You've most likely heard the phrase, "It's all relative." I was reminded of the truth of this today along with the sentiment, "Everyone is fighting their own battle."
I had my 2nd post-op appointment at my surgeon's office and had the hope to have lots of sutures removed and a green light for my chemotherapy to begin next Friday. I know, it's odd to think of someone wanting that fright-fest to begin, but I have the dates (including the end date) in my head and have been trying to mentally prepare myself for next Friday so ... I'd like to proceed as planned.
The appointment did not go as planned.
See, this thing called gravity (Ah, Sir Newton), has been pulling Frankenboob down despite my alternating between a mega-supportive sports bra and corset-tight wrap. The result is that one of the sutures pulled open and ... well .... open wounds are not good things. I'm now on an antibiotic with instructions to use wet/dry dressings (a square wet with saline solution on the wound with a dry dressing on top), and have a follow-up appointment with Dr. App on Monday afternoon. It will really be up to her at that appointment as to whether I proceed as planned next Friday.
Meanwhile, my lymph node incision site is doing beautifully and the sutures were removed today. Odd to think that a location that had much more movement (and next to my armpit) is fine yet the underside of Frankenboob is toxic.
With my perfectly planned next steps and appointments in jeopardy, I picked up the antibiotic prescription and decided to cheer myself up with a protein rich and delicious omelet at Real Food Café (pretty much my second home these days). I sat down, grumbling internally over the doctor's visit, my toxic tit, and my possible delay in treatment. I was frustrated and feeling pretty sorry for myself overall.
I glanced next to me and saw two women having lunch. The younger of the two was talking nonstop and it was easy to tell that this was a young adult daughter talking to her mother. I also noticed pretty quickly that the mother had some difficulty in speaking and moving. After making sure that the server understood her mother's order, the daughter continued telling her mother about her plans for the future - school, work, living arrangements, etc. It did not appear that the mother's condition was recent although I certainly don't know that for sure.
The two left before I was finished and three men took their place. One of the men, pulled the table out so that his friend/son/brother could easily sit down. It was apparent that the man had both difficulty speaking and a physical disability. Once seated, the table was replaced and the two men joined the third and proceeded to ensure that the server understood all of their lunch orders.
Honestly, I felt ashamed. I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself because of a completely treatable medical condition when, in the course of 30 minutes or so, here were two individuals who are living with what appear to be lifelong conditions. Now, please don't misunderstand me. I have no idea what either of these individuals think or feel about their conditions ... or even if they think of them as conditions. But it reminded me that everything is relative.
Having a "bit" of cancer is a pain in my ass - or, rather, a pain in my breast. But the tumor was relatively small, it was caught relatively early, and my treatment is expected to be relatively manageable with an actual end date. In the grand scheme of things, in the many ways in which life and health can smack us upside the head, when I could just as easily live in a place where medical treatments are not as advanced, are too expensive, where even clean water is a luxury, my life is still relatively freakin' spectacular.
Everything is relative.
I also found myself remembering that everyone is fighting their own battle. If you saw me today, you would have no idea that I have cancer, or that I'm ill in any way. You certainly wouldn't know that I have an infected hole in my breast, or would be grabbing yogurt on my way home to re-stock the good bacteria in my body after the antibiotic kills the good, the bad, and the ugly indiscriminately. I looked around that diner and started wondering what other people were going through. What hidden battles waited for them at home, or never left them alone. Medical conditions, mental conditions, the loss of loved ones, financial difficulties, heartbreak ... the potential list is endless.
It's so easy to be caught up in our own lives that we assume a nice car means the person that just cut us off did so because he's an asshole, not because he's racing to the hospital to be with a loved one. The woman taking too long to decide what she wants (IT'S MCDONALD'S - DO YOU NOT KNOW THE MENU?!) is simply an idiot, not completely emotionally bent over a breakup or job loss.
One late breakfast humbled me. I hope I do better in remembering both how blessed I am and that I've no idea what battles are being faced all around me.
Now, excuse me while I go replace my soaked dressing - WTH! - with a new one.
Stupid toxic tit!
Still ... relatively ... not that big of a deal.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Monday, February 8, 2016
Full Steam AHead!
It's difficult to believe that just one month ago, I was impatiently awaiting confirmation of whether or not I had cancer. I wouldn't get that confirmation until January 11th over lunch hour. Less than three weeks later I would go under the knife and Frankenboob would be born. She's coming along nicely, by the way.
