Happy Birthday, Dave!

Today is my husband Dave’s 33rd birthday. While this cancer crap has been hard on everyone who loves me, he is in the unenviable position of being the only person, other than myself, of course, who has to live with this 24 hours a day. The kids are too young to be very aware of what’s actually happening, and as much as I know it’s on my parents’ minds pretty much constantly, my mom can go home and focus on other things from time to time and my dad is 1500 miles away.

Obviously, I am the only one who has to deal with the physical pain of healing from surgery, experiencing the poison of chemotherapy and actually having had the cancer inside me, but as my husband, Dave has had to deal with the reality of knowing his wife and best friend is sick and hurting and there’s really not a whole lot he can do about it.

We have been together for almost eleven years and every marriage has its ups and downs. Unfortunately, we were in a bit of a rough patch for a few months recently and then – dun dun dun (the music again) CANCER. There have been times in the last 5.5 weeks since my diagnosis when I just really wasn’t sure how we were going to make it through this cancer journey together.

Today Dave stepped up and came through for me in the most amazing way and I was reminded of why we’ve been together for as long as we have. We may still have challenges ahead of us in our relationship, but I think today was as much a birthday gift for himself as it was a huge gift to me.

We had another appointment with my plastic surgeon today – Dr. Jacobsen of the fancy schmancy Biltmore office. Over the past week, I’d been getting increasingly anxious over the fluid build up in my healing chest and especially over the pain and numbness of my left arm yesterday. I wasn’t sure if I was healing well enough to start the process of filling the implant expanders and I was just generally apprehensive about the whole appointment.

Our appointment was set for noon. We finally got called back into a room at 1:30 and we didn’t see the doctor until after 2pm. This was our fourth visit to his office and we’ve never waited less than an hour to get in with the doctor. In fact, despite the office having two waiting areas, there are usually so many people there that some have to stand for a while.

Dr. Jacobsen finally entered the room and asked how we were doing. I told him that I definitely had some fluid build up that had me concerned and tried to describe what I’d experienced with my arm yesterday. He was moving about the room, pulling over a tray of instruments, adjusting the booby spotlight and generally not seeming to pay much attention to anything I was saying. He had me open the drape top to examine me, pushed a little on the fluid build up and said it was really very little and nothing to worry about.

As I was still trying to describe the arm concerns, he rubbed an alcohol pad across the top of my chest and I winced. He told me I couldn’t feel anything and I let him know that the top of my chest is still quite tender and bruised-feeling and it did actually hurt for him to press on it like that. In order to do the fluid injection for the implant expansion, a small tool has to be pressed to the skin to find the opening in the implant. He was continuing to rub the alcohol and press the tool into me while I was trying to ask a question, so I stopped and asked what he was doing.

He joked that it was a Geiger counter and he was checking me for radiation and in the next half second I realized he was coming at me with a three inch needle.

I yelled at him to stop and he assured me that it wasn’t going to hurt (though I was obviously feeling more than he seemed to think I could). I told him that I wasn’t concerned about pain, but he couldn’t just be coming with me at a needle without telling me what we were doing. Of course, he’d explained the process last week when the drains were removed and I knew exactly what was supposed to happen today, but what kind of doctor walks into a room and starts a procedure without ever asking a patient if they have any questions or concerns about the procedure??? This whole interaction had taken place in less than three minutes after we’d been waiting for over 2 hours.

I told him that I felt like he was talking down to me and he was just worried about whether or not my boobs were going to be pretty (and he reminded me that he’s very good at what he does so of course they will be) while I had actual concerns about healing and getting well and didn’t really give a damn in that moment what my boobs were going to LOOK like. I was still concerned about not having feeling in my arm for a day and the fact that I couldn’t even make myself lunch and had to call my mom and sister to come make me a sandwich.

He said he never used the word pretty (which he hasn’t; he says I’m healing beautifully and that my new breasts will be absolutely beautiful) and then asked if they made me a good sandwich.

He said he wasn’t talking down to me and again told me that I wouldn’t feel any pain in the procedure. At this point I was pretty pissed off, so I just leaned back for him to redo the alcohol and expansion-finding tool part. I have never had a fear of needles and have always kind of enjoyed watching blood draws and things once the needle is actually in. As long as I don’t watch the insertion, I can generally watch the rest, so once I felt the needle prick, I looked to see how the rest of the process went.

As he was slowly pushing saline into the first implant, he said he’d be able to drain the fluid on the other side from the same insertion that he’d be filling the implant with. Now, the implant opening is at the top of the chest and of course, all the fluid build up was pooled in the bottom of the area (thanks, gravity). When I asked if he’d really be able to get all of that fluid out without fishing around in me with a needle, he assured me that he didn’t fish. He said if I wanted a doctor that bad, I’d have to go find one down on Van Buren. But then he admitted he might have to make another needle insertion to drain the fluid that I had.

While he was filling the implants, he turned to Dave and said over his shoulder, “See? This doesn’t hurt her. She can’t feel it, there was nothing to be afraid of.”

Of course, it wasn’t any more painful than a blood draw, but I could definitely feel several ounces of fluid entering a foreign body in my chest and I realized that my entire lower body had tensed up when I was angry. I tried to concentrate on deep breathing and relaxing and by the time the first side was done, I was mostly relaxed again and even tried to make a joke about how tensed up my muscles had been.

He began the expansion on the second side, which was a bit more painful, so I mostly just watched Dave’s face watching the procedure to see how things were going. He was watching intently, but didn’t seem concerned so I continued to just try to stay calm and breathe deeply rather than think about how weird this whole thing really is. I now have little plastic bags of fluid under my skin and muscle to (eventually) look like I have boobies again. Bizarre.

Dr. Jacobsen explained to Dave (not to me) that in order to drain the fluid from the cavity, he would simply slide the needle out of the implant but keep it under the skin to draw the fluid out. This also happened to include pushing on my sore chest trying to force the fluid up to the needle with prodding and pressure. Fun.

He did eventually have to move the needle, and while the fluid extraction itself was not painful at all, there was a moment of very sharp pain that actually made me jump and cry out and my eyes immediately filled with tears from the stab of pain. I thought he’d just nicked me somehow when he’d taken the needle out, so I said, “Wow, that hurt!”

He replied, “What hurt? I haven’t moved anything. We’re almost done here.” and I realized the needle was still inside me.

He finished draining the fluid and showed me that he’d extracted almost as much as he’d injected and that it was the exact color he expected it to be to know things were healing correctly. By this point, tears of anger were streaming down my face so he handed me a tissue and went about putting away the tools and getting rid of the drained fluid.

I said I had a few questions and asked Dave to hand me my book where I’d written them. Dr. Jacobsen asked what I wanted to know, but I was so angry I could barely speak. I managed to say through clenched teeth that I was working on it and simply looked at Dave.

The doctor finally came back around to the side of my chair and asked again if I had a question for him. I was so mad that I could not even look up at him. I knew if I opened my mouth, all that was going to come out was, “Why are you such an ass?”

Luckily, Dave jumped in and explained that I am an information seeker and that if he would simply talk to me about what we were doing and answer my questions, I’d be a lot more relaxed with everything. Dr. Jacobsen asked what information he needed to give me and said he'd answered all the questions in my book - as if it was silly of me to have a book of concerns about healing when I have to manage at least three doctors for several months.

Dave asked what had happened that made me jump and cry out and Dr. Jacobsen said I was so tense that even a fly landing on me at that moment would have made me feel pain. He said he hadn't done anything that would have made me hurt. Afterwards, Dave said he'd been watching and after I jumped, Dr. Jacobsen did reposition the needle before continuing the fluid extraction as it seemed he'd created a vacuum while trying to push the fluid toward the needle above it.

Dr. Jacobsen continued to say that he could tell I was always looking for the worst case scenario and I needed to look for some positivity in my healing because I am a “healthy little girl” who just needs to try to be strong for a while and trust that he knows what he’s doing and everything is going to be fine.

This man has never taken three minutes to get to know me at all or he would know that I've approached this whole cancer experience with more positivity and strength than most people can believe...

