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.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
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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