I wonder how many women have debated *not* going through with breast reconstruction after scheduling the thing. How many women are torn over this decision? I know there are women - many women - who choose no reconstruction, but my interpretation is that they were NOT torn; that they knew they didn't want a reconstruction at some point *before* scheduling it. But I don't know that, for sure, I haven't looked. Maybe I should.
(Some time later...)
So, I did. I read for about an hour or so. First thing I learned; it's called "going flat" when you don't reconstruct. Another thing; most women who "go flat" are doing so after a full-on, double mastectomy. The few single (one-sided) mastectomies I found that didn't opt for reconstruction, most wear prostheses: rather heavy gel fake breasts. Some don't, but most are saying no to reconstruction because they are scared of more surgeries, their health won't allow it, or they worry about the complicated, long process that is reconstruction. And the process is lengthy. First, there is a major surgery (if you are going expanders and not trans-flap, which I am) during which we will augment the left and place a spacer under the right. The spacer gets inflated every week for 6 weeks or so. Once the reconstruction side is the "right size," you wait 3 months - THEN you get the mastectomy side rebuilt. Then there comes the "do I want a nipple constructed"-type decisions, along with a myriad of other, relatively minor procedures to tweak and perfect. All in all, at least in the path I've chosen, you are looking at a year to a year and a half of surgeries and recoveries; most small with a couple of bigger ones thrown in for good measure.
Oh yeah, and implants aren't permanent. They have to be replaced, eventually, for almost everyone. The "average lifespan" of implants - 10-15 years.
Do I want more breast surgery at 60?
Do I want more surgery now?
These are the times that try a woman's soul, lemme tell ya.
I could be all ragey and say things like, "breasts aren't beauty" and "women shouldn't be defined by their bodies" and "this is all trivial when compared to cancer and chemo" and... blah, blah, blah and not get the reconstruction.
But the truth is, I've always wanted a breast augmentation. For as long as I can remember, I've never particularly liked my chest. And now that I'm one week and two days away from the first "perk" of breast cancer (I can't count how many times I've heard some variation of "well, at least you are getting something out of this), there's this nervous nelly inside of me saying the same thing over and over and over again... "there's no turning back... there's no turning back... there's no turning back..."
And some of the scenery I expect on the next leg of this journey?
A year of procedures - and, most likely, noticeable discomfort.
The myriad of potential complications.
The celebratory well-wishes of friends and family.
There is more I could list, but there are two pieces that threaten to pick up my phone and cancel the surgery.
1. I am *so tired.* I am SO TIRED that sometimes, I just don't want to do *anything.* I don't want to get up, I don't want to eat, I don't want to watch tv, I don't want to read. "Doing" something always involves a decision. I'm tired of making decisions. The way I feel right now, I don't want to decide anything ever again. And this surgery is a big decision.
And 2. There are many people that don't care that I have only one breast and they have supported me and walked with me and loved me through this whole process. When chemo ended, though, there was something of a perception that the journey was over with my last infusion, but it wasn't. It isn't. I felt almost... guilty when explaining to people that I wasn't done, that the road I am on doesn't have an end in sight. That's really hard for people to hear, though, and even harder to explain - over and over and over again. Sometimes, though, easier is all you can really do. I just started agreeing how great it was that I was through with the hard part.
But lying is only easier in the moment. I don't like lying, and I don't do it very well. Lying leaves little stains on your soul; it punches you in the gut every time you do it. It makes me want to cry. Lying is only easier in the moment.
And I don't want to lie about more than I already do. I wonder how many people will want to celebrate my new boobs with me when that's the last thing I want to do, because again, it will look like I'm "through the hard part."
Maybe I'm scared it'll be "over" for everyone but me. Maybe I'm scared there is no such thing as recovery and moving through this. Maybe I'm scared that I'm going to be scared for the rest of my life and have to hid it behind a smile and a lie.
Maybe I would give anything to have my chest back like it was: saggy, stretch-marked from years of nursing, and a bit too small...
...if it meant never having breast cancer.
Maybe there is nothing that can make me feel "better" about all of this.
When all of this is said and done, maybe I'm scared that everyone's perception of "over" will simply leave me sitting alone in the fear that "over" doesn't exist.