Dave verified that the fluid build up I’d experienced was normal and asked what amount would be cause for concern or follow-up before our next appointment in two weeks. Dr. Jacobsen said that any of it would be fine and there would be no emergencies.

Wow, I am so lucky that my plastic surgeon is God!

This entire time, I was just staring at Dave, unable to speak to this ass of a doctor who seemed to think I was just a little girl who shouldn’t worry my pretty little head over such things as recovering from major surgery. And my sweet husband knew how angry I was and how anxious I was and exactly the things I needed to try to get out of the doctor to be able to relax.

When I could finally speak, I asked again about the numbness and pain in my arm. He said he had no idea what it was, but it wasn’t from anything he had done to me. It was probably something from the lymph node biopsy healing, but nothing he was concerned about and I shouldn’t worry about it either. (Yeah, right, I was absolutely ridiculous to worry about the fact that I couldn’t use my arm for an entire day. What was I thinking?)

Dave asked if he could give us any idea of how many injections I might need to get to my final breast size and Dr. Jacobsen said that of course every woman was different and I’d eventually decide what size I wanted to be because there’s no such thing as a B or C cup. How is this an answer to a question? Dave calmly asked again, “Based on Benah’s size and the fact that she’s not going to want huge breasts, how many visits do you think we will need to plan on in the next few months?”

I was so proud of him for being able to cut through the doctor’s crap and just get us an answer of how many more times I will have to endure the experience I went through today.

The doctor said he’d probably expect to give me 8-10 total injections before I was happy with the size and I might decide to stop earlier. And whenever I was happy with them, he’d want to do probably two more injections to allow for enough stretching of the skin so the implants would have a more natural motion and shape to them. He also said that while he knew I wasn’t interested in giant breasts, he probably wouldn’t be able to give me large breasts anyway because I was small and didn’t have the tissue to support them. (Sorry to those of you out there who told me to go big or go home. Sounds like I was always intended to make my money with my brain rather than my hooters...)

By this time I was able to ask a few more questions about what to expect regarding pain or muscle spasms after each expansion and he told me that I would probably be in some pain until at least December, but each week should get better than the last. And he said fluid build up was nothing to worry about, but if I didn’t like it, I should just keep wearing my compression vest as the more I wear it, the less fluid should collect in the chest cavity.

Ergh – I was so looking forward to getting out of this thing because it’s so uncomfortable, but honestly, the fluid build up was weirder. So it appears I’ll be in my pink scuba vest for a couple more weeks, at least part time. Fun.

The doctor left the room and I was still just amazed and angry about the whole interaction. Dave helped me up from the chair and helped me get dressed and knew I was still just seething at this man who treated me like I was ridiculous for having concerns about my health. Apparently they’re just boobs to him.

I know he does this procedure all day every day and honestly, the actual draining and filling of the implants was pretty uneventful (other than the one sharp stab of pain that he blamed on me...), but while it may be part of HIS routine, it’s certainly new to me.

We scheduled our next appointment for two weeks out because next week is Labor Day, but it seems this will be an almost weekly appointment for the next several months. There may be draining necessary for the next appointment or two, but that should taper off a little after I start chemo, so from there we’ll just see how I’m feeling from week to week and how I’m liking the implants as they grow.

Dave asked if I wanted to find a new doctor to finish my reconstruction. The idea certainly has its appeal, but I’m concerned about whether another surgeon would be inclined to finish what Dr. Jacobsen has started, how it would impact insurance coverage, etc. So for now, I’m trying to just tell myself that Dr. Jacobsen was recommended to me by a surgeon that I DO like very much and I DO trust. Dr. O’Neill, my breast surgeon, said that for implants, he was the best guy around. And based on his waiting room and how long it takes to get in to see him, he definitely seems to have a great reputation for doing great work.

And of course, he’s told me himself how good he is at his job...

So I’m trying to think of him as just the guy who gives me boobs, not as an actual part of my healing team. I do not intend to ask him any more questions than I absolutely need to and I will turn to Dr. O’Neill or Dr. Obenchain for most of my actual concerns about healing, despite the fact that Dr. O’Neill has told me to turn to Dr. Jacobsen for that information. He has proven that he cannot answer my questions in a satisfactory manner and I do not want to interact with him more than I need to. I trust that he is good at the surgical aspects of his job and am coming to terms with his rather limited ability to answer questions with anything more than a “Don’t worry about it,” or “Just trust me,” or “It’s fine.” Though honestly, when Dave was asking questions, he would answer them. When I asked, I was being silly and worrying too much.

Dave commented afterwards that he's either autistic-like in his social abilities or just really sexist. I'm leaning toward the latter.

I’d like to believe that all of my concerns really are nothing, but then again, my radiologists kept telling me I didn’t need to worry about that lump I’d been feeling for 18 months and we all know how that turned out. And for that matter, when I was pregnant with Fin, my midwife kept telling me I wasn’t really having contractions and there was nothing to worry about... until my water broke 5.5 weeks early and I suddenly had a baby an hour and a half later. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of listening to my body up until now and I have learned to really appreciate having doctors around me who respect the fact that I am the one living in my body and experiencing it and I might actually know what it feels like in here just a tiny bit better than they do.

So – the first draining and filling is done. I have decided that my plastic surgeon is an ass and I do not particularly like him, but he appears to be really good at the skill part of his job (based on the recommendation of a doctor who has both surgical skill AND the ability to communicate with her patients) and ultimately, I want the person who is going to give me the best medical and physical outcome when this is all said and done. I’ve suffered arrogant doctors before (though usually not for long, but we’ve already started down this road with him and I feel like it would be harder to make a switch than to just lower my expectations for his bedside manner) and I think I can make it through the next few months. With any luck, I will have completed my expansion and the final implants before the end of the year, so maybe I won’t even have to see him past the next 6 months or so.

Dave and I went out for a birthday lunch after the appointment – we were both starving by the time we got out of our “noon” appointment at 3pm – and it was so nice to feel like he had known exactly what I needed to get through that experience, how to read my needs when I was so angry and hurt that I could not speak, and how to get the information out of the doctor that I needed to hear to be able to be comfortable with what was going on. It’s been way too long since I felt like we had connected in that way and I felt like Dave really knew what was going on with me, but he came through for me today in a tough situation and I am so thankful that he was there with me. I didn’t need him to physically hold my hand because I wasn’t scared, but having him there to give me the space to be angry, and him being angry along with me, was the best support I ever could have asked for.

Happy Birthday, Dave. Thanks for spending part of your day making mine so much better. I love you.

<3
-B-

Anger is Part of the Healing Process

Today I feel betrayed. Pissed off and betrayed. I know it's not true (gotta let that rational mind speak for a moment, but the rest of this is going be a free-for-all of irrational ranting at the universe... there's your warning for this journal entry.)

...I know it's not true, but today I feel like my body has failed me.

For the greater part of my life, I have not been in love with the way my body looked, but for the most part I could focus on the body as process and be proud of the things I could DO, on the function and ability and health of my body. And there have been a few times in my life when I was really proud of both the form and the function of my body - first when I was doing yoga and pilates 5x a week - this was when I first realized I was and could be physically strong. And more recently when I started running and was amazed that for the first time in my life I was actually involved in a sport/activity that was challenging and I did it because I loved how it made me FEEL rather than worrying about whether or not it would make me look better. People were amazed that I willingly woke up at 4-4:30 most mornings to run before the day got too hot, and I know if I woke up those days and thought, "I have to go for this run or I'll feel fat" I wouldn't have gotten out of bed most of those days. But the fact that I got trim and toned from doing this activity that made me mentally and emotionally feel stronger too was just an incredible bonus.

I felt like my body was really doing and looking pretty damn good. Especially for a 35 year old mother of two.

Then - dun dun dun (yes, that's music, trust me) - CANCER.

And for most of the last 5.5 weeks since my diagnosis, I have still been proud of my abilities. We got the cancer early and got it out. I was healing well, had my range of motion back immediately, felt pain, but nothing too extreme or really even requiring too many medications.