Now, it seems, just three more weeks later, I'll be starting two rounds of chemotherapy followed by radiation that will end with the end of summer 2016. The MST at Spectrum do NOT mess around (which is, ultimately, a fabulous thing - it's just a bit .... at a loss for a word here ... overwhelming).
Dr. Vander Woude is my Oncologist just as Dr. App is/was my surgeon. Dr. V plans for my chemotherapy to begin next week Friday, February 19th. So by next week Friday, I'll be sporting a Charlize Theron buzz-cut a la Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), and hopefully an attitude to match.
I'm opting for the buzz before the first session even though the timeline for losing my hair is two weeks after that; this is why: If I'm likely to feel remotely like shit after that first session - and possibly nauseous for the first couple days - why deal with hair on top of that?
Now, I've had multiple people suggest that I look into the recently FDA approved cool caps from Dignitana AB called "DigniCap" that is meant to reduce hair loss due to chemotherapy. I have looked into them and I also spoke with Dr. Vander Woude about them. I will not be donning them during chemotherapy. My doctor would absolutely be supportive of me if I wanted to try them; however, the cost would end up being between $1,500 to $3,000, and it is not guaranteed to work. I don't have that kind of money to spend on the chance that my hair won't fall out or on the chance that only part of my hair will fall out. I also question the naming of this product; I think its crap to imply that I'll somehow lose my dignity when I lose my hair. But to each their own. This is my personal decision on the matter and others might absolutely feel that the cost is well worth the possibility that they will not lose their hair. I get it. Chemotherapy is traumatic enough and to be able to look as healthy as possible can certainly help you feel healthier as well. Every person is different and everyone's choice on this topic is valid for them.
My chemo schedule (barring changes) should look something like this: I'll be getting two specific drugs - Doxorubicin and Cyclophosphamide - on February 19, March 4, March 18, and April 1. The day after each of those infusions, I'll stop back into the office to get an injection of medication meant to ramp up my white blood cell count and minimize any lowered immunity. Then, on April 15, I'll begin receiving Paclitaxel each Friday for 12 weeks. I've opted to receive my infusions on Fridays in the hope that this will lessen my time from work since it will be on the first couple of days after treatment that I feel the worst.
This all means that I should finish chemotherapy on July 1, 2016.
Oh, but wait, there's more. Roughly two weeks later, I'll begin up to six weeks of Monday-Friday, daily radiation treatment, which should then end no later than August 26, 2016.
Dr. Vander Woude encourages patients like me to continue to work during chemotherapy, which is a relief to my bank account and vacation time. She's had great success in people having little complications during this course of treatment, and I'll be monitored carefully throughout the process.
During the next two weeks, I'll be getting an echocardiogram to check my heart and make sure it is healthy and ready for the chemotherapy. I'll also be attending an hour long class on what to expect during chemotherapy. And ... I'll also be getting a port installed on the upper right side of my chest. The port will allow easy access to a larger vein for infusions rather than having a nurse attempt to locate one of my evasive veins each time plus, given the rather dangerous-to-skin type of drugs I'll be taking, it ends up being a safer way of giving me the chemotherapy overall.
Anyway. YAY! for a plan and YAY! for an end date to put on treatment, right!?
Yay!!
Let's do this.
Now, it seems, just three more weeks later, I'll be starting two rounds of chemotherapy followed by radiation that will end with the end of summer 2016. The MST at Spectrum do NOT mess around (which is, ultimately, a fabulous thing - it's just a bit .... at a loss for a word here ... overwhelming).
Dr. Vander Woude is my Oncologist just as Dr. App is/was my surgeon. Dr. V plans for my chemotherapy to begin next week Friday, February 19th. So by next week Friday, I'll be sporting a Charlize Theron buzz-cut a la Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), and hopefully an attitude to match.
I say this having not actually watched the movie yet (I KNOW!) but anticipating that her character is a bad-ass. I SWEAR I'll see this before next Friday. It's on HBO on demand after all.
I'm opting for the buzz before the first session even though the timeline for losing my hair is two weeks after that; this is why: If I'm likely to feel remotely like shit after that first session - and possibly nauseous for the first couple days - why deal with hair on top of that?