I've always said that "afraid" doesn't apply to me. Nervous? Yes, but afraid? Not me. I can't say that anymore. I have now been afraid for 278 days. 278 long, nauseating, exhausting days. Reconstruction will make me look whole again, and yet, I'm afraid "whole" might no longer be in my vocabulary. I am afraid the cancer will come back. I am afraid that no matter how healed I look, I will never feel well again. None of this makes me feel healed and well and "whole."
Maybe it's as simple as wanting to look as broken and scarred on the outside as I feel on the inside. Looking at all of the ink on my body, it's easy to see that I wear my pain "on my sleeve" for everyone to see. Why should this be any different?
Showing posts with label Mastectomy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mastectomy. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Oh, To Be Behind The Camera
I haven't been on here. Again. I'll explore it, I will. I promise. There's something more immediate I want to process. Isn't there always.
Whatever, so anyway...
We took portraits yesterday. We had this idea awhile back that a zombie picture shoot would be cool - it would be fun - with a healed mastectomy scar surrounded by way-too-much-left-to-prepare-for-the-reconstruction skin, we could make some *sick* looking wounds. And we had limited time - mere months - because the reconstruction surgery would take away this unique opportunity.
Well, time flies. The surgery is April 2nd, 2 weeks and 5 days away. In preparation, we started brainstorming other themes we might want to include that might take advantage of my soon-to-change-again chest. If nothing else, it would be a treat. It wasn't initially planned to explore breast cancer and its impact, in my mind, we were doing it to take advantage of a unique and soon-to-disappear physical state that now rules my daily life. The more we talked, the more I came to see, though, that the themes that really attracted me were more than simple fangirl infatuation. The themes we settled on were zombie, warrior (duh, isn't every cancer diagnosee a warrior?), and steampunk. Steampunk was my idea. I love steampunk. It fascinates me. It inspires me. It excites me. Steampunk, to me, is a literary genre born of creativity and genius and innovation... and necessity and desperation and often last recourse in the face of adversity. And it was discussing this piece - and the accompanying, self-written essays that will be read when (hopefully) this photo shoot becomes an exhibit - when all the pieces of this shoot fell together in my head. From diagnosis on June 30th, 2014 to sometime in August (before I began research on my treatment options); that was my Zombie phase. I couldn't think. I couldn't reason. I couldn't communicate. I couldn't do anything but go where I was directed and do what I was told to do. All someone had to do was make the right noise, and I would follow along in a haze. If you don't get that reference, you should try "the Walking Dead;" it's a great show.
The second phase was my Warrior phase. She's exhausted. The Warrior made all of the decisions about surgeries and treatments. The Warrior got out of bed every Friday for 12 weeks to go to the chemo suite for 5 to 6 hours. The Warrior got up every day (almost every day) and went to work. The Warrior had to make the command decision to stop lecturing in class because she couldn't get from point A to point B in her lectures coherently, much less intelligently. The Warrior counted the days until she could take off her armor and put down her sword and simply be. Like I said, she's exhausted.
The third phase, which I am now heavy in the middle of, is the Steampunk phase. This is a time of reinvention, of improvisation, of ingenuity. I don't *have* to reinvent myself; I am choosing to reconstruct post-surgery Stacy into something new. It's exciting, enticing, intoxicating. Sure, it's a bit nerve-wracking, but how many people get the opportunity to consciously orchestrate the definition of themselves? We are all doing it with every action, every decision, every stumble, and every fall, but it happens without really noticing, if you think about it. I can't *not* think about it. I COULD choose not to act, but I would have to conscious miss appointments. I would have to actively refuse treatment. I would have to look at one breast in the mirror every day and be reminded that I had opted out of reconstruction. I am doing none of those. I am going to write and speak and recover my way into a new expression of me. And because of opportunities like Listen To Your Mother - Spokane, 2015, the ongoing creation of documenting my experience on film with a brilliant former student - and now, dear friend - Mikayla Daniels, a wonderful photo shoot made real through the efforts of many special people, and other project still in their infancy, the potential exists for many people to hear my story and watch it unfold. What more could an educator want?
To not be in front of the camera, that's what. To sit in the relative safe space behind the lens and watch someone else do this. I am beginning to see what many have intimated to me in various ways - it's a bit unsettling to share so much. It's a bit unnerving. I have always chosen to leave myself exposed, knowing I could weather any resulting storms. I would like to say this is no different, but... the Warrior is *so* tired. Who am I to ask her to continue marching bravely into these storms? I think she really wants this to all be over. It's sitting behind the Warrior's eyes in the portraits, almost like she's pleading with me. Just let it be done.