Last Monday the drainage tubes came out. Dr. Jacobsen said I could wear my (incredibly uncomfortable and hot - temperature-wise, not sexy) compression vest a bit less, but I was mostly just looking forward to NOT wearing it to the VL32 orientation event on Wednesday evening.

As I was getting in the shower on Wednesday, a day I remember as being particularly high in "wow, my post-mastectomy body is pretty cool looking!", I noticed my left side was a bit... squishy. I called Dave in to look at it and asked him to email the doc about it. Dr. J had warned I might get a little fluid build up after the drains were removed and he'd just drain it off at our next appointment on Monday (ugh, the thought of what this procedure might entail just makes me queasy) but once I saw the squish, I realized I had no idea what constituted a little fluid build up versus something to worry about. And whether or not it was concerning that I already had fluid build up only 2 days after the drains were out or if I'd need to be drained (uuuuuugh) before a week had passed.

And then of course, I had to wonder if this meant I would need the drain put back IN. Even more ugh, and possibly some almost-vomit at this thought.

Dave sent an email to the doctor, I showered, went to my event sans-vest and had a great time. When I got home, the doctor had replied that I should just keep the vest on and he'd see me on Monday as planned.

Since then, the fluid build up has continued. I still have no idea whether it's a normal amount of build up or not, but when I woke up this morning and realized my left arm feels like it weighs 30 lbs and my fingers were going numb from having my arm curled around a stuffed hedgehog, I had to wonder if all this fluid might be pressing on a nerve or something. I have not taken the damn vest off for longer than a shower in 4 days, so I haven't been checking the progress of the build up too much, but just from the different ways I have to adjust the compression pads in there now, I know things are different and not so cool.

So this morning Fin asked for banana bread for breakfast. This is one of those foods that is right on the line of being dessert or an acceptable breakfast food, but I agreed with him that it sounded good this morning, so I said I'd get some for both of us while Dave and Greta went on a bike ride. I sliced a couple of pieces of homemade (Thanks, Jean!) banana bread and turned to get plates from the cabinet... and realized I couldn't reach to the top shelf with an arm that felt like a lead weight.

I got bowls from the bottom shelf instead and cut the bread in half so it would fit, which of course then led to a hysterical screaming fit from Fin because he didn't want his cut and he didn't want a bowl OR a plate and daddy let him just eat it in the living room from his hand and it was unfair that mommy said he needed a bowl and he wanted a piece that wasn't cut anyway and and and... and I grabbed the bread and threw it across the table.

The mommy guilt over not being able to interact with them regularly has been growing steadily for the last 2+ weeks. I'm either too tired or unable to pick them up or just don't have the physical capacity to help them build forts (can't lift couch cushions) or push them on the swing and even when they just want to crawl in my lap for a book or want to play tickle monster... I have to be so cautious that most of the time, they'd rather just play with Daddy anyway. I used to be their favorite, at least some of the time.

Stupid fucking cancer.

So after Fin and I got our yelling at each other done and he decided he really DID want a piece of banana bread cut in half in a bowl (yep, Mommy's right again) I realized I should shower while he was momentarily entertained by Wall-E.

Since the drains came out almost a week ago, I have been aware of the pains from the drains (and I like to rhyme some of the time). I haven't spent much time checking their healing because, well, I've been keeping the vest ON as instructed, and because honestly, they're hard to get a good angle to see. I can feel them, but I'm never sure if what I'm feeling is... scabbing?... or leftover adhesive from the bandages that ripped off skin every time I changed them. Either way, I didn't want to pick at them too much.

But today I was concerned about my healing - between the squishiness that actually almost looks like a BOOB when I have the vest off and the numbness and lead-like feeling of the left arm, I figured I should make sure the drain spots weren't getting weird on me, too.

So as I prepared for my shower this morning, I tried to get as close to the mirror as I could with the bizarre angle necessary to see the side of my ribcage while holding up an arm that is unnaturally heavy at an unnatural angle. I was pleased to realize that the drain spot is actually smaller than I'd been thinking it was and most of what I was feeling really was just leftover bandage adhesive on my very sensitive and tender skin.

But as I tried to carefully clean my skin before the shower, I realized that this particular position also gave me a very good and up-close view of the scar from the lymph node biopsy. Dr. J had removed the steristrip bandage from the lymph node area at the same time as the drains, but again, it's a part of the body that is just kind of hard to see unless you make an effort. Obviously, I could see and feel the scar from one angle (hmmmm, how close does one want to shave her armpits to a healing scar???) but seeing the actual scar in the mirror up close was a bit surprising.

It is much longer than I thought. And the stitches are dark black, the skin between stitches is angry and red (though not infected looking in any way, I just know I tend to get keloid scars - fun) and it's about 3 inches long. And it will almost always be visible in any tank top or cap-sleeved shirt for the rest of my life.

And of course I realized that once the steristrips are off my chest, I will have similar ugly and angry welts and stitches and scars that cover almost the entire span of my chest. Dr. J can tell me until he's blue in the face that my new breasts are going to be perfect and absolutely beautiful, but I've seen too many pictures of reconstructive surgeries and had a few too many survivors say things like "My new boobs look great with clothes!" or call their tattooed nipples "Pepperonis" to know that they will never really look like I want to imagine they will again.

And I know I'm cancer-free and healing and appearances don't mean shit, but damn it, I have to go through all this and will never feel my nipples again and the scars are just too big and too ugly and too REAL today. And I want to fucking be able to feel my left arm and not have it go numb from holding up a book.

And I got into the shower and cried for the first time because of how my post-cancer body looks. Because I haven't run in over two weeks and I already feel like I've lost my muscle tone and shape. I don't have anything close to runner's legs anymore (they were just barely starting to show up after running for two months) and I just feel squishy and flabby all over. And too sore from healing to get back to working out again.

And I know I'm healing and that's where my energy needs to be going, but I really considered just going out for a run today anyway because I can fucking handle physical pain, but I'm not sure I can handle the mental and emotional crap without some release. But I knew that wasn't rational, so I just cried instead.

And I skipped the birthday party because I knew I would be no help at Chuck E. Cheese when I couldn't pick up the kids or play any games. And I called my amazing friend Steph and she let me yell about all the things that were making me mad and she made me admit what I was REALLY mad about and who I was really mad at and what I could or should be doing to get the help and support I need. And I was hungry and unable to make myself lunch and I hated it, but I called my mom and sister to ask someone to come bring me food. It was one of the hardest phone calls I've ever had to make.

If it's this hard for me to ask for help from my FAMILY, I am in trouble. And I'm not even really sick yet. I am angry that I got cancer at 35 - I was plenty busy with my life before this. I am angry that a body I was taking damn good care of decided to go bad on me. I am angry that the doctor keeps telling me everything is fine, but I can barely use my left arm and I don't know if that's normal or a problem that needs to be addressed before tomorrow (he hasn't returned this morning's email yet). I am angry that my house is a mess and I'm not allowed to clean it up and I'm angry at myself for doing it anyway.

Today 3 different friends called up out of the blue to ask if they could bring something by to me. I told them all no because I was in such a bad mood and the house was too messy to let anyone see it. But I can't clean it, either. And a 4th friend just showed up at my door unannounced with a giant basket of gifts from my work friends that is too heavy for me to lift (even if I was allowed to lift things, it's a big heavy basket).

And I realize that even when I'm so damn angry at the universe because I can't make myself a fricking sandwich and can't reach the plates because I got CANCER...

people love me and want to help and are thinking of me. And I HAVE to get better at letting them and asking for what I need.

WHY is this so hard for me? I HATE that my sister had to come over to make me a grilled cheese sandwich today. But I love that she did it at the drop of a hat. And she took out the garbage and cleaned the table off while she was here. And then my mom showed up to help Dave with the kids after the birthday party. And I got brave enough to call one of my friends back and say she could bring dinner over after all - because she won't care if the house is messy, she just wants to come hang out with me.

I am working to deal with all this crap. And more crap that I'm not posting about because it's just too damn much on top of cancer already. I am really, really hoping that whatever draining needs to be done tomorrow isn't as bad as I think and that I get the feeling in my arm back soon.