Now, I've had multiple people suggest that I look into the recently FDA approved cool caps from Dignitana AB called "DigniCap" that is meant to reduce hair loss due to chemotherapy. I have looked into them and I also spoke with Dr. Vander Woude about them. I will not be donning them during chemotherapy. My doctor would absolutely be supportive of me if I wanted to try them; however, the cost would end up being between $1,500 to $3,000, and it is not guaranteed to work. I don't have that kind of money to spend on the chance that my hair won't fall out or on the chance that only part of my hair will fall out. I also question the naming of this product; I think its crap to imply that I'll somehow lose my dignity when I lose my hair. But to each their own. This is my personal decision on the matter and others might absolutely feel that the cost is well worth the possibility that they will not lose their hair. I get it. Chemotherapy is traumatic enough and to be able to look as healthy as possible can certainly help you feel healthier as well. Every person is different and everyone's choice on this topic is valid for them.
My chemo schedule (barring changes) should look something like this: I'll be getting two specific drugs - Doxorubicin and Cyclophosphamide - on February 19, March 4, March 18, and April 1. The day after each of those infusions, I'll stop back into the office to get an injection of medication meant to ramp up my white blood cell count and minimize any lowered immunity. Then, on April 15, I'll begin receiving Paclitaxel each Friday for 12 weeks. I've opted to receive my infusions on Fridays in the hope that this will lessen my time from work since it will be on the first couple of days after treatment that I feel the worst.
No, it is not lost on me that I'll end one set of drugs on April's Fool Day and begin the other drug on Tax Day. Actually, I think it's completely appropriate.
This all means that I should finish chemotherapy on July 1, 2016.
Oh, but wait, there's more. Roughly two weeks later, I'll begin up to six weeks of Monday-Friday, daily radiation treatment, which should then end no later than August 26, 2016.
Dr. Vander Woude encourages patients like me to continue to work during chemotherapy, which is a relief to my bank account and vacation time. She's had great success in people having little complications during this course of treatment, and I'll be monitored carefully throughout the process.
During the next two weeks, I'll be getting an echocardiogram to check my heart and make sure it is healthy and ready for the chemotherapy. I'll also be attending an hour long class on what to expect during chemotherapy. And ... I'll also be getting a port installed on the upper right side of my chest. The port will allow easy access to a larger vein for infusions rather than having a nurse attempt to locate one of my evasive veins each time plus, given the rather dangerous-to-skin type of drugs I'll be taking, it ends up being a safer way of giving me the chemotherapy overall.
Right. So I was going to put an image of a port here to show you all what it will look like but ... yeah .... that started to freak me out so let's just wait and perhaps I'll put one up of my actual port. Maybe.
Excuse me while I tap that bubbling emotion back down.
Anyway. YAY! for a plan and YAY! for an end date to put on treatment, right!?
Yay!!
Yippee.
Let's do this.
Friday, February 5, 2016
When "Robust" is a Good Thing
I've heard the word "robust" used to describe one's figure in a not-so-flattering way even though the simple definition is
I finally received the results of the pathology report completed on my tumor and lymph nodes this morning.
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-----------
Dr. App quickly told me that it was excellent news. The report confirms that my lymph nodes were clear - 100% clear - of cancer. The tumor removed ended up measuring 1.8 cm or 18 mm. If you recall, the initial ultrasound had this at 11 mm, the MRI had it at 13 mm and a later discussion with Dr. App had it at 15 mm. Now, I don't know if this change is due to the method of measuring (one being more accurate than another or whatnot) but suffice it to say that I'm glad this monster is out of me before it reached its twenties and started hosting toga parties and generally corrupting the wholesome surrounding cells.
It had already acquired a mini-me! They found a small 4 mm second tumor along-side big daddy. Can you imagine!? How DARE he mess with a child! [See how the evil tumor suddenly became male and a pedophile? Nooo, my job doesn't affect me at ALL.] They also found some DCIS cells hanging around those two. Think of those as the good kids wanting a taste of the wild side only to find themselves in over their heads and headed to juvy. Honestly, my boob is quickly becoming an after school special.[ <Don't stop watching that top ten until the end. I needed that laugh.]
In short, my lymph nodes are clear, and they removed everything they need to so that I do not need any further surgery. Cue the trumpets. No, I don't get out of chemotherapy (you really WOULD hear me scream at that) or radiation. I meet with Dr. Vander Woude on Monday to hear more of what will happen when chemo starts late this month or next.