"If you wish for peace, prepare for war." Thanks, Flavius. In the Warrior's defense, she may be exhausted, she may have taken a knee temporarily, but she's been repairing her armor and sharpening her weapons while in this eye of the storm. Tired doesn't mean done. Wiser? Yes. Slower? Absolutely. Experienced? For sure. Grayer? Hehehehe, yes. But done? Not by a long shot. It makes me sad to acknowledge all of that, but happy would be incomprehensible without sadness as its reflection.
Whatever, so anyway...
We took portraits yesterday. We had this idea awhile back that a zombie picture shoot would be cool - it would be fun - with a healed mastectomy scar surrounded by way-too-much-left-to-prepare-for-the-reconstruction skin, we could make some *sick* looking wounds. And we had limited time - mere months - because the reconstruction surgery would take away this unique opportunity.
Well, time flies. The surgery is April 2nd, 2 weeks and 5 days away. In preparation, we started brainstorming other themes we might want to include that might take advantage of my soon-to-change-again chest. If nothing else, it would be a treat. It wasn't initially planned to explore breast cancer and its impact, in my mind, we were doing it to take advantage of a unique and soon-to-disappear physical state that now rules my daily life. The more we talked, the more I came to see, though, that the themes that really attracted me were more than simple fangirl infatuation. The themes we settled on were zombie, warrior (duh, isn't every cancer diagnosee a warrior?), and steampunk. Steampunk was my idea. I love steampunk. It fascinates me. It inspires me. It excites me. Steampunk, to me, is a literary genre born of creativity and genius and innovation... and necessity and desperation and often last recourse in the face of adversity. And it was discussing this piece - and the accompanying, self-written essays that will be read when (hopefully) this photo shoot becomes an exhibit - when all the pieces of this shoot fell together in my head. From diagnosis on June 30th, 2014 to sometime in August (before I began research on my treatment options); that was my Zombie phase. I couldn't think. I couldn't reason. I couldn't communicate. I couldn't do anything but go where I was directed and do what I was told to do. All someone had to do was make the right noise, and I would follow along in a haze. If you don't get that reference, you should try "the Walking Dead;" it's a great show.
The second phase was my Warrior phase. She's exhausted. The Warrior made all of the decisions about surgeries and treatments. The Warrior got out of bed every Friday for 12 weeks to go to the chemo suite for 5 to 6 hours. The Warrior got up every day (almost every day) and went to work. The Warrior had to make the command decision to stop lecturing in class because she couldn't get from point A to point B in her lectures coherently, much less intelligently. The Warrior counted the days until she could take off her armor and put down her sword and simply be. Like I said, she's exhausted.
The third phase, which I am now heavy in the middle of, is the Steampunk phase. This is a time of reinvention, of improvisation, of ingenuity. I don't *have* to reinvent myself; I am choosing to reconstruct post-surgery Stacy into something new. It's exciting, enticing, intoxicating. Sure, it's a bit nerve-wracking, but how many people get the opportunity to consciously orchestrate the definition of themselves? We are all doing it with every action, every decision, every stumble, and every fall, but it happens without really noticing, if you think about it. I can't *not* think about it. I COULD choose not to act, but I would have to conscious miss appointments. I would have to actively refuse treatment. I would have to look at one breast in the mirror every day and be reminded that I had opted out of reconstruction. I am doing none of those. I am going to write and speak and recover my way into a new expression of me. And because of opportunities like Listen To Your Mother - Spokane, 2015, the ongoing creation of documenting my experience on film with a brilliant former student - and now, dear friend - Mikayla Daniels, a wonderful photo shoot made real through the efforts of many special people, and other project still in their infancy, the potential exists for many people to hear my story and watch it unfold. What more could an educator want?
To not be in front of the camera, that's what. To sit in the relative safe space behind the lens and watch someone else do this. I am beginning to see what many have intimated to me in various ways - it's a bit unsettling to share so much. It's a bit unnerving. I have always chosen to leave myself exposed, knowing I could weather any resulting storms. I would like to say this is no different, but... the Warrior is *so* tired. Who am I to ask her to continue marching bravely into these storms? I think she really wants this to all be over. It's sitting behind the Warrior's eyes in the portraits, almost like she's pleading with me. Just let it be done.