Because right now, it's just pissing me off. And anger doesn't make healing any easier. But love from you guys really, really does.

<3
-B-

I Am SO Loved.

I know I already updated with the outcomes of the medical adventures with the oncologist today, but I have to make a separate entry to mention the most amazing and wonderful and unexpected part of my day.

I cried and cried and sobbed and laughed and sobbed some more today because of the love of so many of you. I have been a part of an online mommy chat group over the past 5 years. I have had the luck to meet a handful of these women in that time, but most of us have been only cyber-friends - sharing advice, lending an ear, talking about raising the kids, feeding issues, pooping issues, marriage issues, and laughing and being silly and making amazing friendships.

I knew several of them were conspiring to send me something for my healing room and I had been told it would arrive today. When a poster tube showed up, I figured they had gotten together to create a poster of support.

I unrolled a heavy stack of photos and paper and realized they sent more than one - as I slowly unrolled the first poster, I saw that from across the country, they had all taken the words from "Lean on Me" and contributed photos of themselves with the words to the song in different silly ways.

Sometime in our lives, we all have pain, we all have sorrow... and each couple of words was a photo of a different friend with a sign or a painting or a drawing or a chalkboard or a magnadoodle or with lipstick on a mirror or writing on a cheek or hand... and a huge grin or kiss or silly face to make me feel better. I was sobbing before I read the first line of the song.

I was overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness and planning this poster required... then I realized there was another one underneath, and another, and another, and another. All told, about 60 women - most of whom I've never actually met in real life - they are my "imaginary mommy friends" - worked together to create 5 incredible posters that had me both laughing and crying so hard that if I still had boobs, they would have fallen off.

I am a Gleek, so there's a poster of everyone doing the Glee "L" on their foreheads with a giant Don't Stop Believing in the middle - and pictures of the Glee cast are interspersed in with my dear, hilarious friends.

There is a ridonkulous poster (a word they all know I hate and they use especially to make me laugh) with each of them doing duckface - I cannot stop laughing at these photos and am awed at the love that went into making them. (If you don't know what duckface is, check out antiduckface.com Really.) Because I'm also a Twilight fan (I draw the line at calling myself a Twi-hard, sorry.) they also included duckface pictures of Bella, Edward and Jacob. Again - laughing and crying at the genius here.

There is a poster of this amazing bunch of women looking in every direction Brady Bunch-style and sending me love and "healing dust" - and they even included a picture of me from my Bye Bye Bad Boobies party!

And then, for reasons I refuse to divulge or explain - the final poster is all of their kids carrying watermelons and fruit. They carried a watermelon for me. I have seen so many of these babies grow from black and white ultrasound photos into preschoolers and 1st graders. I have been able to share in their sleep patterns, eating habits, health scares and the silly, funny stories that make parenting so worthwhile.

There will never be words to describe how amazing this gift is from these women who love me so much despite the fact that most of them have never actually met me in person. I will never be able to thank my dear friend Stephanie who organized and put these projects together (while she was traveling for 2 weeks, too!) enough. I will be forever indebted to all those who created these ideas, who know me well enough to make me laugh until I cry and sometimes until I pee, and who took the time to take goofy pictures of themselves to show me how much love and support I have in this stupid, stupid battle.

I've always considered myself a fairly strong woman, but with friends like these (and this is just one group of friends! Don't forget the amazing VL friends that have been here in person throwing farewell parties for the bad girls, cooking meals, decorating my healing room, visiting me while I heal and giving me so, SO many hugs last night at the VL32 event!) I know I really can handle anything that comes my way.

Thank you all for bringing so much love into my world.

<3
-B-

Making Plans for Poisons!

Those of you who know me well will hear the joy as I type the following: We have a plan!!!!

Granted, the need for a plan and most of the reality of carrying out the plan both suck, but we have a plan and that means so very much to me and makes me happy. :)

Today was oncology day. I got to have my first cancer-free, boob-free visit with Dr. Obenchain, who I was reminded yet again is an amazingly supportive and caring woman in addition to being a really good doctor.

Dave and Laura (husband and great friend/cancer sister, respectively) joined me for this visit to hear the recommendations for my ongoing treatment. Dr. Obenchain went over the same test results we'd heard from Dr. O'Neill a couple of days ago and focused on the fact that now that I am now cancer-free (Yay! Never gets old, does it?) there are things we need to do to increase my chances of staying that way.

She confirmed that I had three tumors in the left breast, with the largest being only 1.1cm - all in all, quite a good outcome for breast cancer if you have to have it. (Which I sincerely hope you never do, of course.) Adding in the negative lymph nodes and the tumors being hormone-positive, I have quite a few reasonable treatment options ahead of me.

Luckily, one of Dr. Obenchain's roles is to provide information on the odds, the pros and cons, of all of the treatment options. This means numbers and statistics for me! Again, yay! (LOL - Ever the dork, right? Finding joy in the numbers regarding my cancer odds...)

Using the computer modeling and all the relevant info about my tumors, their aggressiveness, size, lymph nodes, hormone tests, genetic tests, and the kitchen sink, Dr. Obenchain let us know that if I did absolutely nothing else to treat my cancer, I should have a 75% chance of remaining cancer-free for the rest of my life.

She told us this news and said it was good news. But of course, what I heard her say despite her actual words was, "You have a 1 in 4 chance of getting cancer again."

She immediately stopped and laughed at the fact that Dave and I had completely different facial reactions and responses to hearing those odds. He heard the 75% and I heard the other 25%. So of course, I said 25% was not good enough for my two little people at home, so I absolutely will be doing more to reduce those odds.

Because my tumors are hormone-positive, which is apparently rather rare in young pre-menopausal women, this allows us a treatment option that is quite good. Depending on how we choose to attack the natural hormones in my body that serve as food and fuel for my cancer, we will either block the receptors of any cancer cells that may not yet be detected or may have been missed, or we will make my body stop producing the hormones altogether. Either way, I will experience menopause; it's just a matter of whether or not it's permanent, with which I would be fine. My two amazing kiddos are all I plan to have anyway.

The particularly good news from this conversation is that even if we decide to go the route of permanent menopause, there may be ways to do it without another actual surgery to remove my ovaries. We may just be able to chemically turn them off - which of course kind of makes me think of just making them shrivel like raisins in my body, but that's kind of an icky visual, so try not to think about it. (Easy, huh?)

And we will make more detailed determinations on the hormone therapy once we get through the chemo part, but the statistical modeling suggests that doing just the hormone treatment alone would reduce my risk of future cancers from 25% to 16%. Definitely an improvement, but still not a number that makes me too incredibly happy.

So we discussed chemotherapy options. Dr. Obenchain was very honest and informative about the short term effects and possible long term effects of putting poison in my body. Most of the short term ones are fairly well known, even though they do not necessarily happen to everyone with the same severity or at all: hair loss, short term memory loss, nausea, weakened immune system, possible mouth sores, dry skin, lots and lots of fun things. The long term effects are much less likely to occur, but quite a bit more serious: approximately a 3% chance of heart failure and a less than 1% chance of actually causing another cancer such as leukemia by the treatment itself (which did actually happen to my grandfather after his colon cancer treatment).

With my young age and good health, however, Dr. Obenchain said she believed that my own actual risks are lower than these statistics because these include cancer patients of all ages and those receiving much longer and stronger forms of chemotherapy.

Adding chemo to the hormone therapy should reduce my risk of future cancers to only 10%, which is actually not too much higher than the risk for any average person on the street who has never had cancer. Please think about that for a moment and make sure you are wearing sunscreen and getting your recommended health checks. Breast cancer is 1 in 8 for women while prostate cancer is 1 in 5 for men. Seriously people, pay attention to your body and catch any cooties early and before they catch you!

We discussed many more details about which chemo drugs she would recommend based on my pathology and it turns out she would not be using drugs that require a chemo port. Yay again! One less procedure, one less scar, one less place on my body to be sore and prone to infection!

She told us to consider our options and let her know which route we were most comfortable with, but I told her quite honestly that I want my future risk number to be as low as possible as soon as possible, so I am fine with the short term effects and long term risks, especially if it means "long term" will have a much greater meaning to my life.

