Stage 4...and of that 5-6%, less than 1% are under 30. Those are some crazy odds... and I'm still struggling to figure out why my odds couldn't have swung in the opposite direction and won me the lottery or at least a raffle for a Discman or something...
I have another meeting and some more research to complete before I make my decision, but the cut off for the trial is that you cannot be beyond 8 months into treatment, and given that I am sneaking up on month 6...I need to decide. In my opinion, if gutting the girls offers me a CHANCE to live longer and be healthier, then it is something to consider. I'm young and otherwise healthy, so I have no doubt that I will heal from surgery very well. And let's be honest, at this point...I'm pretty sure I deserve an opportunity to get a nice new rack. Am I right, or am I right??
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Petting Faces
I haven't meant to let so much time lapse between posts. My intentions have been good but, I often have my small assistant by my side and we have different writing styles. She is more free-spirited and likes to crawl across the keyboard, pressing any and all buttons that inspire her. Whereas, I prefer a bit more uniformity and putting together specific letters to form words. To each their own, I suppose. Additionally, I've been on vacation. I spent a glorious week in the Las Vegas sunshine and to be quite honest, I enjoyed closing my eyes, floating in the pool, and forgetting real life for awhile. But, I'm back. Here I am, surprise! Now, let me get my pen...
Back to reality means back to pain and because of this, I need a lot of help. My main symptom has been intense pain and let me tell you, The Big C has no qualms about raising hell in each of the bones that it resides in. I have prescriptions of medications that can help keep the pain at bay; but, I have been adamant, since the beginning, that I won't take anything that makes me like a zombie. I want to be fully aware and capable of caring for Avery, so during the day I just take several Ibuprofen on a consistent schedule.
That's a Catch 22 however, because, as a result of the pain, I cannot adequately care for my daughter. I am unable to bend down to pick her up. I also can't lift her in and out of her crib and since she still likes to wake up for a late-night snack and girl talk, at least once a night, I require extra help. My cute husband would be the obvious choice but he can't very easily fly airplanes from the comfort of our quaint condo, so he is away quite often. When he isn't home, my mom and my college roommate Kari typically split the night-shifts throughout the week. It is an unbelievable help to have someone stay over and allows me to take stronger medicine to help the pain while I sleep.
One night when Kari was over, we were just relaxing and decided to have a cocktail to accompany our plethora of DVRed TV shows that had accumulated since our last slumber party. Kari concocted some vodka and pop combination while I settled on a beer. We each just had one drink and shortly thereafter, decided to go to bed. At this point, I had to sleep sitting up because of the pain so I constructed my five-pillow bungalow, popped a Vicoden and attempted to settle in. I say attempted because I hadn't slept comfortably in months... until, this night. I was knocked out and my body felt incredibly relaxed.
I remember waking up to the baby crying and Kari giving her a bottle in bed. I dozed back off and awoke again to myself asking Kari where the baby was. For some reason, I kept thinking she had fallen back to sleep in bed with Kari and I, but I wasn't sure. Time after time after time, after time, Kari assured me that Avery was in her crib. I'm pretty sure I asked her about 16 times through my grogginess before waking up again to realize that after a second feeding (A-bomb went through a short phase when she thought sleeping was way uncool and would wake up a lot.) Kari did leave her between us. I figured it was because it would be easier for me to see where the baby was, rather than have to continuously ask.
Now, I love my sweet little goose (Avery, not Kari...I love her too, but Avery is my goose) and even though it will apparently scar her for life to sleep in my bed, I was content to have her there at that moment and I lovingly rubbed her face. Then, I leaned over and gave her a kiss on her cheek and rubbed her head while I fell back asleep, with my hand resting protectively on her for the rest of the night.
