During a breakdown in front of my incredibly fantastic nurse of a husband, I said, “I just want to fast forward to the part where I’m bald and throwing up!”
Because these damned Jackson-Pratt drains are going to make me go belltower.
And I get that they’re doing their job very well, and that if I didn’t have them, I’d be swollen to 18 times my size (it’s a fact!) but they are hideous and gross and disgusting and I hate them more than I hate the cancer. right now.
I am a big baby. Poor Nurse Nugget. Every time he strips and drains them, I lay there, with my arm over my head, in the most dramatic of fashions. Oh horror! Catastrophe appalling! (I was in Pirates of Penzance in the 8th grade, where my best friend, Kathy #1, was Mabel – and I’ll never forget her dramatic performance of that very line.)
Oh, and my arm is not over my head because I can’t put my arm over my head. For some reason, I pinch the bridge of my nose and that makes me not throw up.
Speaking of not throwing up, yesterday afternoon, after spending a very quiet day horizontally, I decided to take a peek at some on-line cancer stuff that pertained to me.
I was rocking in my chair, as though autistic, in a matter of just a few minutes. I don’t think I’m ready for more information than the doctors are giving me.
The rocking stopped me from feeling naseous. I’m weird like that.
I finally made one phone call to a friend last night. She thought it was funny that I’d wanted to fast forward to the bald, throwing up part. But she didn’t say anything to me about not wishing too hard for what you want, she waited for me to say it…
“I know that when I get to the bald throwing up part I’m going to be wishing for a fast forward to cancer-free and drunk.”
But for right now, I just want these drains to go away. The left one might be removed by the end of this week, but I don’t think the one under my right arm is going anywhere, anytime soon.
Baby steps, Bob. Baby step.
After too much time not laying quietly, I will spend the week crashing.
No guests, no phones, no doing anything I shouldn’t be doing.
I am going inward to let my body heal.
Will be back when my body says I can.
It’s hard to decide who should come to the hospital when you’re undergoing surgery. My entire family would have liked to have been in the waiting room. Chatting and supporting and running and fetching. My family has always rallied liked that. Waiting rooms are for family reunions.
But that was going to be The Big Nugget’s place. I was going to be sleeping. I wasn’t the one that needed the support, Ricky Nugget needed the support.
And if I know The Big Nugget like I think I do, the less family, the better.
However, my family loves me very much so I know we needed a family representative. And I chose my closest family representative, my little brother.
I haven’t gotten any negative feedback from my mom. So I’m going to assume that while she might have been a little offended, she was probably more relieved. Crazy with worry relieved, but relieved nonetheless.
So on Wednesday morning, the three of us headed into Minneapolis for my surgery.
To help keep things light, we said a whole lot of stupid stuff that a family, who is not white trash, would not say.
Special shout out to my White Trash Family: Love you, you inappropriate bunch of blood relatives of mine. Sissies are welcome to leave and get job demotions and other bad karma.
I can’t remember all the details of the drive to the hospital, but I do know that The Big Nugget re-termed my surgery to Tepanyaki Mastectomy – HiYa!
So wrong. But damn funny.
And really really really wrong.
The Big Nugget and The Little Brother tried to talk me into just dropping me off at the patient drop-off door (rather than the valet parking they offer) so they could run over to The Electric Fetus, a local music store, and then on to mine and The Big Nugget’s favorite restaurant, The Jasmine Deli.
I insisted that they accompany me until I was wheeled away from them.
Which they did.
And then they ran off to The Electric Fetus and The Jasmine Deli.
Seriously. While I was being operated on, they were off shopping and eating.
Which might offend some people. But me? I couldn’t love that any more. The last thing I want during all of this is for people to sit around and be sad or worried. They made it back way before I was done.
And they brought me presents.
It’s all good.
And really. That couldn’t be a better story.
Dorks.
I love them so much.
My surgical team was fantastic. My IV nurse was a god! She put that sucker in and I have absolutely no brusing. None. And no discomfort. If you’ve had an IV in before, you know what I’m talking about. If not…lucky!
I was wheeled into the operating room, moved onto the table. One arm to the left, one arm to the right.
Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room.
I didn’t even get to count down or say inappropriate things while going under.
The post-op nurse asked if I needed any pain medications. I didn’t. I know I’d just had both of my breasts removed and it’s crazy, but I was in no pain.
Time for a break. I’ll take you up to my hospital room in my next, exciting entry about my Tepanyaki Mastectomy.
I don’t even know where to begin. So I’ll begin right here.
Wow.
The surgery. My husband. My family. My friends. My peeps. All of you guys.
So very overwhelming.
Thank you all so very very very much.
I am grateful.
I got home from the hospital Friday afternoon and there’s so much to tell you but I don’t have the energy to do it right now.