So I'm all in for chemo. She told me to pick a day between Sept 9-17 to get started (about a month after the surgery to allow for more healing) and I'm ready to get this show on the road. I will have only 4 chemo treatments (the minimum) at three weeks apart to allow my body to recover and my immune system to rebuild a bit between treatments. I came home tonight, pulled the calendar off the wall and figured out that if I start on Sept 9 or 10, I will be done by mid-November. I will probably still be recovering from the cumulative effects of the chemo exhaustion around Thanksgiving, but I should be back on my feet in time for Greta's birthday at the end of November and Fin's birthday two weeks later.

Yes, I will be bald in their 3 and 5 yr b-day pictures, but I will be there and will be in the photos from many, many more of their birthdays as well. And because we can finish breast reconstruction 3-4 weeks after chemo is done, there's a chance I'll even have my new boobs in time for Christmas! (Though I will have to consider NOT being in recovery from another surgery over the holiday, too...)

We will likely start the hormone therapy with the new year and my plan is to be completely DONE with cancer and treatment before my 36th birthday in May.

When I laid all this out to Dr. Obenchain, she just looked at Laura and they both cracked up about what I planner I am and how I was ready to get the show on the road.

So - that's the plan: start chemo in about 2 weeks, have the usual ups and downs for about 3.5 months with that fun, be a bit recovered for the kids' birthdays and the holidays, then kick off the new year with more insurance toward keeping cancer out of my life for good. And really, what better New Years Resolution can you think of than "Keep Cancer AWAY"?

The next several months will not be easy and they will not be fun, but I am not scared of what's ahead of me. Every time my gorgeous Greta giggles or my sweet Finny gives me a gentle hug and says, "Love you mama" I know I would endure anything to be around them as long as I possibly can. There's no way any nausea, baldness or exhaustion will keep me from doing whatever it takes to make myself as healthy as possible for as long as possible.

Interestingly, when I have told a few friends and family members about my plan - with all the joy I have mentioned having about simply having a PLAN in place - I have been met with responses of, "Are you okay with that?" or "Wow- you really have to do chemo?" or "How are you doing with that decision?" And it surprises me every time. Because I know this plan is a hard one, I know I will have some really sucktastic days in the next several months - but I also know that I am surrounded by family members and friends who are forever checking in on me, asking how they can help and offering me love and support from all over the world. Add that to my babies and I can do anything.

Which reminds me of something I don't think I mentioned when I updated after surgery a few weeks ago. When I was wheeled into the operating room, I was greeted by the anesthesiologist and Dr. O'Neill. The anesthesiologist (Dr. Rahman, I think, but I really only chatted with her briefly - she was very friendly) asked if I wanted to sing along with some Adam Lambert that was playing. Then the nurse asked if I could move myself from the wheeled bed onto the operating table. I confidently said, "Sure - I can do anything." I moved over, they told me to put my left arm out on the side table and that's the last thing I remember until I was waking up and taking a peek under the sheet covering me to see what I looked like with no boobs. These are honestly the last and first thoughts I have around the surgery blankness and I love that the last thing I remember saying when I actually had cancer was "I can do anything."

Hells yeah.

So that's obviously still my approach and I hope I will remember it on the days ahead that will be tougher than the ones I've had so far. Recovering from surgery has not been a blast - after a long day yesterday, I was so sore and in so much pain that I tossed and turned (as much as one can when you can't really roll over at all - I basically just kicked at blankets and pillows and yelled about cancer being stupid) until after 2 in the morning. But even with today being my most painful and exhausted day of the last two weeks, I know the road ahead will take me through even more of this crap. Unfortunately, this is just the start of this journey.

I really thank those of you who are by my side now, who know how sucky this will eventually be and who will be there to help me through the worst of it. I can't imagine my life without you and I know I am loved and blessed to have such incredible support through this journey and all the hard things and happy things in my life. Thank you.

<3
-B-

Nine Days Post Surgery - Time for Follow-Ups

The past two days have been crazy busy, so this is probably going to be a crazy long entry. You've been warned. So go pee now, grab a drink and get comfortable.

I had my second follow-up appointment with the plastic surgeon to check my healing yesterday, I had my first follow-up appointment with the breast surgeon today to get the results of all my pathology tests and the final surgical outcome and recommendations and I spent a good chunk of the day in the hospital at my grandmother's bedside as we feared she was having another heart attack. I also got to drive myself somewhere for the first time in almost two weeks! The newfound freedom was nice, but still rather painful... amusingly, I only drove myself a few miles to the hospital to see her.

So from all of this, there is both good news and bad news.

First, the good news about Grammy - they have determined that she has not had another heart attack (she had a quintuple bypass about a dozen years ago and a severe stroke almost a year ago), but they are keeping her overnight to monitor the pains in her legs and make sure she has not passed any blood clots or the like. She is lucid, but in pain and she will hopefully be home tomorrow.

And now for my own medical updates - I know you're all waiting with baited breath...

Dr. Jacobsen is my plastic surgeon in the fancy schmancy Biltmore office. He checked out my recovery at 10 days post-surgery and said I was doing absolutely great. Then he yanked the drains out of my sides. It was quite a relief to have them out, and it only REALLY hurt for a few seconds on each side, but I did almost vomit on him for the second one. Luckily, he was prepared with a cool washcloth and a bottle of water, so I didn't actually puke. Always a bonus.

He said with my fitness level before surgery, my "amazing skin" (uh huh, his words) and the progress I've already shown with my mobility and range of motion and flexibility, he expects me to continue healing quickly and without issue. And he assures me my new boobs are going to look great. He'll start the expansion process next week and says I should see some cleavage in about a month or less. This will be a first for me...

Granted, I am still in quite a bit of pain as my body heals internally and gets used to the foreign objects that are now a part of me, but he says everything I'm experiencing is normal and will fade over time. This is good news because I often still feel like there's an ice pick in my left lung and like my right shoulder blade has completely dislocated. Apparently, those feelings are to be expected after having one's boobs recently cut off.

So, leaving the plastic surgeon's office with only four bandaids to show for a recent mastectomy was a pretty cool feeling - one on each side where the drains had been and the steristrips that are still over the healing former breasts. But having the drains gone was the best part of that experience. And the pre-visit codeine I'd taken in preparation for the drain removal wasn't too bad, either. Surprisingly, he did tell me that at this point I can pretty much be off all my medications and return to my life as normal and just know that my body will tell me when I have done too much and need to rest.

Hmmm - this somehow makes me feel like I shouldn't still be so tired and exhausted and in pain all the time, but then I remember what a crazy surgery I just had and try to cut myself some slack. I'm working on it and am occasionally successful.

Today, after making sure my grandmother was resting as comfortably as possible, I made my way to visit Dr. O'Neill for the results of my surgery and pathology tests.

The best possible news is that the largest of the three tumors was only about 1.1cm and the permanent lymph node stain confirmed that there was no lymph node involvement or spread in the cancer, so we caught this stupid thing at Stage 1! WoooHooo!

I just stopped typing to get my copy of the entire pathological report and read over the relevant information to share. As I held these papers in my hands with their medical terminology and graphic descriptions of tissue samples, exact dimensions and appearance of these tissues that were once a very integral part of my life, I am emotionally conflicted. Mostly, I am happy that the news in these reports is good - my cancer was small, we caught it early and we got it out of me. My genetic testing does not indicate an increased risk for my mother, my sister or my children to share this illness with me. But a tiny part of me is sad that even my formerly healthy right breast - the bad booby by association - spent it's final observation as only "specimen with a long single suture designating lateral and a short double suture designating superior...at the center of the specimen is an ellipse of pink-tan skin with a central nipple measuring 1.2cm x 1.2cm x 1.2cm and inked as follows... The nipple and skin from the right breast are unremarkable." (Personally, I think the symmetry of that nipple is pretty remarkable, but then I care about things like that.)