For now, I'm continuing to get caught up on shows I didn't know I needed as I unsuccessfully try to ignore the incision pain. Ladies, put your bra on and touch the lower left ridge of it. Now imagine an incision directly underneath of it trying to heal. And, no, I can't just take it off. I need to remain wrapped or wearing a sports bra, etc., to keep some pressure on her as she heals or it can result in way too much swelling and even a need for more surgery. [Honestly, not sure if Dr. App was just trying to scare me with that threat but she's a mighty dynamo and I will not defy her.]
The massive surgical bra monstrosity they sent me home in works a bit better at night with a wrap underneath but even that aggravates the incision. So ... for now ... before my transformation into Sméagol, just picture me as this little tyrant (with his right hand a bit higher).
A robust little tyrant. In the successful and not likely to fail way.
:strong and healthy
:strongly formed or built
:successful or impressive and not likely to fail or weakenBut when your surgeon tells you that your margins are "robust" - meaning that the area of surrounding cells taken along with the cancer is clear and of a healthy size - that's a very, very good thing.
I finally received the results of the pathology report completed on my tumor and lymph nodes this morning.
----------
Hello! I've been a bit quiet here this week, mostly 'cause of, you know, drugs, and waiting. And pain if I'm honest. Frankenboob or "fireboob" is being a real bitch while she heals. Lots of water, pills, and sleeping sprinkled with TV and a Walking Dead trivia game. Once I was off the narcotics, I did a solo trip on Wednesday. Getting lightheaded in TJMaxx will quickly belie your self-proclaimed, "I'm FINE." Lesson learned. Now I'm back to being bedeviled, bored, and bitchy at home.
-----------
Dr. App quickly told me that it was excellent news. The report confirms that my lymph nodes were clear - 100% clear - of cancer. The tumor removed ended up measuring 1.8 cm or 18 mm. If you recall, the initial ultrasound had this at 11 mm, the MRI had it at 13 mm and a later discussion with Dr. App had it at 15 mm. Now, I don't know if this change is due to the method of measuring (one being more accurate than another or whatnot) but suffice it to say that I'm glad this monster is out of me before it reached its twenties and started hosting toga parties and generally corrupting the wholesome surrounding cells.
It had already acquired a mini-me! They found a small 4 mm second tumor along-side big daddy. Can you imagine!? How DARE he mess with a child! [See how the evil tumor suddenly became male and a pedophile? Nooo, my job doesn't affect me at ALL.] They also found some DCIS cells hanging around those two. Think of those as the good kids wanting a taste of the wild side only to find themselves in over their heads and headed to juvy. Honestly, my boob is quickly becoming an after school special.[ <Don't stop watching that top ten until the end. I needed that laugh.]
In short, my lymph nodes are clear, and they removed everything they need to so that I do not need any further surgery. Cue the trumpets. No, I don't get out of chemotherapy (you really WOULD hear me scream at that) or radiation. I meet with Dr. Vander Woude on Monday to hear more of what will happen when chemo starts late this month or next.
For now, I'm continuing to get caught up on shows I didn't know I needed as I unsuccessfully try to ignore the incision pain. Ladies, put your bra on and touch the lower left ridge of it. Now imagine an incision directly underneath of it trying to heal. And, no, I can't just take it off. I need to remain wrapped or wearing a sports bra, etc., to keep some pressure on her as she heals or it can result in way too much swelling and even a need for more surgery. [Honestly, not sure if Dr. App was just trying to scare me with that threat but she's a mighty dynamo and I will not defy her.]
The massive surgical bra monstrosity they sent me home in works a bit better at night with a wrap underneath but even that aggravates the incision. So ... for now ... before my transformation into Sméagol, just picture me as this little tyrant (with his right hand a bit higher).
A robust little tyrant. In the successful and not likely to fail way.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Meanwhile, In The Waiting Room
My surgery went by in the blink of an eye. For me. One minute, I was listening to my surgeon explain the plan to her team, the next, I was waking up in recovery and hearing the blessed news that my lymph nodes came back clear (90% sure so far of that).
For my family, however, my surgery took over four hours. My Dad, stepmom, and two oldest sisters, Linda and Glenda, came to support me, and set up camp near the TV in the waiting room. Fox News was playing. And they stayed. If that doesn't speak volumes of my family's love for me, nothing will.