Fast forward to 5:30 am when I woke up; being more coherent, I saw that Kari had moved the baby back to her crib at some point before she left for the gym. When she got back, I was up making coffee and going on and on about how good I had slept. That's when Kari reminded me about how often I asked her where the baby was. At that point, I said "Oh man! I must have been talking in my sleep because I only vaguely remember that. BUT, it was sweet when she slept between us, she looked so cozy" This caused Kari to start laughing and inform me that the baby was never asleep in my bed. Indignant, I said, "Yes she was, I was rubbing her face." To which Kari replied.... "Nope. That... was me."
Turns out, Avery slept in her crib the whole night (she actually only woke up once) but, everything else was true.... The stroking of her face. The kiss on the cheek. The head rub. YES, it all happened... to Kari! It was supposed to be a well-intentioned motherly instinct, but I guess our friendship hit a new level. Maybe next time I better save the "good sleep," for when my husband is home, just in case.
Back to reality means back to pain and because of this, I need a lot of help. My main symptom has been intense pain and let me tell you, The Big C has no qualms about raising hell in each of the bones that it resides in. I have prescriptions of medications that can help keep the pain at bay; but, I have been adamant, since the beginning, that I won't take anything that makes me like a zombie. I want to be fully aware and capable of caring for Avery, so during the day I just take several Ibuprofen on a consistent schedule.
That's a Catch 22 however, because, as a result of the pain, I cannot adequately care for my daughter. I am unable to bend down to pick her up. I also can't lift her in and out of her crib and since she still likes to wake up for a late-night snack and girl talk, at least once a night, I require extra help. My cute husband would be the obvious choice but he can't very easily fly airplanes from the comfort of our quaint condo, so he is away quite often. When he isn't home, my mom and my college roommate Kari typically split the night-shifts throughout the week. It is an unbelievable help to have someone stay over and allows me to take stronger medicine to help the pain while I sleep.
One night when Kari was over, we were just relaxing and decided to have a cocktail to accompany our plethora of DVRed TV shows that had accumulated since our last slumber party. Kari concocted some vodka and pop combination while I settled on a beer. We each just had one drink and shortly thereafter, decided to go to bed. At this point, I had to sleep sitting up because of the pain so I constructed my five-pillow bungalow, popped a Vicoden and attempted to settle in. I say attempted because I hadn't slept comfortably in months... until, this night. I was knocked out and my body felt incredibly relaxed.
I remember waking up to the baby crying and Kari giving her a bottle in bed. I dozed back off and awoke again to myself asking Kari where the baby was. For some reason, I kept thinking she had fallen back to sleep in bed with Kari and I, but I wasn't sure. Time after time after time, after time, Kari assured me that Avery was in her crib. I'm pretty sure I asked her about 16 times through my grogginess before waking up again to realize that after a second feeding (A-bomb went through a short phase when she thought sleeping was way uncool and would wake up a lot.) Kari did leave her between us. I figured it was because it would be easier for me to see where the baby was, rather than have to continuously ask.
Now, I love my sweet little goose (Avery, not Kari...I love her too, but Avery is my goose) and even though it will apparently scar her for life to sleep in my bed, I was content to have her there at that moment and I lovingly rubbed her face. Then, I leaned over and gave her a kiss on her cheek and rubbed her head while I fell back asleep, with my hand resting protectively on her for the rest of the night.
Fast forward to 5:30 am when I woke up; being more coherent, I saw that Kari had moved the baby back to her crib at some point before she left for the gym. When she got back, I was up making coffee and going on and on about how good I had slept. That's when Kari reminded me about how often I asked her where the baby was. At that point, I said "Oh man! I must have been talking in my sleep because I only vaguely remember that. BUT, it was sweet when she slept between us, she looked so cozy" This caused Kari to start laughing and inform me that the baby was never asleep in my bed. Indignant, I said, "Yes she was, I was rubbing her face." To which Kari replied.... "Nope. That... was me."
Turns out, Avery slept in her crib the whole night (she actually only woke up once) but, everything else was true.... The stroking of her face. The kiss on the cheek. The head rub. YES, it all happened... to Kari! It was supposed to be a well-intentioned motherly instinct, but I guess our friendship hit a new level. Maybe next time I better save the "good sleep," for when my husband is home, just in case.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Breaking Plates
The following events are true but no one was hurt in the making of this story... except for maybe a few dinner plates....
