The Land of Uncertainty

I'd love to say that I weathered my year of cancer and emerged stronger, tougher, and ready to take on the world.  The truth is that I'm living the aftermath and that often isn't pretty.  I was focused so much on simply making it through last year that I kind of forgot the fact that after months of chemotherapy and radiation, my body might just be a tad pissed off.

I'm still dealing with daily pain.  If anything, it is greater than when I last wrote. 

Yes, it's frustrating.  Yes, it's likely a side-effect of my treatment.  No, it's not neuropathy. I'm trying to remind myself that while I (hopefully) killed all the cancer in me, I killed a whole whole lot of good cells, too.  Cells that ... are kinda necessary.  Our bodies are mini ecosystems in which cells of one type work with cells of other types and, well, last year was spent dumping a shit ton of nuclear waste in that world.  Gaia is pissed, you guys.

Gaia as in ... the mini world of me.

Do you know how incredibly messed up it is to read posts from a year ago, when I was in the MIDST of chemotherapy, and realize that I felt BETTER then? 

My body roll call?

• Hair:  kick ass and growing wildly
• Frankenboob: a seasoned veteran ready to tell tales of bravery
• Bride of Frankenboob:  frankly rather cranky and still healing from her transformation last November
• Nails:  I have a pedicure scheduled in June - my first since I was sure chemo would take four of my toenails.  It didn't but it was touch and go there for a bit and they are still slowly - freakishly slowly - growing back to normal.
• Pain: Yep. Everywhere.  Still.
• Weight:  Yep. Everywhere. Still.

I try to keep telling myself that it took a year to go through the treatment, it might take at least that long to recover from it, but ... I'm tired.  I'm so tired of pain, tired of ... being tired.  I don't know exactly what life will be like next year or the year after.  I'm living in the land of uncertainty.

But what really drove me to write tonight is more basic.  It wasn't the overall sense of uncertainty that I feel as I recover.  It is the sharp jarring uncertainty of tomorrow.  The fear of tomorrow.
As in ... literally tomorrow.

Tomorrow I have my first post-treatment mammogram.  I'll be back at the Betty Ford Breast Center, donning those deep purple/maroon/plum half-robes, and watching the Frankenboobs get squished.

I've been told NOT to expect an all-clear.  Not because they expect something horrible.  Just because there is no baseline anymore.  I've had surgery on both sides and, so, the images will likely show scar tissue; none of my old mammograms will mean anything. 

I've been told to expect "It's probably okay."

" ... probably okay."

You know what?  That sounds a hell of a lot better than "little bit of cancer."  I'll take it.

*fingers crossed* please 

Just A Little Bit ...

... of cancer.

I've sat here staring at the white page for a while now.  I'm not sure what to write.

But those were the words that turned everything surreal.

"Just a little bit of cancer." 

Less than a week out from my boring, smoosh 'em session, a nurse from Spectrum called to let me know that my mammogram showed some asymmetric tissue and they wanted me to come in for further images.  The next afternoon. 

No problem.  I know multiple people who have had to do the same. So, the next day, I again donned the stylish wrap half-gown (in plum this time) and allowed another stranger (extremely nice) to position my body and breast, and then I held my breath, and repeated the process several times.  The staff at the Betty Ford Breast Center in Grand Rapids are incredible.  And they don't send you home after taking a few images.  They have you wait while a doctor examines them in case more are needed.

More were needed.  So they took more.  And I waited.

The doctor requested ultrasounds of both breasts.  And, no, I didn't have to set up a new appointment and return again.  They did the ultrasounds while I was still there.  And the doctor reviewed them immediately as well.

I just wasn't expecting the results.  "Just a little bit of cancer." 

I had watched the screen as the technician tried to find the tiny spec showing up on the mammogram of my right breast.  She never did.  The report officially says my right breast is "unremarkable." 

                           Oh, if I had a nickel ....

She had then moved to my left breast.  My words a few seconds after she began, "Well ... that's a bit different."  Even I could see the black hole (at least that is what it looked like to me).  It's only 11 mm across.  Tiny, really.  Of course, it seemed massive on the screen. 

"Just a little bit of cancer."

So surreal.

It still is.

I'm not so much frightened as I am annoyed.  The doctor ordered a biopsy then went on to explain that the cancer is small - hence, "a little bit" - and immensely treatable.  I worried aloud about my Ireland trip in September (again, surreal), and he replied that, barring any unforeseen complications, he believes this will be in my "rearview mirror" by that time. 

Good. 

Okay. 

Right. 

Now what.

Oh, biopsy, right.  Let's schedule that.  Tomorrow morning? Let's do it.

So I returned to the Center Thursday morning where five core biopsies were taken from "the mass" and two from a suspicious looking lymph node under my left arm. 