"If you wish for peace, prepare for war." Thanks, Flavius. In the Warrior's defense, she may be exhausted, she may have taken a knee temporarily, but she's been repairing her armor and sharpening her weapons while in this eye of the storm. Tired doesn't mean done. Wiser? Yes. Slower? Absolutely. Experienced? For sure. Grayer? Hehehehe, yes. But done? Not by a long shot. It makes me sad to acknowledge all of that, but happy would be incomprehensible without sadness as its reflection.
Friday, August 8, 2014
So much to learn... So little time?
Well, I didn't expect that. Yesterday, we went to our 2nd opinion consultation. I've never gotten a 2nd opinion for anything. Now I'm wondering if there is more I should've gotten a 2nd opinion on. The difference between two doctors can be stark.
But that's not what I didn't expect. (Great syntax, eh?) I think I had convinced myself that we had gone through the worst of this. That we had done enough and that Tamoxifen would be it. Ooooo. That was a bit o' good news. Tamoxifen only *mimics* menopausal symptoms. It's not actual menopause, even though it limits your estrogen production and blocks those estrogen receptors. That is good news. It didn't outweigh the rest of the day. The rest... Yeah. Not so good news. This doctor said some of the same things. Grey area cancer. Recommendations for treatment are harder because my cancer doesn't squarely fall... anywhere. I shouldn't be surprised. That describes my whole life, pretty much. I've always said I didn't believe in black and white. That there are no absolutes. It's nice being right sometimes, I suppose.
But to hear from a second person that chemo is the traditional, accepted, really unavoidable recommendation... That sent me into a tailspin. That's what I've been wanting, though, a definitive answer, right? There is a "chemo~lite" option ~ a less intensive, less toxic chemo route that would still give me the benefit of Herceptin ~ the HER2 protein blocking infusion therapy ~ while experiencing less of the usual chemo side-effects. But everything had looked so... promising. So f#cking promising. So much... easier, finally.
All I could feel was "haven't we done enough?" This has been so hard. Couldn't it have been... hard enough, already? I couldn't even vocalize that for half the day. I was freaking out inside, but in the middle of it, I couldn't have told you why. Well, the chemo part, that's kind of a given. Who wouldn't freak out about toxic poison intentionally injected into your veins, yeah? Once a week for 12 weeks? Yeah. That's definitely "freak out"~able. But it felt bigger. Deeper. More encompassing.
So we let ourselves break down for a little bit. I just folded into the embrace and sobbed for a bit. I really wanted this to be over. All I could think was, "I don't wanna do this." That's pretty much been my mantra since this whole thing started. Not really a great mantra for my inner breast cancer badass, eh? Maybe that's part of the superhero origin story that we rarely hear~or that we don't *want* to hear. When it's hard~when it's scary~when it's exhausting. We don't wanna do it. And I can only assume that everyone who has gone through something hard~something scary~something exhausting, feels that same thing, if only for a little bit. It just so happens that all the options under the heading "not doing it" are... not options. Not for me. They are just whimsical thinking~whimsical, and apparently delusional, thinking. So yeah. "I don't wanna do this." One step closer to looking that BC badass in the eye...
But that's not what I didn't expect. (Great syntax, eh?) I think I had convinced myself that we had gone through the worst of this. That we had done enough and that Tamoxifen would be it. Ooooo. That was a bit o' good news. Tamoxifen only *mimics* menopausal symptoms. It's not actual menopause, even though it limits your estrogen production and blocks those estrogen receptors. That is good news. It didn't outweigh the rest of the day. The rest... Yeah. Not so good news. This doctor said some of the same things. Grey area cancer. Recommendations for treatment are harder because my cancer doesn't squarely fall... anywhere. I shouldn't be surprised. That describes my whole life, pretty much. I've always said I didn't believe in black and white. That there are no absolutes. It's nice being right sometimes, I suppose.
But to hear from a second person that chemo is the traditional, accepted, really unavoidable recommendation... That sent me into a tailspin. That's what I've been wanting, though, a definitive answer, right? There is a "chemo~lite" option ~ a less intensive, less toxic chemo route that would still give me the benefit of Herceptin ~ the HER2 protein blocking infusion therapy ~ while experiencing less of the usual chemo side-effects. But everything had looked so... promising. So f#cking promising. So much... easier, finally.