I owe Kim Kardashian a big -thank you.- Why you ask? Well, its definitely not because she wears too tight "maternity," clothes. No... definitely not. Instead, it's because she puts her life on television, and although I do not regularly watch the show, one night she inadvertently offered inspiration to my amazing and extremely supportive sisters-in-law and I. As the story goes, on one episode of her namesake show, Kim had trouble expressing her frustrations regarding stresses in her life and to help her release her aggression, her sister suggested that they shatter plates.
Well, my sister-in-law Nikki decided that emulating this act would be the perfect form of therapy as we all absorbed the news of my recent diagnosis. So, on a random Tuesday night, Nikki, my other sister-in-law Danielle, and I, set out with a stack of plates rattling in the backseat.
Despite my best efforts to consistently dress cute for cancer, I wasn't exactly sure what one wears to break plates. My superhero costume was at the dry cleaners so I was going to have to improvise. I felt like this was a covert mission of sorts and that dark colors would be most appropriate. Comfort and something that allowed for maximum range of motion would be key. I finally settled on yoga pants, a hooded shirt, and a pony tail. It didn't necessarily scream high-fashion, but I was confident that it would get the job done.
My mind was on fashion but my heart was on a quest that caused me to reflect a bit. I have realized that I am often responsible, punctual, and a rule-follower. In retrospect, I like to ask myself where exactly that behavior has gotten me in life. It got me cancer. Cool. So, maybe life isn't always about pleasing other people and doing the right thing; maybe sometimes, it about making myself happy and having fun.
This newly adopted attitude was put to the test on this night of plate-breaking. I was looking forward to taking my stress out on some once trendy dinnerware but a small voice in the back of my head insistently tried to push its way through and ask the responsible questions. Questions such as, who will clean up the ceramic shards? What if someone stumbles upon our mess and gets hurt or a car driving through pops a tire? I expressed my concerns to Danielle and Nikki, but quickly learned that we were doing this. No. Matter. What. ...Even if it meant gagging me and tossing me in the trunk in the meantime.
Eventually, we pulled into an abandoned and fairly dark parking lot and blared fierce music with a bass so deep that it caused the car to pulsate against the ground. First thing's first.. we needed to get into the spirit of the event, so we practiced our mean faces. Anyone that knows me is well aware of my innate ability to throw a menacing stink eye; but, when it comes to spontaneously sporting an intimidating mug... well, I just look constipated. So, after many attempts and failures, we decided to skip the characterization and get right to the plate throwing. The intention was to take a plate and throw it as hard as I could while simultaneously yelling something derogatory about cancer.
At this point, it had started pouring down rain. I think this was for effect, making it a completely authentic experience of release and cleansing. Either that, or it just made it slippery and cold...but that doesn't offer much by way of poetic justice so let's stick with option one... I stepped out from under a covered doorway, into the rain, and held plate #1 high above my head poised and ready to throw. But then, despite a million ideas racing through my mind of telling cancer where to stick it.... I froze. I felt silly; here I am, 29 years old, standing in the pouring rain preparing to spray a slew of swear words at cancer and break plates.
No, wait. Here I am, 29 years old, standing in the prime of my life preparing to fight the hardest battle I will ever face.
Ok, in that case, I'm ready.
I owe Kim Kardashian a big -thank you.- Why you ask? Well, its definitely not because she wears too tight "maternity," clothes. No... definitely not. Instead, it's because she puts her life on television, and although I do not regularly watch the show, one night she inadvertently offered inspiration to my amazing and extremely supportive sisters-in-law and I. As the story goes, on one episode of her namesake show, Kim had trouble expressing her frustrations regarding stresses in her life and to help her release her aggression, her sister suggested that they shatter plates.