Again, the people at Betty Ford are incredible.  I didn't feel a thing.  Actually, I found myself staring at the ceiling where some designer had installed a light panel that looks like a blue sky complete with a tree branch covered in blossoms.  Meanwhile, the doctor, nurse, and ultrasound technician all prepared me for the biopsies. 

"Does anyone here watch The Walking Dead?"  -- my all important question.

The answer was yes. 

                                "I'm just going to look at the flowers." 

     [Psst. Don't click that link unless you know what I'm talking about already 'cause SPOILERS.]

Chuckling from the watcher.

The area was numbed and then the doctor used ultrasound to guide her to the exact locations.  I heard several clicks as a hollowed needle took samples from the area but felt nothing.  Yay, Novocaine!

Then the waiting game began.  They had hoped that the results of the biopsies would be received in time to call me on Friday. 

They weren't. 

Hey, do you know what makes a winter storm weekend even longer?  Waiting for confirmation that you have breast cancer.

Just a little bit of breast cancer.

This afternoon, I finally received the call confirming it.  As in ... about an hour ago.  The good news is that the testing on my lymph node was negative! Yay!  The bad news is that I have cancer. 

Just a bit. 

Again, even with the diagnosis, I'm not scared; I'm annoyed.  And that's a good thing.  As they've told me, this is small, it is early, and extremely treatable.  And, it is small, it is early, and extremely treatable because I did not put off my mammogram any longer than I did.  I am so lucky. 

I am blessed by living in Grand Rapids with such easy access to the excellent nurses, doctors, and specialists at the Betty Ford Breast Center and Spectrum.  I am blessed to be catching this so early.  I am blessed to have excellent insurance.  I am blessed to be surrounded by incredibly supportive friends and coworkers.  And I am blessed to have family who are willing to drop anything if they are needed. 

So I am annoyed with just a little bit of cancer.  But I am blessed immeasurably more and look forward to the day I see this annoyance in my rearview mirror.



   





 

It's Squishing Time!

A few weeks ago, I realized that I've been neglecting some things in my life.  Beyond the Christmas tree that was never decorated, the Christmas cards that were never sent, and, oh, I don't know, THIS BLOG, I've neglected to get one of the most important yet standard tests a woman can get.

The almighty mammogram.

I can't imagine why. Honestly, who wouldn't want to strip from the waist up, sidle on up to a glass table and allow a stranger to manipulate "the ladies" into perfect positions before slowly lowering another glass slab on top of them, and squeezing until they've flattened out ... much like that marshmallow you squished last summer in between two graham crackers.

You are SO going to think of that the next time you bite into a s'more. 

And you're welcome.

Regardless, my doctor had ordered my usual squish-fest in the fall of 2014 around the time of my yearly physical.  I just never got around to scheduling it.  Oops.

Meh. So what, right?

You see, the thing is, that simple test is often the first indicator a woman will have that something isn't okay with the girls.  The melons.  The fat bags.  The ... eh, I'll leave the many humorous names for the LIFE-SUPPORTING mammary glands to you.  Feel free to comment.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), cancer is the 2nd leading cause of death in women (right behind heart disease).  In 2013, cancer caused 21.5% of female deaths in the U.S.; cancer and heart disease combined caused nearly 44% of female deaths for that year while "unintentional injuries" caused only 3.8%.  But wait ... that's all ages, folks.

When you consider an age range beginning at 35 to 64, cancer reigns supreme as the leading cause of female deaths.  For 55-64 year old females, that percentage reaches 38.3% while heart disease rests in 2nd at 16.6%  Statistics can be frightening. 

Now, perhaps you're more Han-like and don't want to know the odds.  "Never tell me the odds!"

[Seriously, if you haven't seen Star Wars: The Force Awakens yet, stop everything, skip everything EXCEPT your mammogram and go see it. Now.]

The point is that anything you can do to keep yourself from adding to cancer's lead is important.  Finding breast cancer early reduces your risk of dying from the disease by 25-30%.  And mammograms are an important way of doing that.  The American Medical Association (and a whole long list of others) recommend that women begin getting yearly mammograms at the age of 40 (or earlier if you're considered high risk). 

So get to squishing, ladies! 

If you've never had a mammogram before, fear not.  My kidding above aside, the process is relatively quick and relatively painless.  You usually begin in a changing room where you'll be instructed to strip from the waist up and don a glorious wrap top (think hospital gown cut in half).  You'll also be asked to use a handy wipe to remove any deodorant.  Things like deodorant can show up on a mammogram and confuse the results.  The technician conducting the test will show you the machine and answer any questions you have before beginning.  While there is some positioning of body and breast, and your girls will be flattened, I have never found it to be painful.  The tech will position you, ask you to hold your breath, take the mammogram, and then have you relax while checking the image.  This happens several times in order to get as complete a view of each breast as possible.

That's it.  Yet, that little test could literally save your life.

I got mine on New Year's Eve. 

Start 2016 out by doing something simple to protect yourself. 

Get to squishing!