All I could feel was "haven't we done enough?" This has been so hard. Couldn't it have been... hard enough, already? I couldn't even vocalize that for half the day. I was freaking out inside, but in the middle of it, I couldn't have told you why. Well, the chemo part, that's kind of a given. Who wouldn't freak out about toxic poison intentionally injected into your veins, yeah? Once a week for 12 weeks? Yeah. That's definitely "freak out"~able. But it felt bigger. Deeper. More encompassing.
So we let ourselves break down for a little bit. I just folded into the embrace and sobbed for a bit. I really wanted this to be over. All I could think was, "I don't wanna do this." That's pretty much been my mantra since this whole thing started. Not really a great mantra for my inner breast cancer badass, eh? Maybe that's part of the superhero origin story that we rarely hear~or that we don't *want* to hear. When it's hard~when it's scary~when it's exhausting. We don't wanna do it. And I can only assume that everyone who has gone through something hard~something scary~something exhausting, feels that same thing, if only for a little bit. It just so happens that all the options under the heading "not doing it" are... not options. Not for me. They are just whimsical thinking~whimsical, and apparently delusional, thinking. So yeah. "I don't wanna do this." One step closer to looking that BC badass in the eye...
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Discipline
Why has it been so hard, I wonder, to get back in here and do this blogging thing. I *wanted* to share this experience. I *needed* to share it. It's been days and days and days since I blogged. I publicly wondered why on FB yesterday and received a variety of honest and creative answers. None of them were right, I've decided. It's because I don't have the discipline. Anymore, it feels like I used all of my "let's get this sh!t done" ability in graduate school. I would like to say I know that isn't true, but if the last 4 or 5 years or so is any indication... Well... 3 or 4, I guess. I used to say it was time, or lack thereof. I never have the "time" for whatever it is that I'm not doing, in that moment. Lie, lie, lie. Discipline would have made the time - or at least provided a more honest answer. The universe gave me all the time I need weeks ago. Well, three weeks ago, to be exact. Full right radical mastectomy at 45 in a *very young* (at the time-blog for another day) relationship. All the time in the world, it gave me. So THIS is the lesson in this, eh? Discipline and dedication? Ugh. It was so much more entertaining having so many things going on that I could flit from one thing to the next, never staying in one place too long - especially never long enough to *finish* the thing. Ok... ok.... I get it. I'll slow down.
Really, it forced both of us to slow down (ok, short reference to that not-so-new-anymore-relationship). Maybe it saved us. Not that we needed saving, but on the flip side of that statement, doesn't everyone? One of many continually evolving results of this slow down? I've never felt this strong... this confident... this capable... or this attractive, actually. I've always known that, for me, confidence - appropriately placed and well-balanced - is sexy. I've also always considered myself a rather confident person, but I've never really felt "sexy." And I'm not going all base and carnal and instinct here. If I say someone is "sexy," I'm really saying they are... intriguing. Interesting. Engaging. Attractive, but DEFINITELY not just physically. Magnetic. Mysterious. If I call someone sexy, I'm admitting that they have a factor of "irresistible" for me that includes both inner and outer qualities. Basically, I guess I have to know someone before I can determine if I consider them "sexy" or not. I've never thought of myself that way. I've never felt that any of those words described *me.* Until recently. Maybe I'm finally getting to know myself a little bit. Or maybe I've engaged the ultimate self-esteem protective mechanisms~denial and delusion, and someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year, it will all come crashing down around my head, and I will look in the mirror, finally seeing the 'mutilated freak' that many have seen in their own post-mastectomy mirrors. It's a possibility. In some dimension, I suppose. But I've looked in the mirror *a lot* over the last three weeks. I've taken pictures and looked at them. I've even zoomed in to see the changes up close. And unless I've *always* been a mutilated freak and just never known it, that's just not what I see. I see me. And I like what I see.
I know many women who have had to go through a mastectomy would not agree. And that's perfectly fine. I do hope not to be judged by any of my new BC family, but it could happen. I grabbed the "mutilated freak" phrase from a breast cancer discussion board. A post-surgery woman wrote something to the effect of, "of course I am wearing a prosthetic until I can have the reconstruction - I would *never* leave the house looking like a mutilated freak..." I have chosen not to wear a prosthetic. I will have a reconstruction, when it is medically feasible, but... I'm almost going to miss this step - this stage. I like me more now than I ever have in my life. But if my breast wasn't part of my self-esteem calculation before surgery, it shouldn't be now, either. Basically, it shouldn't matter what my chest looks like or if I have the reconstruction. Hmmmm. I like looking at it that way.