Well, my sister-in-law Nikki decided that emulating this act would be the perfect form of therapy as we all absorbed the news of my recent diagnosis. So, on a random Tuesday night, Nikki, my other sister-in-law Danielle, and I, set out with a stack of plates rattling in the backseat.
Despite my best efforts to consistently dress cute for cancer, I wasn't exactly sure what one wears to break plates. My superhero costume was at the dry cleaners so I was going to have to improvise. I felt like this was a covert mission of sorts and that dark colors would be most appropriate. Comfort and something that allowed for maximum range of motion would be key. I finally settled on yoga pants, a hooded shirt, and a pony tail. It didn't necessarily scream high-fashion, but I was confident that it would get the job done.
My mind was on fashion but my heart was on a quest that caused me to reflect a bit. I have realized that I am often responsible, punctual, and a rule-follower. In retrospect, I like to ask myself where exactly that behavior has gotten me in life. It got me cancer. Cool. So, maybe life isn't always about pleasing other people and doing the right thing; maybe sometimes, it about making myself happy and having fun.
This newly adopted attitude was put to the test on this night of plate-breaking. I was looking forward to taking my stress out on some once trendy dinnerware but a small voice in the back of my head insistently tried to push its way through and ask the responsible questions. Questions such as, who will clean up the ceramic shards? What if someone stumbles upon our mess and gets hurt or a car driving through pops a tire? I expressed my concerns to Danielle and Nikki, but quickly learned that we were doing this. No. Matter. What. ...Even if it meant gagging me and tossing me in the trunk in the meantime.
Eventually, we pulled into an abandoned and fairly dark parking lot and blared fierce music with a bass so deep that it caused the car to pulsate against the ground. First thing's first.. we needed to get into the spirit of the event, so we practiced our mean faces. Anyone that knows me is well aware of my innate ability to throw a menacing stink eye; but, when it comes to spontaneously sporting an intimidating mug... well, I just look constipated. So, after many attempts and failures, we decided to skip the characterization and get right to the plate throwing. The intention was to take a plate and throw it as hard as I could while simultaneously yelling something derogatory about cancer.
At this point, it had started pouring down rain. I think this was for effect, making it a completely authentic experience of release and cleansing. Either that, or it just made it slippery and cold...but that doesn't offer much by way of poetic justice so let's stick with option one... I stepped out from under a covered doorway, into the rain, and held plate #1 high above my head poised and ready to throw. But then, despite a million ideas racing through my mind of telling cancer where to stick it.... I froze. I felt silly; here I am, 29 years old, standing in the pouring rain preparing to spray a slew of swear words at cancer and break plates.
No, wait. Here I am, 29 years old, standing in the prime of my life preparing to fight the hardest battle I will ever face.
Ok, in that case, I'm ready.
Smile!
My 1st throw- Enter...bone pain. That throw nearly killed me and all subsequent plates had to be granny tossed across the parking lot to avoid pain.
The Aftermath
Monday, March 25, 2013
How We Got To This Place...
It all started one rainy night in October....er, maybe it wasn't rainy, or, even nighttime; but, it was October. I had recently gotten over a cold that was passed back and forth between Avery and I like a fierce Japanese ping pong tournament. Consequently, I had developed a cough that left a lingering ache in my chest. Despite it being inconvenient, I didn't really think much of it and just tried to wait it out. I gave it about four weeks before I finally went to see my primary doctor whom agreed with me about the origin of my chest pain and prescribed a round of steroids to try and knock it out. The Prednisone didn't really do anything and instead, my pain started to creep around to my back as well.
After a couple of weeks, the pain began to intensify. The chest pain made it difficult to expand and take deep breaths while the back pain was quickly becoming debilitating. I went back for a follow-up appointment with my doctor and he ordered a chest x-ray which came back clear. In the meantime, I also sought out chiropractic care, massage therapy, and tried making dietary changes and staying extra hydrated. One day the pain would be in my rib cage and the next day my lower back would make it impossible to bend over and change Avery's diaper. I was beginning to feel crazy because the pain moved to a different spot, almost daily, and felt like my doctor and chiro were just appeasing me, while secretly thinking I was a hallucinating nut job. Finally, after ruling out basic ailments, my doctor decided to delve deeper into the issue and look for causes that would be less common by ordering a bone scan. That bone scan was scheduled to be Wednesday, January, 23.