I know the bad boobies did their job before they went bad on me - we had a farewell party, they were enjoyed and appreciated (not saying by whom or how many ;P), they provided immeasurable comfort to both of my babies and then became specimens in a surgical pathology report. Kind of weird and a little sad, but mostly a relief that the news is good and this part of the cancer journey is done. Yay!

But the rest of the conversation with Dr. O'Neill was focused on everything else ahead of me. I will meet with the oncologist in two days, but Dr. O'Neill had been hopeful that with the small size of my tumors, we might be able to avoid chemotherapy entirely. She spoke with Dr. Obenchain before my visit who said that with my age and family background, she was still strongly in favor of me undergoing chemotherapy. We will obviously talk more about the pros and cons of any treatments ahead of me, but it sounds like I will soon be pouring poison into my body and going bald as expected. And with the aggressiveness of the tumors I had, it will be unlikely that I will be able to have the chemo treatment without having a chemo port put in, so that's one more procedure that I will likely be having in the next week or so.

Interestingly, despite my genetic tests coming back negative for the breast-and-ovarian-cancer gene, the fact that my tumors were 100% positive for estrogen receptors means that the most effective course of long-term treatment to prevent future cancers include permanent menopause, as opposed to the temporary menopause sometimes caused by chemo and hormone therapy. So what this means is that at some point after I've finished my chemo, I will likely be having my ovaries removed as well.

I have known for years that I am done having children, but it's still odd to think that we will be removing yet another healthy body part in order to increase my chances of staying healthy longer. I don't particularly relish the idea of yet another surgery, but I'm okay with not having to worry about ovarian cancer in my future. It's one of the bad ones that is hard to find, hard to treat and rarely discovered with much chance of survival. So, let's get that one checked off the list of future possible cancers and just take those ovaries out now! Whew.

So, essentially in the last two days I have learned that my body is physically healing well and that I will someday have amazing breasts to show for all of the current trauma. (Dr. Jacobsen is very proud of his work and assures me my new boobs will be all the rage. I still think having nipples with feeling in them would be cool, but apparently that's never going to be part of the package again...)

The cancer that was in me was small and is now out and we have very good indicators that it did not spread. But to be sure, we will likely be injecting me with some poisons for good measure, removing my ovaries and putting me into instant menopause with continued hormone treatment for the next five years or so.

Dr. O'Neill was quite honest about how none of this is going to be much fun. With two kids in preschool while I'm going through chemo, she said there will probably be times when I have to be completely quarantined away from them. The aches and pains I'm currently feeling from surgery recovery will continue and eventually fade, but as we expand the temporary implants, I will have new pains and muscle spasms and ice-pick-in-the-lungs moments as my body adjusts to the new reality of being cancer free. And all she said about the menopause was, "It's not going to be a good time." Yeah.

Somehow I always thought 30 was going to be the big year of my life - I learned I was pregnant with Fin 3 days after my 30th birthday. I started, finished and defended my dissertation and became Dr. Parker. I got a job, bought a new house, moved, started the job and had a preemie baby with an extremely traumatic near-death birth experience for both of us. And that was all just between May and December of that year.

Now at 35 I have been diagnosed with cancer, had a bilateral mastectomy, am about to embark on an as yet unknown chemotherapy treatment (exhaustion, nausea, decreased immune system, hair loss, long term toxic exposure to my other body parts), which will be followed by a surgery to implant new "perfect" breasts and another surgery to remove my ovaries and then permanent menopause (dry skin, forgetfulness, loss of libido, hot flashes) and hormone treatment for years.

Assuming all goes well, I will be in remission for five years before they can call me truly cancer-free. By then I will be 40. If this is what my 30s have had in store for me, I'm really hoping my 40s involve more tropical vacations and massages.

But honestly, my 30s have been pretty incredible so far, too. I have found myself surrounded by the most amazing network of friends who love me like family and I am constantly amazed by the love and support and encouragement that surround me with each new challenge I somehow get to face.

A friend asked me today why life gets so hard sometimes and piles so much on us after I told her about spending the day with my grandmother in the hospital. All I could think to reply was, "Because we're strong as fuck and sometimes we have to do a whole lot of hard stuff all at once to be reminded."

But just so the universe knows, I'm reminded enough for now. I need my kids to stay safe and healthy, my mom and family to stay safe and healthy, my friends to stay safe and healthy and connected to me through the next few months of me just feeling like absolute crap. And then I think I should get a break from being reminded of how strong I really am.

My other grandmother, who is a self-proclaimed bible thumping holy roller, once told me she never prays for patience because she's sure God will just test her to show her she already has it. I talked to her for a long time today because I am unsure what I am supposed to be learning from this experience, if I am making the right decisions in my life and where I should be going from here as I move forward trying to raise my kids and make the world a better place for the people I love. She assured me that of course it's all in His hands and I'm handling it all as He wants and expects me to, so I should just trust that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing with my life at this moment. (Which at this particular moment means blathering on and on because I'm getting tired and keep having stream-of-consciousness interruptions. As a writer, I apologize for the lack of coherent theme in this journal entry.)

So I suppose that's what I'm trying to do now. Get through this with the knowledge that I am loved and supported even when I feel like crap, that people want and expect me to lean on them from time to time, and that this is just part of the journey I'm supposed to be on. And I continue to pray that I am learning what I need to be learning and doing what I need to be doing along the way.

And as for the physical transformation, when I told my dad about the ovary removal today, he joked that I am becoming the bionic woman as they take more and more out of me. I said I was fine with that as long as people will make the "nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh" sound when I run.

But really, somehow this whole process is about making me LOOK more like what a woman is expected to look like in our society (go big or go home with the new fake boobs, right boys? And yes, ladies, I am totally kidding with that remark.) while actually removing most of the parts that make me female to keep me healthy. Luckily, I still know I'm going to be a hot bald chick. And honestly, as I removed the bandaids from the drains before my shower this morning (I'm down to only 2 steristrips to show for this adventure! And five new scars-in-healing...) I stood there and looked at my current boob-less body and thought, "Wow, I look strong and healthy and kind of hot."

Thinking I look hot is pretty much a rarity for me. Who knew it would come with the removal of my breasts?

Enough rambling for tonight. I'm so excited to get to see and reconnect with many friends tomorrow for a Valley Leadership event. I have gotten permission to remove my oh-so-fashionable compression vest for several hours (no looking like Star Command!) and have found an outfit that is both professional and comfortable. And I will NOT be wearing any prosthetics or padding because honestly, my actual body is way more comfortable right now, even with all the aches and pains.

<3
-B-

Tick, Tick, BOOM.

I'm tired and sore today and have taken a full dose of Valium instead of the half doses I've been taking the last few days, so this post is going to be a bit more navel-gazing than I usually allow myself to indulge in. Sorry about that. But I figure if you're reading this, you probably care enough to not mind when I get a little morbid. It is cancer, after all...

I was diagnosed with breast cancer one month ago today. I have honestly never had a single second when I thought there was even a chance this breast cancer might kill me. I have told all my friends and loved ones about the diagnosis and seen many people immediately fight back tears and others continue to tear up every time they see me, even weeks after knowing about my illness. (And it still feels ridiculous to call it an illness because I've never actually felt sick during all of this. I hurt and am in pain from surgery, but it doesn't feel like an illness. Or maybe I'm just weird...)

Dave and I had several conversations in the days after my diagnosis that ended with him crying and telling me not to die and me just wondering why in the hell everyone was acting like this cancer crap is such a big deal. I mean, I know it's CANCER and people do die from it, but I have breast cancer - the one that so incredibly much is known about, the one that millions of women survive every year, the one that can be treated by removing a couple of body parts and pouring poison in me. Breast cancer is not going to be what kills me and I have never worried that it would. I've laughed about it in the last month because it's "just cancer" - it's just an inconvenience in my life, just something that will slow me down for a bit while I fight it out of me and then go on with my life.

And I've had many friends - even the ones who know to avoid giving me "sad eyes" - make comments about the journey I'm on and how this is a big thing I'm doing and how my life will be forever changed.

And I always think to myself, "Why? I'm going to spend a few months getting rid of cancer then I'm going back to my life."

Except I guess I know that's not really true.