But that still leave thousands - maybe hundreds of thousands - of women out there that are *not* comfortable with how they look post-boob-removal. I'm not even going to speculate on that. There are *so* many reasons for that, and none of the reasons are really my concern. I did read an article recently, though, that got me thinking about this issue of body, health, and self-esteem. At Salon.com, I ran across an article called "You Don't Have to Dance at Your Mastectomy." It's about an OB/Gyn who asked her OR - and the entire nation - to dance with her for 5 minutes before laying down on the operating table to have a double mastectomy. As the author points out, it's the kind of feel-good, oh-I-could-never-be-that-strong-but-thank-god-someone-is kind of story that eventually makes it way onto Lifetime or the Sundance Channel, inspiring reporters covering to quippingly ask "What do you do before a double mastectomy? Dance, of course!" The author's response to that answer? "Blow me."
I can definitely see how most people would not dance into *any* surgery involving the word cancer. But I can also see how some would. I might even venture to say "have to." But just as a dancing mastectomy shouldn't worry about how others in similar situations behave, shaking, scared, crying mastectomies shouldn't compare themselves to the dancers. I'm willing to bet~largely based on personal experience~that the dancers have their own hidden demons, they are just different than the ones that make you shake and cry and freak out in the face of cancer. They are the demons that make some people dance, instead. But don't let them fool you. They are still demons.
http://www.salon.com/2013/11/08/you_dont_have_to_dance_at_your_mastectomy/
Really, it forced both of us to slow down (ok, short reference to that not-so-new-anymore-relationship). Maybe it saved us. Not that we needed saving, but on the flip side of that statement, doesn't everyone? One of many continually evolving results of this slow down? I've never felt this strong... this confident... this capable... or this attractive, actually. I've always known that, for me, confidence - appropriately placed and well-balanced - is sexy. I've also always considered myself a rather confident person, but I've never really felt "sexy." And I'm not going all base and carnal and instinct here. If I say someone is "sexy," I'm really saying they are... intriguing. Interesting. Engaging. Attractive, but DEFINITELY not just physically. Magnetic. Mysterious. If I call someone sexy, I'm admitting that they have a factor of "irresistible" for me that includes both inner and outer qualities. Basically, I guess I have to know someone before I can determine if I consider them "sexy" or not. I've never thought of myself that way. I've never felt that any of those words described *me.* Until recently. Maybe I'm finally getting to know myself a little bit. Or maybe I've engaged the ultimate self-esteem protective mechanisms~denial and delusion, and someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year, it will all come crashing down around my head, and I will look in the mirror, finally seeing the 'mutilated freak' that many have seen in their own post-mastectomy mirrors. It's a possibility. In some dimension, I suppose. But I've looked in the mirror *a lot* over the last three weeks. I've taken pictures and looked at them. I've even zoomed in to see the changes up close. And unless I've *always* been a mutilated freak and just never known it, that's just not what I see. I see me. And I like what I see.
I know many women who have had to go through a mastectomy would not agree. And that's perfectly fine. I do hope not to be judged by any of my new BC family, but it could happen. I grabbed the "mutilated freak" phrase from a breast cancer discussion board. A post-surgery woman wrote something to the effect of, "of course I am wearing a prosthetic until I can have the reconstruction - I would *never* leave the house looking like a mutilated freak..." I have chosen not to wear a prosthetic. I will have a reconstruction, when it is medically feasible, but... I'm almost going to miss this step - this stage. I like me more now than I ever have in my life. But if my breast wasn't part of my self-esteem calculation before surgery, it shouldn't be now, either. Basically, it shouldn't matter what my chest looks like or if I have the reconstruction. Hmmmm. I like looking at it that way.