Unrelated to these issues, I also had my annual gynological exam scheduled for that same week on Monday, January, 21. I had originally scheduled this appointment for the first week of November, but traveling and other commitments kept interfering, so I rescheduled the appointment three times before I was finally able to go. In my mind, there wasn't any urgency to get to this appointment since it was just a yearly exam. My gyno, Nicole, is great and we had developed a very friendly relationship since I had spent so much time going back and forth to her office during my pregnancy. I was laying on the table and we were chatting while she was doing my breast exam. As she was examining my left breast, she paused and said, "Hmm...it feels like you have a bit of a lump here." I was pretty shocked, yet unconcerned, as my she guided my fingers over the side of my breast, gently pushing so I could feel the lump. When she did so, I definitely felt what she had found but it seemed fairly deep inside and you really had to knead the area to feel it. Nicole didn't seem alarmed but did recommend that I get a mammogram as soon as possible.
Suprisingly, the scheduling of both appointments aligned on the same day; although, I ended up feeling like I was in a pinball machine, ricocheting from department to department. When I arrived for my bone scan, I was initally given an IV injection and then I was instructed to wait for two hours while the tracer processed through my blood and bones. From there, I went to the breast center and prepared for the ultrasound and mammogram. This appointment was supposed to take less than one hour, but quickly doubled in time as I was ushered in and out of the treatment rooms three times. First, they did the initial ultrasound and mammogram and then I waited. Then, they wanted to look more closely so they repeated both. Then, they saw concern with my right breast and wanted to test that side, so I went in a third time. Then, I just waited. And, then, I waited some more. As I waited in a small waiting room, I watched a video on repeat about how to do a self-exam. I think I watched that video segment about fourteen times before the radiologist was finally ready to see me. It was a very brief meeting in which he expressed no further concern for my right breast, but ample concern for the lumps in my left breast and recommended a biopsy right away. Yes, lumps. It was then that I learned that I have two "tumors," in my left breast. I put the word tumors in quotation marks because I think it is a gross word; but alas, I still use it because it resounded very loudly in my memory as I walked out of the breast center and headed back to complete my bone scan. If my life were a movie, this would be where you would cue the pounding thoughts and a slow walk down an extremely long and sterile hallway. I can't say that I was worried yet, but it was growing a little more difficult to stifle my anxiety.
The bone scan went on without incident and then I was just left waiting for results again. Although, this time, the results would take days so I decided to get the hell outta dodge and left the next morning, Avery in tow, for a weekend of solitude. It was over that weekend that I first began noticing the changes in my left breast that hadn't been there before. I noticed when I got out of the shower, that my breast puckered inward on the side, where one of the lumps was. At some point, it had also started burning and rather than pushing in to find the lump, I could simply touch my breast and it was there now. The other lump was on top of my breast and whereas I hadn't even known of it's existence two days prior, it now protruded like a small hill if I was laying down. It didn't take long to start noticing these changes, but thankfully, it also didn't take long to hear from my doctor, as he wanted me to come in on Monday to discuss the results. In the interest of consolidating my appointments again, I scheduled my biopsy for that day as well.
It was 2:00pm on Monday January 28, 2013 that I first heard the word cancer. My doctor said that I had been the topic of conversation amongst many collaborating physcians over the last five days. It was their consensus, based on the results of my ultrasound/mammogram and the bone scan that I was looking advanced breast cancer; but, of course, the biopsy would have to confirm those results. Too be honest, I hadn't prepared myself for this moment. Yes, I knew I had two lumps... but cancer... was not even on my realistic radar. I figured I had cysts of some sort and while I was temporarily validated that my chest/back pain were not a serious case of crazy, I never anticipated having cancer. I'm 29 years old and I'm healthy. I just had my first child and now you want to tell me that I've been using Ibuprofen for the last three months to fight cancer??? It was sort of an out-of-body experience. I was listening to my doctor speak, but I wasn't really reacting. I didn't cry and to be honest, I didn't ask any questions. I just said ok and within 20 minutes of pretending to listen to him, I was collecting my purse and coat, ready to head upstairs to do the biopsy. I was ready for proof.