But I will share it all when I find my strength.
Know this, women who have gone through this before me are braver than I ever thought possible.
And know this…
My pathology report came back last night and the verdict is Stage 2A, with a slight positive for some sort of hormone doohickey. Meaning that I’ll be having chemo and I’ll be having hormone therapy of some sort for awhile after the chemo is done.
The surgeon said this is great news. So I believe her that it is. I was still hoping for that “Sorry, we made a mistake, you have a pouch of garbage in your boob. Go home now!”
I’ll learn more about what I’ll be doing next after I meet my oncologist this week.
Cripes. Never thought I’d say that, “my oncologist.”
I have so much to share with you. But I have to go lay down.
Again – thank you thank you thank you!
p.s. I lost about 5 pounds of boobage and then after eating my sister’s Magic Poop Muffins, another 5. Awesome! And? I can lay down on my back and sip from a can of soda. Couldn’t do that with those evil boobs in my way.
Nugget here. Kathy’s surgery went very well. It’s amazing how well she’s doing. Your good wishes are sincerely appreciated. We aren’t sure when she’ll leave the hospital but we’ll update as soon as we know more.
Thanks for checking up on her.
BTW, no one told me about the group grope. Nobody tells me anything!
-Nugget
I wish I had enough time and enough energy to thank each and every one of you, each and every time you sent me good wishes.
But I don’t.
I do want to tell all of you that every e-mail, every comment, every facebook shout-out has meant the world to me.
I have been up and down all day long but every time somebody sends me some sort of message, I am always lifted up.
My love to all of you.
Today, the day before they take my boobs away (Hurray!) I plan to lay around and do nothing more than Thing 2’s laundry. Which, I know, he can do himself but I want to do it for him. Because I wuv him.
I’ve got some chest congestion going on and a whole lot of post-nasal drip, and the last thing I want to do is postpone surgery, so I intend to take in as many liquids as I can. Stupid stress and the illness it induces.
I hope you all will be participating in the Group Grope tomorrow at 1:00, my time. What time zone am I again? Central Standard Time? I don’t remember. That must be right because I wouldn’t just make that up, right?
Most important – get your mammograms. Had I not had that one last year, they might not have rushed me in for surgery so fast. There was nothing on last year’s mammogram, so the findings of last week’s mammogram show the rapid growth of these tumors.
Yesterday I ran some errands and as I pulled up my ever-falling bra straps, I kept celebrating the fact that I won’t have to deal with that crap any more.
And my back will have less of a burden to haul around.
And I won’t have to put safety pins between the buttons of my button-down shirts.
And I won’t suffer from wet bra in the summer.
And I’ll be able to wear shirts from the general population of women’s apparel. Buh-bye big lady shirts!
And the money I will save, not having to replace over-burdened pullies and levers.
No more giant brassieres.
I can’t believe I had to get breast cancer in order to get rid of a woman’s most obnoxious part of her wardrobe. But then, when have I ever done anything quietly?
I’ll shout it loud, I’ll shout it proud – BUH-BYE BOOBIES! You turned on me and it’s time for you to go!
Of course, I might feel a bit differently once they’re gone. I’ll keep you posted on my feelings about the loss of my breasteses.
I dreamt last night that The Big Nugget’s friend, Johnny B, came to see me.
He was a high school friend of The Big Nugget who was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma when he was about 19. He had a bone marrow transplant some time later on and lived for another dozen-ish years until he died after surgery that wasn’t related to Hodgkin’s. Just a few years ago.
So in my short dream, Johnny B asked me if we could be friends. I told him that I thought we already were. He gave me a big hug. So big, it hurt.
I have no idea what that means and I’m not sure that I want dead people visiting me at night.
I do appreciate that Johnny B was wearing my favorite kind of man apparel – a black turtleneck ala Michael Keaton as Bruce Wayne in Batman.
Yesterday my mom, sister and little sister-in-law showed up, like a tornado, and cleaned my house. It was overwhelming and it was awesome.
My little brother and little sister-in-law brought me a Big Bowl ginger soda, some roses, and ham with cheesy potatoes for me and the family. I felt so guilty about all that they did for me. And then I remembered, again, (I keep forgetting) that I have stupid breast cancer so it’s okay for me to accept these things.
I’m planning on laying low today and tomorrow. I’m on the verge of getting a cold, I can feel it in my post-nasal-drippy self and the last thing I want is to have to postpone surgery and have the stupid cancer in me any longer.
Last night, after having a great conversation with my oldest son (who I have the highest hopes for), I closed the door to my room. I was alone. And it hit me. I have cancer.
I wonder if maybe you people figured out the weight of this before I did.
It’s not all fun and games, that’s what I figured out last night.
But I’ve got my team lined up and ready to go.