I have a very good friend whose daughter had cancer at the age of 4. She is healthy and happy and doing great now, but when he told me about that experience (both of us in tears) he mentioned that even though she is healthy now, he and his wife had to come to terms with the fact that they will most likely outlive their youngest daughter. Not because of the cancer she has already beaten, but because once the body gets something like cancer, well... it's more likely to get another kind again some day. And be less strong to fight it again. Or less likely to catch it as soon. Or or or....

And yesterday I was straightening up my healing room and came across some pamphlets that a friend had brought over from the Komen foundation. I've seen and skimmed them in the last few weeks, but they mostly cover things like dealing with physical changes (my mastectomy looks cool and I'll show it to anyone who asks, and I'm going to be a hot bald chick if I have to do chemo), alternative therapies that can supplement medical care (I have an acupuncturist and will be getting massages again as soon as I'm less sore from surgery and a nutritionist friend who can't wait to give me cancer-fighting recipes), and generally things like surviving life after cancer. And of course when I come across headings or pamphlets or chapters in books with titles about life after cancer, I usually roll my eyes and think, "Of course there's life after cancer, it's just put on hold for a few months."

But last night I flipped through this section. And I remembered the conversation with my friend whose daughter is a healthy, happy 6 year old now. And I read quotes about how cancer survivors have to worry that every pain, every ache could be the stupid fucking cancer's return. And wonder if it's in our bones this time. Or our blood. Or our ovaries. Or any other part that's much harder to find and diagnose and treat than the stupid little boobs I just had cut off me.

And then I think I'm thirty-fucking-five. Breast cancer isn't going to kill me. But now that my body has let this damn thing in me to grow, there's a bigger chance than some other kind of cancer WILL. And I fucking hate that.

I don't get to go back to my life as normal. I don't get to just get rid of this stupid cancer and go back to being mommy, wife, friend, lover, superwoman. I have to always be careful to not get cuts on my left arm because I'm missing lymph nodes there. I can never have a blood pressure cuff on that side. I have to worry if muscle aches and pains might be more than just aches and pains. I have to wonder if my bruising like a peach is a sign of blood disorders or just the usual sign of my clumsiness.

I have to always wonder when it's going to come back. And if it's going to be before or after I get to see my kids graduate from high school or college, before or after they get married and I dance at their weddings, before or after I hold my sweet grandbabies and tell them their parents are the most amazing people in my world.

I'm 35 and already had breast cancer. It's not going to kill me, but it sure does increase my chances that some other part of my body is going to do the job instead.

I know none of us ever know when it's going to be our time to go and I know all of this is in God's hands. I know I am surrounded by love, prayer, support and more love. I know my body is strong and healthy (well, aside from the cancer part) and can fight a lot right now. I know I pay attention to what I put in me and what's around me and limit my exposure to as much bad stuff as is reasonably possible.

But I also know that didn't make a damn bit of difference this time around. It's a damn good thing I got incredible life insurance a few years back. I certainly hope my kids don't get to collect on it in the next 18 years, but I also know it will be incredibly expensive to ever get another life insurance policy once you have cancer at 35. Because from here on out, I'm kind of just a time bomb.

Boom.

<3
-B-

Where Did That Shiv Come From???

So I'm in bed this morning, as I so often am these days, but it's about 4:45am so I expect most of you were in bed at that time, too... and I'd just woken up from a very lovely dream about puppies frolicking on the beach under rainbows (not really, but I ain't telling what the dream really was, just trust me when I say it was a good one) and I was relaxed and happy and looking forward to getting up to take a walk again and greet another gorgeous sunrise.

I did my usual mental checklist for aches and pains from sleeping in essentially the exact same position for over a week now (turns out you can't really roll over in your sleep when you have drainage tubes on both sides. Ick.), took a deep breath to start my day...

And immediately felt like someone had stabbed a shiv in my ribs. Fuck. There was an involuntary cry of pain and the desire to NEVER BREATHE AGAIN. But of course that's not an option, so I slowly released the breath I was holding, took a couple of nice slow shallow breaths and felt fine. Decided to try another deep breath and hoped there was just an odd twinge.

WRONG. Once again, extreme shooting pain and a yelp of surprise. How could breathing possibly hurt this damn much? I hadn't even stretched or sat up yet or anything.

At this point, I realized I probably needed to use the bell. For those of you who are unfamiliar with my medical history, there have been times in the past few years when I have been bed-bound. First with a horrible c-section recovery and caring for a preemie Fin, then again when I was on bedrest for two months while pregnant with Greta. Yeah, I'm a pro at laying in bed all day...

Anyway, with this much bedrest, you quickly learn that there will be times you need or want things and no one is in easy earshot - especially when the baby has just fallen asleep and you don't really want to yell and wake him up - or as in mornings like today when you simply do not have the physical breath to call out beyond just yelping in pain.

So my genius mother realized years ago that a doorbell works great for these situations. You can plug in a receiver or two throughout the house, keep the button by the side of the bed and beckon loved ones as needed. Lately the kids have taken great joy in ringing the bell as often as possible to see how quickly daddy will come running, but I've never really had to use it for myself, and especially not when I knew everyone else was asleep. Somehow I didn't think it was the nicest way to wake someone up.

So I gritted my teeth one more time, covered my mouth in case I yelled again and tried to breathe. Nope - still not happening. Damn.
And of course I was then worried that something bad actually had happened, like the drainage tube had somehow come loose in my sleep. So I mustered my courage to check and was relieved to see and feel that everything is apparently still connected as it should be, the drainage is still quite clear and healing as expected.

My mom was sleeping in the living room just a few feet away, so I tried to just call out so I wouldn't have to wake Dave on the other side of the house and risk waking the babies up before 5 am, but again - calling out requires breathing and I wasn't really up for trying that again so soon.

So after about ten minutes of being awake in pain and exhausting every other option I could think of, I caved and rang the damn bell. Stupid cancer.

Mom and Dave were both immediately by my bedside asking if I was okay and by this point, all I could do was breathe very shallowly, cover my face and shake my head no. Because I wasn't and it was horrible.

I was able to explain that breathing made me feel like I was splitting open and I didn't really know how to fix that feeling. But of course I'm stubborn and strong and no way is fear of extreme pain going to keep me from BREATHING, so I just prepared myself and tried to see what I could do.

Raise shoulders? Check. Arch back a little to stretch ribs? Okay, slight pain, but not shooting, stabbing pain. Stretch right leg out and raise it a bit? Check. Extend left leg and start to raise it? NOPE!

What the fuck is cancer doing keeping me from breathing or moving anything on my left side??? So - again being stubborn and refusing to do nothing but stay in bed fearing pain today - I decided I was just going to sit up and get it over with. If I actually split open like it felt like I was going to, at least my mom and husband were there to get me to the hospital FAST, right?

So I took as deep a breath as I dared, steeled myself for the stab of pain and sat up. And sighed a giant sigh of relief. It still hurt and I'm definitely sore from something in there getting pinched or tweaked or whatever the hell it is that happens to one's ribs cage and muscles when people have been digging around in there so much in the past week, but I could sit up and breathe.

And it's sad to think of that as an accomplishment at 5am, but today it really was.

Dave asked if I wanted to go to the emergency room to get checked out, but I figured there was nothing really to tell them. "Hi. I had cancer and just had surgery and it hurt to breathe for a while today, but I'm okay now." That would be an expensive conversation for my health insurance company and besides, I already have Codeine and Valium at my fingertips.

So I decided to go for my walk as planned and just see how the rest of the day pans out. It was a lovely mile and a gorgeous sunrise and I can see the radio towers on South Mountain, which always makes me happy, too.

I did get quite a lecture from my private nurse-in-training Richie last night about cutting back on my pain meds too soon, so I suppose I'm back to taking full doses of Valium again today and using the Codeine before my pain level crosses above a 3-4 on the 0-10 pain scale. Which apparently means I'm likely to be asleep again a bit more. I was enjoying being awake and having company lately, but apparently I'm really bad at recognizing when my body is actually in pain and NEEDS to rest.