A few hours into my surgery, Linda walked downstairs to get some food (a salad) and was returning when she noticed people leaving the building and overheard someone saying that it was being EVACUATED.
She continued back to the waiting room .... and ate her salad. [Of course, she did.]
Was this a drill? Must be, right? Regardless, my family's attitude was - "Sure, ya'll go ahead and leave but my (daughter, sister) is IN SURGERY right now so we're staying, thank you."
I have this vision of my family being bodily dragged out, screaming to stay, struggling against security. I'm positive that's exactly how it happened. Yep. Totally.
So, what happens in this situation? Lights flashing and people told to leave when actual surgeries are taking place? What mayhem is occurring when surgeons, elbow deep in blood and flesh, start hearing sirens and the call for evacuation?
Um, nothing. Apparently, the surgery calmly continues even if everything around it goes a bit nuts. My family was told not to worry, that my surgery room had a fire wall or some such protection. And soon they saw our fine Grand Rapids Fire Department arrive.
For my family, however, my surgery took over four hours. My Dad, stepmom, and two oldest sisters, Linda and Glenda, came to support me, and set up camp near the TV in the waiting room. Fox News was playing. And they stayed. If that doesn't speak volumes of my family's love for me, nothing will.
A few hours into my surgery, Linda walked downstairs to get some food (a salad) and was returning when she noticed people leaving the building and overheard someone saying that it was being EVACUATED.
She continued back to the waiting room .... and ate her salad. [Of course, she did.]
Was this a drill? Must be, right? Regardless, my family's attitude was - "Sure, ya'll go ahead and leave but my (daughter, sister) is IN SURGERY right now so we're staying, thank you."
They stayed until someone came and got them.
I have this vision of my family being bodily dragged out, screaming to stay, struggling against security. I'm positive that's exactly how it happened. Yep. Totally.
So, what happens in this situation? Lights flashing and people told to leave when actual surgeries are taking place? What mayhem is occurring when surgeons, elbow deep in blood and flesh, start hearing sirens and the call for evacuation?
Um, nothing. Apparently, the surgery calmly continues even if everything around it goes a bit nuts. My family was told not to worry, that my surgery room had a fire wall or some such protection. And soon they saw our fine Grand Rapids Fire Department arrive.
Adds a bit of excitement to an otherwise boring wait, don't you think? When they were allowed back inside, all they know of what happened is that it was safe to be inside again ... except for a particular suite. It's a bit of a mystery still.
But the real question remains. WHAT effect would sirens and firetrucks, evacuations and flashing lights, have on my breast?! Because, you know, priorities.
I took a shower tonight and came face to breast with my Frankenboob. Wow.
The tumor was removed, breast tissue moved about, and things, um, relocated. Trauma with a capital T.
She's going to be brilliant. And no, there will not be a picture.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Alive, Drugged, and WITHOUT Armpit Drain!
Welcome to my hallucination.
One month ago, I didn't have breast cancer. Well, I didn't KNOW I have breast cancer. Ignorance truly is bliss, isn't it? But ignorance can be deadly as well. Had I NOT went to my mammogram, had I put it off even several more months, I'd likely be facing a much different future.
My surgery was this morning. My day began at 5 a.m. when Taylor Swift began yelling at me from my stepmom's phone to "shake it off." Indeed. By 6:30, I was entering the Spectrum's Lake Drive Surgical Center, signing in, signing off, and donning another medical wristband. Soon, I was in Room 23, trading my clothes for a Bair Paws gown, hair cap, and purple Bair Paws socks. The gown had holes in it and the nurse hooked a hose into one of those holes and gave me a small controller to adjust the temperature OF THE INSIDE OF MY GOWN. How cool is THAT!?
Hell, even the IV went smoothly this time.
Dr. App [God bless this tiny marvel of a woman] arrived, met some of my family, then kicked them out so she could draw on me. Literally. It's an odd feeling to have someone draw on you, saying things like, "And here's where we're going to put your nipple." [Understatement.] The anesthesiologist stopped by, other members of the surgical team said hello, and I was soon wheeled into the actual surgery room. The last thing I remember is Dr. App talking to the team about who I am and what they'd be doing today. The next thing I remember is coming to with the song, "I Want To Write You A Song," going through my head.