But that still leave thousands - maybe hundreds of thousands - of women out there that are *not* comfortable with how they look post-boob-removal. I'm not even going to speculate on that. There are *so* many reasons for that, and none of the reasons are really my concern. I did read an article recently, though, that got me thinking about this issue of body, health, and self-esteem. At Salon.com, I ran across an article called "You Don't Have to Dance at Your Mastectomy." It's about an OB/Gyn who asked her OR - and the entire nation - to dance with her for 5 minutes before laying down on the operating table to have a double mastectomy. As the author points out, it's the kind of feel-good, oh-I-could-never-be-that-strong-but-thank-god-someone-is kind of story that eventually makes it way onto Lifetime or the Sundance Channel, inspiring reporters covering to quippingly ask "What do you do before a double mastectomy? Dance, of course!" The author's response to that answer? "Blow me."
I can definitely see how most people would not dance into *any* surgery involving the word cancer. But I can also see how some would. I might even venture to say "have to." But just as a dancing mastectomy shouldn't worry about how others in similar situations behave, shaking, scared, crying mastectomies shouldn't compare themselves to the dancers. I'm willing to bet~largely based on personal experience~that the dancers have their own hidden demons, they are just different than the ones that make you shake and cry and freak out in the face of cancer. They are the demons that make some people dance, instead. But don't let them fool you. They are still demons.
http://www.salon.com/2013/11/08/you_dont_have_to_dance_at_your_mastectomy/
Saturday, July 26, 2014
n00b
So... First day with your new blog? Yeah, I am a n00b. To so many things. In this blog, in this space, I am a breast cancer n00b. Well, I *was* a breast cancer n00b, let's see, approximately 27 days ago. On June 30th, 2014, I was diagnosed with stage II Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma in my right breast. Fast forward to today, and I am 15 days post-radical right mastectomy. I am 45 years old, 7 months into a new relationship, and I am a n00b. I chronicled my early days and weeks on FB, I vented to friends and family, I agreed to do a documentary of my journey, and talked at least 16 people into feeling the lump in my breast before they cut it off. I have been told I am brave, strong, undefeatable, wise, and courageous, in response to sharing my story. I have also been told I'm a bit crazy, as well. It was the only way I knew how to do it. I am a history professor, by trade. I research and teach for a living. It's the world I know. The world where I am most comfortable. And on June 30th (the day I found out the lump WASN'T a tumor), I was dropkicked into a new, alien, uncomfortable world. I was scared, and that is a word I *never* use lightly. I could even add "to death," which I don't think I've *ever* used, not seriously. So I dragged my uncomfortable-ness into my comfortable world and started posting.
Over the next week, after we received the "call," consulted with a surgeon, read everything we could find on lumpectomies, mastectomies, radiation, chemotherapy, estrogen, HER2neu proteins, cure rates, and the 12 MILLION (exaggerated perception) different kinds of malignant breast cancer, which can only be determined definitively through analysis of the removed tumor and 3-4 "sentinal lymph nodes," I spiraled into a quickly changing, completely unpredictable, dynamically expressive series of dramatic mood fluctuations. My partner, Brian, (you know, the previously mentioned 7 month relationship) rode (and is STILL riding) every wave with me. My children, to a lesser extent, rode many of those waves with me, as well. And because I chose to post my journey on FB with the overt goal of educating complacent men and women into REGULAR SELF-EXAMS EVERY FOUR WEEKS BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT SAVED MY LIFE, I found that ultimately, it was for me as much as it was for anyone and everyone who would listen.
But as time went on, the posts became less completely about the medical reality, options, downsides, and decisions and more peppered with the immense challenges of adjusting to the reality of being a 45 year old woman in a new relationship who was chopping her breast off in a week or so... I could sense a sutble (and sometimes not so subtle) shift in people's reactions, responses, and maybe even willingness to delve into the rabbit hole me and mine were tumbling down. At first, I was a bit put off. The love and support and prayers and thoughts were precious - invaluable - in getting through the medical quagmire of information we had to absorb and digest in order to make life altering decisions in a matter of days. But what about the rest of me? My heart - my soul - everything that is *I* was screaming at the top of my lungs - THIS IS F#CK!NG CRAZY! THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING TO ME! But it was. It is. It will always be. So what did I expect from all these wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me, to thank me, to pray for me, to help me, but didn't necessarily feel the desire/need/capability to jump in with both feet with me, and really, should they? Could I, if the shoes were switched? Yes, I *could,* but would I, if it were a past friend, a previous professor, a social contact... really, anyone but my partner or my kids? No, I wouldn't. Because I couldn't. That's the way society is supposed to work. We can't care all the time - deeply, intensely, personally - about everyone in our lives. We have to save those reserves for the times when they are most important. Like this one for me and Brian and my two sons. That makes sense.