Eeesh. Why is it so hard to just nap when I finally have an incredibly valid reason to do so?

So that seems to be the plan for the next couple of days. I see the plastic surgeon tomorrow to get the drains removed (yay!) and that should hopefully give me some more sleeping options. I see the breast surgeon on Tuesday to learn more about the pathology reports and how the cancer removal went, and I see the oncologist on Thursday to discuss ongoing treatment plans. And then we get the rest of this show on the road. In the meantime, I take more naps and try to work from home a bit so I don't go too stir crazy.

We have great wifi and I know several of you guys can work from home or are self-employed, so if anyone wants to come hang out for a few hours in the next week and work at Cafe Benah to keep me company, I have a really cool bell I can ring to see if someone will bring us snacks. ;) Or maybe I'll even just ask you for help when I need it. I'm working on that part...

I have a bit more about cancer on my brain today and hopefully I'll get a chance to get back online to process it more later, but for now the kiddos are waking up, my dad is in town for a few more hours and the Valium hasn't kicked in enough yet to force my morning nap, so I'm going to go spend some time with my family while I'm awake enough to remember doing it. :)

And a deep breath just made my left side hurt like hell again. Argh. Cancer is stupid. Bah.

<3
-B-

Well, That's a Different Kind of Letdown

Before I start blathering about today's cancer nonsense, I owe an apology to my mother and husband for implying that they were my captors in this house arrest. They are here because they love me, care about me, want my house to be clean and don't want me to slip in the shower or fall over anything while I'm on drugs that make me sleepy and dizzy. Because we all know I can do plenty of self-injury simply walking from room to room without anything additional in my system...

The true captors here are, of course, cancer and crazy drugs. But they don't really let me take a break from the house arrest in exchange for sweets, so it was much easier to consider bribing captors who were human in exchange for some freedom. That and I figured my family might like some cookies or ice cream or something. :)

But I worry feelings were hurt in my recent vents and that was not my intention, so please, do not assume I'm being held captive against my will. I mean, I AM, but it's part of the surgery recovery, not any maliciousness on the part of family members who care about me too much.

Okay, now all that being said - let's talk phantom amputee pain! I swear this is bizarre. I know as my nerve endings start to reconnect and wake up, I'll be feeling pain in more places. This is normal post-surgery, of course.

I've had a few surprise places that were numb suddenly start to hurt. For example, the back of my armpits... didn't realize I couldn't feel them until one day it suddenly felt like I had a band-aid in my armpit that was falling off. Strange. Now I have feeling in my armpits again and they're just kind of sore like I've done waaaay too many push-ups.

My mid back and sides are sore like I've over done a good lat pull-down series and my chest... well, it's a combination of too many push-ups and kind of like I've been trying to breathe with a 10lb weight on my lungs. But mostly, I assume all of this is fairly normal post-surgery recovery. My pain level has rarely risen above a 3 on a scale of 1-10 and a half a codeine once a day or so has kept me in fairly reasonable spirits. (Or mostly asleep, depending on who you ask...)

The weirdest part, though is the phantom boob pain. In the past couple of days I have had moments where I would swear my nipples were standing up... but then I don't have nipples any more. When talking with the plastic surgeon the first day, I referred to having "Barbie boobies" - his eyes lit up when he asked if I wanted Barbie's dimensions and I had to explain that of course I didn't want to look like that - I think only a man could even think that was my point - but instead she doesn't and never has had nipples. Barbie boobies are smooth and nipple-free.

I could go off on a nice long feminist rant about what that tells generations of kids about the purpose of breasts, but I'll leave that for another day...

But aside from the phantom nipple reactions, I realized last night there's another pain I've been feeling and it's one I know many of my dear friends will recognize and understand.

When a woman has a newborn baby and her milk comes in the first few times, there is often a bit of a painful pins-and-needles sensation while the newborn learns to latch and get the full milk letdown to happen. But then there is the comfort and release of oxytocin and all is right with the world as the mom and infant bond.

In the past day or two, I have felt like I'm having a milk letdown a couple of times. And instinctively, a woman experienced with breast feeding will cross her arms or press the heels of her hands into her breasts to stop leakage if there is no nursing baby nearby to benefit from the nourishment. Yet when I have this instinctive reaction, I realize I am only pressing the damn compression vest into my scars and there are no nipples to be leaking milk. Because it was the damn milk ducts that grew the cancer that lead to the removal of the breasts anyway.

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly. I don't know why she swallowed the fly, perhaps she'll get new boobs that still have no feeling in the nipples but at least look pretty in exchange for having phantom lactation letdowns with no newborns around.

And the weirdest part? I'm most likely to get the letdown feeling when one of my kids is sad or upset... just like when they were babies and my body knew the best way to comfort them was with my milk and cuddling.

My brain knows what it should feel like to provide comfort to a crying baby. My body hasn't done it in years and never will again - not in that way, of course - but the connection is still there. Which is somewhat cool and somewhat really, really bizarre.

I know amputees occasionally have phantom pains when limbs are lost, but I wonder if there's ever such an obvious mental and emotional connection or if it's more of just a random itch on an elbow that doesn't exist...

Time to tie on my happy shoes and take a walk. Hoping the drainage tubes will be out in a few days and I'll be cleared for a little more distance soon even if I can't get back to running yet...

And my dad is coming to visit today! Just to make sure I'm doing okay. :) I'm sure I can find some project around the house to help him feel like he's taking care of me, too.

Feeling very blessed and loved, even if I'm not leaking milk these days...
<3
-B-

Kidnap Request

I love you people who have offered to come kidnap me from my house arrest. Please do. I have a feeling my captors could be paid off with ice cream, cookies or even simple assurances of my safe return. And if not, I know a few secrets to break out of this joint. ;) It is still my house, after all.
<3

-B-

Twitch, Twitch, Twitch...

My eye twitch is back. It's been almost a month (!!!) since I was diagnosed with breast cancer and today is the first day my stress-induced eye twitch has been acting up.

I feel like I am under house arrest. Granted, it's a clean, pampered, how-can-we-take-care-of-you-are-you-sure-you-don't-need-anything? kind of house arrest, but I'm still feeling a bit trapped. And admitting that makes me feel like the world's biggest ingrate.

I know I need to rest. I know I need to take things really easy and I know I'm not the best person at recognizing my limitations until I've exceeded them. I am surrounded by people who love me and want to take care of me and I know I am very, very blessed to have this kind of support. My house has never been this clean, my meals have never been this prompt and tasty. The people who love me are taking better care of me than I can take care of myself.

And yet I have to ask permission to shower. Because I'm not allowed to do it alone. I can't leave the house or take a walk without a buddy. Because I'm on too many medications.

Any time I mention plans I have in the upcoming weeks, I have to assure everyone that SOMEONE will be there to babysit me to make sure I'm okay. Because apparently when you get cancer at 35 you suddenly become 10 years old again with a burning need to get into mischief.

I know all of the overprotectiveness is because people care about me so much. I do not mean to complain because I know how very, very lucky I am to be so loved.

But it would also be nice to be able to find things in my own home. It's been cleaned and scrubbed so much in the last week - for which I am INCREDIBLY thankful - but things don't end up where I'm used to them being. I actually haven't seen my glasses since the day I was diagnosed with cancer, so I've been wearing my old pair with the out-of-date prescription for a month because no one knows where my regular ones got stashed in the Benah-has-cancer cleaning frenzy.

When we first discussed healing time with the surgeons, I was told to expect to take at least a week off work, then kind of ease back into stuff. I asked my plastic surgeon on Monday when I might be able to drive again and he said it would be at least another week to ten days - or not until I'm off the Valium completely.

But because of the expansion process of the reconstruction, I will likely be on the Valium for at least three more weeks. Or longer. And while I'm on the medicines, I can't shower alone, can't go for a walk alone, can't drive....

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

I really don't mean to complain, but this feeling of house arrest, of being grounded, of having to ask for permission to do just about anything was NOT part of what I expected from cancer. I expected surgery, pain, feeling sick and tired. The twitchy cabin fever is just another unexpected side effect.

Ergh.