I felt some pain and some nausea. I immediately directed my attention to my left arm, and realized I did NOT have tubing coming from it as I'd expected. Then *cue CELEBRATION* the BEST NEWS EVER:
LITERALLY, the best possible outcome [outside of the Dr. determining that the pathology report was incorrect and there's no cancer ANYWHERE.]
I didn't stay too long in recovery. I'm probably too proud of the fact that the unseen patients on either side of me were groaning and moaning and asking for more pain medication while my nurse latched onto a sigh, "You sighed - do you need more medication?" Once back in my Room 23, they brought me a small banana muffin and water (and medication). Maybe an hour later, I was headed home.
My surgery went wonderfully. For me. *cue CLIFFHANGER*
Did I mention the evacuation and firetruck?
One month ago, I didn't have breast cancer. Well, I didn't KNOW I have breast cancer. Ignorance truly is bliss, isn't it? But ignorance can be deadly as well. Had I NOT went to my mammogram, had I put it off even several more months, I'd likely be facing a much different future.
My surgery was this morning. My day began at 5 a.m. when Taylor Swift began yelling at me from my stepmom's phone to "shake it off." Indeed. By 6:30, I was entering the Spectrum's Lake Drive Surgical Center, signing in, signing off, and donning another medical wristband. Soon, I was in Room 23, trading my clothes for a Bair Paws gown, hair cap, and purple Bair Paws socks. The gown had holes in it and the nurse hooked a hose into one of those holes and gave me a small controller to adjust the temperature OF THE INSIDE OF MY GOWN. How cool is THAT!?
Hell, even the IV went smoothly this time.
Dr. App [God bless this tiny marvel of a woman] arrived, met some of my family, then kicked them out so she could draw on me. Literally. It's an odd feeling to have someone draw on you, saying things like, "And here's where we're going to put your nipple." [Understatement.] The anesthesiologist stopped by, other members of the surgical team said hello, and I was soon wheeled into the actual surgery room. The last thing I remember is Dr. App talking to the team about who I am and what they'd be doing today. The next thing I remember is coming to with the song, "I Want To Write You A Song," going through my head.
I felt some pain and some nausea. I immediately directed my attention to my left arm, and realized I did NOT have tubing coming from it as I'd expected. Then *cue CELEBRATION* the BEST NEWS EVER:
My sentinel lymph nodes showed no sign of cancer and a drain had not been necessary for the four they removed! The surgery was a complete success!
LITERALLY, the best possible outcome [outside of the Dr. determining that the pathology report was incorrect and there's no cancer ANYWHERE.]
I didn't stay too long in recovery. I'm probably too proud of the fact that the unseen patients on either side of me were groaning and moaning and asking for more pain medication while my nurse latched onto a sigh, "You sighed - do you need more medication?" Once back in my Room 23, they brought me a small banana muffin and water (and medication). Maybe an hour later, I was headed home.
My surgery went wonderfully. For me. *cue CLIFFHANGER*
Did I mention the evacuation and firetruck?
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
NO WHAMMIES!!!
Nope. None. Nada.
We've got NO whammies here, ma'am!
*dances silly jig*
I got the call earlier today. A nurse from the Betty Ford Breast Cancer Center called to check up on how my night of iced boobs went following the afternoon of 13 biopsies. The conversation went something like this:
-----
I have some questions to ask before we get to your pathology. So how did last night go when you got home?
Oh, yes, but there's a checklist here, we'll get to that.
So how did last night go?
Do you have bruising?
Fever?
Well, okay, good, just let us know [FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN TELL ME THE PATHOLOGY] if there are any changes or if you have any questions.
Yes, let's see ... [YOU'RE KILLING ME, SMALLS!]
Okay, both areas biopsied have the same diagnosis.
Yes blah blah blah benign blah blah blah blah
Yes, no further cancer was shown.
Kimberly?
Of course, dear. Now blah blah blah blah blah medical terms blah call us if you have questions.
-------
And then I was back under control.
None of the 13 biopsies yesterday showed any cancer cells! Can I get a "Yay!!!!" - because I'm fairly certain all of my neighbors know I was flippin' happy for a while minute there.
So this means my surgery Friday will be a lumpectomy to remove the main tumor and removal of several sentinel lymph nodes to check those for cancer as well. I will still have chemotherapy and radiation but the cancer has not spread to the rest of my left breast or to my right. My next big hope is that the lymph nodes continue to be clear.