At 4:00 that afternoon, I met with the breast surgeon who would conduct my needle biopsy. He was funny and he was frank, which are two qualities that I greatly appreciate. I don't like to be coddled or handled softly in situations like this, I prefer honesty and to get to the point. It wasn't long before I found myself lying on his examination table with my arms above my head. For Pete's sake, this position was becoming all to familiar, I hadn't been felt up this much since I was a teenager heading toward first base. At this point though, the fear had started to set in. Although, my fear still wasn't of cancer; but instead, the large needle that was going to be pushed inside my breast, open like a claw and steal a sample of my insides. When I get nervous in serious medical situations, my blood pressure drops drastically. The last time that happened to me was during my c-section the previous June when the anthesiologist missed, 4 times, while doing my spinal block. My blood pressure plummeted and delivering Avery became a higher level of urgency. At the end of that experience, I was blessed with an amazing gift. On the day of my biopsy, though, I was not going to be as lucky.
Needless to say I survived the boobie snatcher with the help of my hand-holding, head-rubbing husband, Patrick, and thus, the doctor was able to get three samples. Despite the fact that my official-official diagnosis would not come until Wednesday, January, 31st, this very frank and honest breast surgeon was able to confirm that I do have breast cancer. It was a lot to absorb... for everyone. My mom had been there every step of the way so far, being by my side and asking the questions that I don't. After I assured her that I would be fine and she should go be with my dad, who was just finding out; I went over to my in-laws to break the news.
When I walked in the door that night, my sister-in-law Danielle (who had already been clued in via text) gave me a hug and told me I looked cute. In an effort to lighten the mood, I quipped, "Well, I dressed cute for cancer!" Hence, the name of my blog. And also because, I have made the choice that I will continue to get up everyday and put on makeup, do my hair, and presumably, dress cute. Cancer is not going to take over my life, I'm still me and I'm still going to do what I do. Am I afraid? Actually, no, I'm really not. I certainly have specific fears, mostly related to my daughter's future; but I know that right now I need to show her what strength is.
A followup oncology appointment confirmed that my official diagnosis is Stage 4 Breast Cancer that is er/pr positive and has mestastasized in my bones. The bones affected include my sternum, ribs, spine, shoulders, pelvis, and hips. Cancer likes to rear its ugly head and try to remind me that its there by causing me a lot of pain in those areas, pain like I've never had and cannot adequately explain. The er/pr positive means that my cancer (<--see that, "MY" cancer...I own it, not the other way around.) is hormone receptive... er (estrogen receptive)/ pr (progesterone receptive) and that is a good thing. That means, for now, I can bypass chemo/radiation be treated with a drug called Tamoxifen. Tamoxifen is a pill that I take daily to block the hormones, which will hopefully prevent the cancer cells from growing. Additionally, I get a monthly injection which will help repair and strengthen my bones and I take medicine to manage my bone pain in the meantime. My oncologist thinks that I've actually had breast cancer for about two years but the growth was sped up by the hormones produced during my pregnacy.
Cancer is an ugly disease and it is usually a heavy topic. But, I don't let it affect me that way; instead, I make jokes. So beware- if you continue to read my blog, I hope any and all tears are a result of uncontrollable (or...polite....) laughter. Because I really do have a beautiful life to fight for and I'm going to be just fine.
