For the Love of the Surreal Life

I'm trying so hard.

Ever since the unfortunately named Dr. Pennes walked into the ultrasound room and uttered, "You have a little bit of cancer," I've been steadfastly and happily planting myself in a surreal version of life.  It just hasn't seemed real.

               Little bit of ...

Didn't that use to be the name of a candy bar?  Right.  Bit O'Honey.  Instead of honey I've got a Bit O'Cancer. 

Just a bit ... but, well, yes, it's just a bit but see it's an ANGRY bit.  An angry bit of grade 3 triple negative, you see.  That's a bit of aggressive, that is ... just a bit of aggressive cancer.  Nothing to worry about.  Just a  ....

 .... what's that?  Oh ... yes, well, there are also a couple of "suspicious" areas on the outer sides of, well, of both breasts but ... MRIs can lie, don't you know.  Yes, they can show things that aren't actually cancer so don't you worry ... let's just stick a few more needles in and check, shall we?

Just a couple of needles

Here, get on your stomach again and, well, wait, we need to put another IV in so we can send that icy, stinging contrast through, the better to see the suspicious bits, you know.  Now hover and aim well, there you go, right into those two holes because that's the most comfortable thing in the world, isn't it.  Now hold still.

No, really ... you must NOT move.  We'll just roll you into the MRI tube and take a quick picture and, now don't move, roll you out and insert the needles, don't move, now roll you back into the tube for more images to make certain the needles are well placed and now roll you ... don't move ... out again and
                *BAM*           
                           take the biopsies.

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At least that is how I'm imagining it will be come tomorrow.  And, as you can probably tell, I'm writing this while Downton Abbey is playing in the background.  Just picture Mrs. Patmore and/or Mrs. Hughes saying the above and you'll see.

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And now surgery of some kind is on Friday, and I won't know what kind of surgery I'm having until Tuesday or Wednesday.  Is the cancer still believed to be an angry little dot on the upper inside of one breast?  Or will I find out it has spread throughout the breast or, perhaps, is represented in both. 

Or further.  Will it be found in my lymph nodes?

The surreal nature of this mayhem is finally cracking for me. 

And I don't like it one bit.

One angry little bit.

Just Hangin' Loose

Tonight was my breast MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) in preparation for my half day appointment with the Spectrum Health Breast Cancer Multispecialty Team (MST) at the Lemmen-Holton Cancer Pavilion next Monday.  [Oye, that's a mouth full.]

After my diagnosis, the people at Betty Ford referred me to the MST and they took over my tests and care.  From the surgeon through the oncologists on down to a "nurse navigator" and social worker, the MST will cover all the bases and help develop a plan for me moving forward.  [Seriously, check out the link above, it is a one-stop cancer care shop.]

My next step was the breast MRI, which will give a different picture of what is going on inside me.  When the nurse called to schedule it, she explained a bit of how it would be done, including that I'd be on my stomach for about 40 minutes.  Now, I don't know about you, but the thought of being on my stomach for breast imaging, smooshed up against a - what - glass table sounded terrible. 

Oh, was my image off.

And, oh, was it even more ridiculous.

The nurse explained that while I would be on my stomach during the test, the table had ... well ... two holes in it.  SERIOUSLY?  I took the nurse by surprise when I - the patient who recently learned she has breast cancer - could NOT stop laughing. 

Actually, I think she was getting annoyed because the giggles kept starting over.

Because I'm an adult with the occasional maturity level of a 12 year old boy. [No offense to 12 year old boys out there.]

I arrived tonight in full-on dread mode completely untempered by any happy hour drink because SOMEONE at MST told Olivia (the extremely pleasant administrative assistant there) that I could not have any.  Someone was wrong.  I asked upon arrival and I TOTALLY could have had a drink before slipping the ladies into two holes and hanging loose for 40 minutes. But I digress.

I arrived, slipped into one of the oh-so-sheek hospital gowns (open in front please) and sat while first Drew and then Kim patted, rubbed, and slapped my veins around in vain trying to find one for an IV.

I hate IVs.

My veins hate IVs. 

I'll give props to Kim, though. She only stuck me once.  Granted, it was a dreaded back-of-the-hand IV but it worked.  So, now I'm in hospital gown (open in front) with an IV on my right hand and am presented with ... the table:

See that slightly purple/lavender head/breast rest?  Yep.  With the open sides in case anyone needs to move anything around in there.  I spent 40 minutes with my girls hanging through those holes, my face resting in the deceptive 'you could be having a massage' holder, with my arms straight out in front of me, IV on top of the right hand, and a squishy ball in the left that would serve as my panic button should things get too intense for me during the procedure.

"What music would you like to listen to?"

Huh?

"What music would you like to listen to through the headphones?"

He should have asked what music would I want to hear set to loud buzzing and clicks but I appreciated it nonetheless.  [For the record, I heard some Struts, some Rixton, and, I believe, a Vamps song during my face-down time.] 

So, face down, arms overhead, headphones on, contrast pumping into my arm with both a sting and a chill, and praying that the panic ball would be unneeded, I proceeded to focus on my breathing for 40 minutes.  [Little bit claustrophobic over here.] 

And then it was done.  Up you go, out comes the IV, on goes a bandage, here are your clothes, and here's the door.  Wham, bam, thank ... you get the idea.

And now I wait. 

Monday afternoon will include individual appointments with three doctors - the surgeon, the medical oncologist, and the radiology oncologist - all of whom will give me a breast exam.  That will make roughly 9 people who will have felt me up in 2016 so far. 

Loose indeed.