But that doesn't change my want - my need - to share *all* of this journey - heart, mind, body, spirit, and missing breast. I need to do it for me. Maybe no one will read this now, while it's happening. Maybe they will, it doesn't matter. I *know* this will help me heal, so I am doing it. But maybe, just maybe, someone I know will end up where I am. 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. In the next two decades, predictions suggests that more than 50% of diagnoses will be women under the age of 50 instead of the current over the age of 60. Maybe down the road, my chronicles of cancer will provide some.... comfort or... companionship or... distraction for someone suffering. Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I am doing it anyway. What is the harm, right? Well, that has yet to be seen, but I don't really believe in "harm" in this context. I mean, I'm looking down at the plane of what used to be my right breast. It's all relative, in the end...
And so I sit here - same person, same heart, but different body. Same, same, but different. It's a phrase I learned in Cambodia. It means, "yeah, this book is a bound photocopy of the original. It has the same words, the same ideas, the same pictures, the same story, it's just... different." Yup, it is different.
Over the next week, after we received the "call," consulted with a surgeon, read everything we could find on lumpectomies, mastectomies, radiation, chemotherapy, estrogen, HER2neu proteins, cure rates, and the 12 MILLION (exaggerated perception) different kinds of malignant breast cancer, which can only be determined definitively through analysis of the removed tumor and 3-4 "sentinal lymph nodes," I spiraled into a quickly changing, completely unpredictable, dynamically expressive series of dramatic mood fluctuations. My partner, Brian, (you know, the previously mentioned 7 month relationship) rode (and is STILL riding) every wave with me. My children, to a lesser extent, rode many of those waves with me, as well. And because I chose to post my journey on FB with the overt goal of educating complacent men and women into REGULAR SELF-EXAMS EVERY FOUR WEEKS BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT SAVED MY LIFE, I found that ultimately, it was for me as much as it was for anyone and everyone who would listen.
But as time went on, the posts became less completely about the medical reality, options, downsides, and decisions and more peppered with the immense challenges of adjusting to the reality of being a 45 year old woman in a new relationship who was chopping her breast off in a week or so... I could sense a sutble (and sometimes not so subtle) shift in people's reactions, responses, and maybe even willingness to delve into the rabbit hole me and mine were tumbling down. At first, I was a bit put off. The love and support and prayers and thoughts were precious - invaluable - in getting through the medical quagmire of information we had to absorb and digest in order to make life altering decisions in a matter of days. But what about the rest of me? My heart - my soul - everything that is *I* was screaming at the top of my lungs - THIS IS F#CK!NG CRAZY! THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING TO ME! But it was. It is. It will always be. So what did I expect from all these wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me, to thank me, to pray for me, to help me, but didn't necessarily feel the desire/need/capability to jump in with both feet with me, and really, should they? Could I, if the shoes were switched? Yes, I *could,* but would I, if it were a past friend, a previous professor, a social contact... really, anyone but my partner or my kids? No, I wouldn't. Because I couldn't. That's the way society is supposed to work. We can't care all the time - deeply, intensely, personally - about everyone in our lives. We have to save those reserves for the times when they are most important. Like this one for me and Brian and my two sons. That makes sense.
But that doesn't change my want - my need - to share *all* of this journey - heart, mind, body, spirit, and missing breast. I need to do it for me. Maybe no one will read this now, while it's happening. Maybe they will, it doesn't matter. I *know* this will help me heal, so I am doing it. But maybe, just maybe, someone I know will end up where I am. 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. In the next two decades, predictions suggests that more than 50% of diagnoses will be women under the age of 50 instead of the current over the age of 60. Maybe down the road, my chronicles of cancer will provide some.... comfort or... companionship or... distraction for someone suffering. Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I am doing it anyway. What is the harm, right? Well, that has yet to be seen, but I don't really believe in "harm" in this context. I mean, I'm looking down at the plane of what used to be my right breast. It's all relative, in the end...
And so I sit here - same person, same heart, but different body. Same, same, but different. It's a phrase I learned in Cambodia. It means, "yeah, this book is a bound photocopy of the original. It has the same words, the same ideas, the same pictures, the same story, it's just... different." Yup, it is different.
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