But for now - NO WHAMMIES!
We've got NO whammies here, ma'am!
*dances silly jig*
I got the call earlier today. A nurse from the Betty Ford Breast Cancer Center called to check up on how my night of iced boobs went following the afternoon of 13 biopsies. The conversation went something like this:
-----
I have some questions to ask before we get to your pathology. So how did last night go when you got home?
Pathology? You have the pathology?
Oh, yes, but there's a checklist here, we'll get to that.
*Me. Instantly thinking it must be bad news.*
So how did last night go?
Fine. All fine. I haven't taken pain pills since this morning.
Do you have bruising?
Not much. It's fine.
Fever?
No.
Well, okay, good, just let us know [FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN TELL ME THE PATHOLOGY] if there are any changes or if you have any questions.
Of course, so you have the pathology?
Yes, let's see ... [YOU'RE KILLING ME, SMALLS!]
Okay, both areas biopsied have the same diagnosis.
*Me. Positive that she just told me that the biopsies have the same diagnosis as my tumor because OF COURSE THAT'S WHAT I'M GOING TO THINK HEARING THOSE WORDS!*
The same?
Yes blah blah blah benign blah blah blah blah
Wait, back up ... benign?!
Yes, no further cancer was shown.
*Silence as a wave of relief is crashing over me*
Kimberly?
*I finally get out* I'm here. Just a second.
Why do I always cry at GOOD news?!
Of course, dear. Now blah blah blah blah blah medical terms blah call us if you have questions.
-------
And then I was back under control.
None of the 13 biopsies yesterday showed any cancer cells! Can I get a "Yay!!!!" - because I'm fairly certain all of my neighbors know I was flippin' happy for a while minute there.
So this means my surgery Friday will be a lumpectomy to remove the main tumor and removal of several sentinel lymph nodes to check those for cancer as well. I will still have chemotherapy and radiation but the cancer has not spread to the rest of my left breast or to my right. My next big hope is that the lymph nodes continue to be clear.
But for now - NO WHAMMIES!
Monday, January 25, 2016
Living la Vida Ridicula
So, I'm just chilling here waiting for X-files to begin. And by chilling, I mean literally icing down my boobs. You?
You remember way back on January 7th when I had biopsies done to confirm whether or not I had cancer? Using an ultrasound, the doctor located the tumor and took five core biopsies of it and then two biopsies of a suspicious looking lymph node. Tumor - cancer; lymph node - clear (yay!). I remember thinking - wow - SEVEN biopsies!
This afternoon they took THIRTEEN more. And these were done with the guidance of an MRI. Remember my description of the odd hangin' loose breast MRI? Ooh, and remember my s'more description of mammograms in general? Just for fun, let's combine those two experiences, add some shots of Novocain, and a good-looking male doctor seeing you at your ABSOLUTE worst, shake it all up and see what we've got, shall we?
My day began with a failed attempt to locate a suspicious area on the lower right side of my right breast using ultrasound. No problem, I've been through the ultrasound process before during the initial diagnosis. Except now we've got a male doctor at the helm and WHY does he have to be a good looking male doctor? Seriously. It's uncomfortable enough to be naked from the waist up, raise my arm up over my head and stare at the flowered ceiling panel while someone maneuvers the magic ultrasound wand around my breast through a grand dollop of gel (a little dollop will NOT do in this case), without adding hottie to the mix, thank you VERY much.
So, I returned this afternoon, donned scrubs with the handy wrap top, and prepared myself mentally for what I'd envisioned last night. Yeeeeah ... close but no cigar.
They again tried in vain to find a vein and went for the back of my hand; my left hand this time. The nurse tried three times in the back of that hand until she gave up when I started to pass out. [Yeah, yeah, I'm a wimp. You have someone stick a needle into the back of your hand and wiggled it around for a minute trying to stab the vein that is WISELY rolling away from it then get back with me. Otherwise, shut the hell up.] She apologized profusely, said we'd wait until I went down to the MRI room, and gave me a Band-Aid.
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You remember way back on January 7th when I had biopsies done to confirm whether or not I had cancer? Using an ultrasound, the doctor located the tumor and took five core biopsies of it and then two biopsies of a suspicious looking lymph node. Tumor - cancer; lymph node - clear (yay!). I remember thinking - wow - SEVEN biopsies!