After a couple of weeks, the pain began to intensify. The chest pain made it difficult to expand and take deep breaths while the back pain was quickly becoming debilitating. I went back for a follow-up appointment with my doctor and he ordered a chest x-ray which came back clear. In the meantime, I also sought out chiropractic care, massage therapy, and tried making dietary changes and staying extra hydrated. One day the pain would be in my rib cage and the next day my lower back would make it impossible to bend over and change Avery's diaper. I was beginning to feel crazy because the pain moved to a different spot, almost daily, and felt like my doctor and chiro were just appeasing me, while secretly thinking I was a hallucinating nut job. Finally, after ruling out basic ailments, my doctor decided to delve deeper into the issue and look for causes that would be less common by ordering a bone scan. That bone scan was scheduled to be Wednesday, January, 23.
Unrelated to these issues, I also had my annual gynological exam scheduled for that same week on Monday, January, 21. I had originally scheduled this appointment for the first week of November, but traveling and other commitments kept interfering, so I rescheduled the appointment three times before I was finally able to go. In my mind, there wasn't any urgency to get to this appointment since it was just a yearly exam. My gyno, Nicole, is great and we had developed a very friendly relationship since I had spent so much time going back and forth to her office during my pregnancy. I was laying on the table and we were chatting while she was doing my breast exam. As she was examining my left breast, she paused and said, "Hmm...it feels like you have a bit of a lump here." I was pretty shocked, yet unconcerned, as my she guided my fingers over the side of my breast, gently pushing so I could feel the lump. When she did so, I definitely felt what she had found but it seemed fairly deep inside and you really had to knead the area to feel it. Nicole didn't seem alarmed but did recommend that I get a mammogram as soon as possible.
Suprisingly, the scheduling of both appointments aligned on the same day; although, I ended up feeling like I was in a pinball machine, ricocheting from department to department. When I arrived for my bone scan, I was initally given an IV injection and then I was instructed to wait for two hours while the tracer processed through my blood and bones. From there, I went to the breast center and prepared for the ultrasound and mammogram. This appointment was supposed to take less than one hour, but quickly doubled in time as I was ushered in and out of the treatment rooms three times. First, they did the initial ultrasound and mammogram and then I waited. Then, they wanted to look more closely so they repeated both. Then, they saw concern with my right breast and wanted to test that side, so I went in a third time. Then, I just waited. And, then, I waited some more. As I waited in a small waiting room, I watched a video on repeat about how to do a self-exam. I think I watched that video segment about fourteen times before the radiologist was finally ready to see me. It was a very brief meeting in which he expressed no further concern for my right breast, but ample concern for the lumps in my left breast and recommended a biopsy right away. Yes, lumps. It was then that I learned that I have two "tumors," in my left breast. I put the word tumors in quotation marks because I think it is a gross word; but alas, I still use it because it resounded very loudly in my memory as I walked out of the breast center and headed back to complete my bone scan. If my life were a movie, this would be where you would cue the pounding thoughts and a slow walk down an extremely long and sterile hallway. I can't say that I was worried yet, but it was growing a little more difficult to stifle my anxiety.
The bone scan went on without incident and then I was just left waiting for results again. Although, this time, the results would take days so I decided to get the hell outta dodge and left the next morning, Avery in tow, for a weekend of solitude. It was over that weekend that I first began noticing the changes in my left breast that hadn't been there before. I noticed when I got out of the shower, that my breast puckered inward on the side, where one of the lumps was. At some point, it had also started burning and rather than pushing in to find the lump, I could simply touch my breast and it was there now. The other lump was on top of my breast and whereas I hadn't even known of it's existence two days prior, it now protruded like a small hill if I was laying down. It didn't take long to start noticing these changes, but thankfully, it also didn't take long to hear from my doctor, as he wanted me to come in on Monday to discuss the results. In the interest of consolidating my appointments again, I scheduled my biopsy for that day as well.