This afternoon they took THIRTEEN more. And these were done with the guidance of an MRI. Remember my description of the odd hangin' loose breast MRI? Ooh, and remember my s'more description of mammograms in general? Just for fun, let's combine those two experiences, add some shots of Novocain, and a good-looking male doctor seeing you at your ABSOLUTE worst, shake it all up and see what we've got, shall we?
Oy vey.
My day began with a failed attempt to locate a suspicious area on the lower right side of my right breast using ultrasound. No problem, I've been through the ultrasound process before during the initial diagnosis. Except now we've got a male doctor at the helm and WHY does he have to be a good looking male doctor? Seriously. It's uncomfortable enough to be naked from the waist up, raise my arm up over my head and stare at the flowered ceiling panel while someone maneuvers the magic ultrasound wand around my breast through a grand dollop of gel (a little dollop will NOT do in this case), without adding hottie to the mix, thank you VERY much.
Oh, you see nothing in the right breast? I need an MRI-guided biopsy on that one, too? Great.
YOU'RE doing the biopsies this afternoon on me? Brilliant.
So, I returned this afternoon, donned scrubs with the handy wrap top, and prepared myself mentally for what I'd envisioned last night. Yeeeeah ... close but no cigar.
They again tried in vain to find a vein and went for the back of my hand; my left hand this time. The nurse tried three times in the back of that hand until she gave up when I started to pass out. [Yeah, yeah, I'm a wimp. You have someone stick a needle into the back of your hand and wiggled it around for a minute trying to stab the vein that is WISELY rolling away from it then get back with me. Otherwise, shut the hell up.] She apologized profusely, said we'd wait until I went down to the MRI room, and gave me a Band-Aid.
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This Band-Aid.
She left me to rest, I looked at that Band-Aid with one of my childhood loves on it, and couldn't help but think about my 5 year old self. And, yeah ... that nearly did me in. I'm fairly certain that 5 year old Kim never dreamed of any of this crap. 5 year old Kim simply wanted to eat Count Chocula and watch Bugs Bunny; well, she at least wanted to eat the marshmallows in the Count Chocula and watch Bugs Bunny.
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A few minutes later, with dry eyes, I went down to the MRI room where another nurse found a deep vein in my right elbow region and managed to give me an IV without me feeling anything. And we were off ... to a false start. I'm back on the table, on my stomach, with the two holes, positioned as before but WAIT ... there's more this time.
This time we're combining the wonder of a mammogram with the absurdity of the MRI, so on either side of both breasts were plates that then squished the girls into two simultaneous downward hanging pancakes complete with grids on the outside to better mark the biopsy locations.
Yep. My imagined "don't move" was there but with my boobs in two vices - like I COULD move - for about 15-20 minutes until the nurse came in to have me extradited from the contraption because the computer needed to be rebooted.
SERIOUSLY?! Another twenty or so minutes went by and it was time for a repositioning, re-squishing, and, this time, I was that way for over a half hour. I was moved into and out of the MRI tube several times as images were taken, Novocain was administered, needles placed, checked, and then core biopsies were drilled out of me.
I say drilled because that's what it sounded like - a little drill. I felt none of that (YAY Novocain!) but did wonder a bit at the number of whirring sounds. I found out later that the doctor took 7 samples of the left breast and 6 of the right breast. This information was provided to me after the compression was removed from my breasts only to be replaced by said doctor's hand on my right and a nurse's hand on my left, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
So ... totally not awkward AT ALL.
Then they asked me to get up so they could continue to apply pressure while I was sitting Again, boobs out, hanging down, on my stomach, and I'm asked to do a kind of push up to lift myself out of the breast mobile. Now, I'm 45 with a body that has gained and lost and gained and lost weight numerous times during my life.
Trust me when I tell you that raising myself up from that position with those onlookers was more painful than those three attempts at an IV in the back of my hand that left me light-headed. And then it was done. Mostly. And I'm home chilling.
And now we wait. Results are expected sometime Wednesday and, as I explained before, those results will determine what type of surgery I'll be receiving on Friday.
I keep hearing echoes of "No whammies, no whammies!" in my head. In this case, no whammies means negative results and a lumpectomy on Friday.
Whammies mean a lymph node surgery Friday (to check some and, if necessary, remove all of them) in preparation for a mastectomy at a date a week or so later.
Whammies are bad.
We don't want Whammies.
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