It was 2:00pm on Monday January 28, 2013 that I first heard the word cancer. My doctor said that I had been the topic of conversation amongst many collaborating physcians over the last five days. It was their consensus, based on the results of my ultrasound/mammogram and the bone scan that I was looking advanced breast cancer; but, of course, the biopsy would have to confirm those results. Too be honest, I hadn't prepared myself for this moment. Yes, I knew I had two lumps... but cancer... was not even on my realistic radar. I figured I had cysts of some sort and while I was temporarily validated that my chest/back pain were not a serious case of crazy, I never anticipated having cancer. I'm 29 years old and I'm healthy. I just had my first child and now you want to tell me that I've been using Ibuprofen for the last three months to fight cancer??? It was sort of an out-of-body experience. I was listening to my doctor speak, but I wasn't really reacting. I didn't cry and to be honest, I didn't ask any questions. I just said ok and within 20 minutes of pretending to listen to him, I was collecting my purse and coat, ready to head upstairs to do the biopsy. I was ready for proof.
At 4:00 that afternoon, I met with the breast surgeon who would conduct my needle biopsy. He was funny and he was frank, which are two qualities that I greatly appreciate. I don't like to be coddled or handled softly in situations like this, I prefer honesty and to get to the point. It wasn't long before I found myself lying on his examination table with my arms above my head. For Pete's sake, this position was becoming all to familiar, I hadn't been felt up this much since I was a teenager heading toward first base. At this point though, the fear had started to set in. Although, my fear still wasn't of cancer; but instead, the large needle that was going to be pushed inside my breast, open like a claw and steal a sample of my insides. When I get nervous in serious medical situations, my blood pressure drops drastically. The last time that happened to me was during my c-section the previous June when the anthesiologist missed, 4 times, while doing my spinal block. My blood pressure plummeted and delivering Avery became a higher level of urgency. At the end of that experience, I was blessed with an amazing gift. On the day of my biopsy, though, I was not going to be as lucky.
Needless to say I survived the boobie snatcher with the help of my hand-holding, head-rubbing husband, Patrick, and thus, the doctor was able to get three samples. Despite the fact that my official-official diagnosis would not come until Wednesday, January, 31st, this very frank and honest breast surgeon was able to confirm that I do have breast cancer. It was a lot to absorb... for everyone. My mom had been there every step of the way so far, being by my side and asking the questions that I don't. After I assured her that I would be fine and she should go be with my dad, who was just finding out; I went over to my in-laws to break the news.
When I walked in the door that night, my sister-in-law Danielle (who had already been clued in via text) gave me a hug and told me I looked cute. In an effort to lighten the mood, I quipped, "Well, I dressed cute for cancer!" Hence, the name of my blog. And also because, I have made the choice that I will continue to get up everyday and put on makeup, do my hair, and presumably, dress cute. Cancer is not going to take over my life, I'm still me and I'm still going to do what I do. Am I afraid? Actually, no, I'm really not. I certainly have specific fears, mostly related to my daughter's future; but I know that right now I need to show her what strength is.
A followup oncology appointment confirmed that my official diagnosis is Stage 4 Breast Cancer that is er/pr positive and has mestastasized in my bones. The bones affected include my sternum, ribs, spine, shoulders, pelvis, and hips. Cancer likes to rear its ugly head and try to remind me that its there by causing me a lot of pain in those areas, pain like I've never had and cannot adequately explain. The er/pr positive means that my cancer (<--see that, "MY" cancer...I own it, not the other way around.) is hormone receptive... er (estrogen receptive)/ pr (progesterone receptive) and that is a good thing. That means, for now, I can bypass chemo/radiation be treated with a drug called Tamoxifen. Tamoxifen is a pill that I take daily to block the hormones, which will hopefully prevent the cancer cells from growing. Additionally, I get a monthly injection which will help repair and strengthen my bones and I take medicine to manage my bone pain in the meantime. My oncologist thinks that I've actually had breast cancer for about two years but the growth was sped up by the hormones produced during my pregnacy.
Cancer is an ugly disease and it is usually a heavy topic. But, I don't let it affect me that way; instead, I make jokes. So beware- if you continue to read my blog, I hope any and all tears are a result of uncontrollable (or...polite....) laughter. Because I really do have a beautiful life to fight for and I'm going to be just fine.
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