Talked to one of my college friends who is a nurse at the hospital where I’ll be having my surgery. She’ll make sure the nurses are fired up for my support.
I talked to my niece today who is a nurse who has the time and the want to come to the hospital and have them show her how to take care of bandage changing. She’ll come and help me at home with that, even though she lives on the other side of the Twin Cities and is about to have a new baby for me to squosh.
Fighting the Stupid Cancer doesn’t scare me as much as recovering from the bilateral mastectomy. My friends know that I don’t go through surgery recovery very well. In fact, I make Norma Desmond look like an amateur in the drama department.
Lord have mercy on my husband’s soul. That “for worse” part is going to reach an all-time worse.
***
Collectible Sue #2 (Sue H/E) you are offically my Stitsch & Bitsch for Kitsch Girl. I looked at the knitted hat patterns and I kept being drawn toward the slouch ones, like this one. But you find one that gives you less trouble. Know this, though, if it comes out off-kilter, I will love it more. p.s. Sue? Go get your boobs mammogramed!
Akk? Pinot Noir & Pinot Grigio go with everything. You are my official Wine Girl.
Buzz, Mr. Buzz is officially assigned the Love Me Like a 5th Grader role. Tell him I expect cute little valentines for Valentine’s Day.
CiNDy has decided that she’s my Cake Eater Girl. But I don’t understand how CiNDy’s eating cake is going to make me feel any better. It’s not like she said she’d be my Cake Sharing Girl! I think CiNDy’s using my cancer for an excuse to eat cake. Which explains why she’s been my friend for over 30 years. I’d use her struggles for cake, too.
Time to rest. More assignments coming!
My pal Floweer told me yesterday to fight like a girl!
I like that. I’m going to fight like a girl.
People keep asking me what they can do for me. Heck if I know. Don’t I have enough trouble figuring out what I can do for me let alone working out their to-do list.
I kid. I know what they’re saying. I’ve been there. Friends and family don’t want to sit around and watch somebody else suffer. They want to keep busy and take as much pain away as possible. So while talking to Floweer yesterday, I’ve decided it’s time to come up with assignments.
And Floweer is officially my Watermelon Girl. I read somewhere that watermelon is a good thing for chemo patients. It’s liquid-providing and it’s not so smelly and it’s not so offensive to a churning stomach.
I’m sure that Floweer thought she got off easy. Nay, dear Floweer. I don’t want seedless watermelon. I want the tastier kind with the seeds in it – with the seeds removed from it. I’m not asking for melon-balled seeded to seedless watermelon. Chunks are fine. We’ll discuss proper chunk size on an as-needed basement. Uh. Basis. Basement? Oh my God! I’m losing my words!!!!
Golly, right there, someone else is suffering right along with me.
Buzz is my official Pho Girl. Vietnamese soup will be put to the test. Can it heal or will we find that chemo patients don’t like the taste of anise and cilantro? So there is a subtitle to Pho Girl. It is Pho Girl: Soup Getter. Also, Buzz? You can be my Crystallized Ginger Girl, okay?
My mother (who has rallied like nobody’s business…she has been awesome!) is the official Boy Feeder. She doesn’t cook but boy howdy, does my mom love to hit the grocery stores for food to feed others. Her other role is The Queen of Ironing. It’s not like we have lots to iron, but I will be wearing button down shirts for a while and she loves to iron. She’s already been over here, ironing. Go Mom!
My brother is in charge of Movies and all things DVD. He is my AV Boy. Such a dork. I love dorks.
There will be more official assignments to come. If you think you might want an official assignment, you can “apply” (ha!) in the comments section and I’ll have my people call your people.
I am finally willing to read the printed material the breast clinic gave me. I was reading about wigs today. I don’t want a wig. I’m a baseball cap kind of girl. And really, I don’t give a flying poo if I’m bald for awhile. I know that people wear wigs out of concerns for others and I do know how others can react to baldheaded women – but that’s their problem and not mine. I don’t mean to be so disrespectful but really? I’m fighting for my life and I have to worry if somebody is offended by my bald head? I don’t think so, skippy. The only reason I’ll wear something on my head is to keep it warm or to keep the sun off of it.
The pamphlet I read suggested that if a person wears glasses, they find a pair with big frames, to cover where their eyebrows used to be.
Man, that just cracks me up. I’m going to see if I can score a pair of Martin Scorsese glasses, he’s figured out how to hide those eyebrows so this might get people to think I’m hiding Marty Scorsese-sized eyebrows.
Or I might get a pair of red sparkly glasses from Deepak Chopra’s House of Sparkly Glasses!
So many things to think about.
Again, I’m tired. Emotionally exhausted. This all happened so danged fast.
I’ve been running around today. Pre-op appointment with my regular doctor. Then to Target for my Target fix. I thought about looking at cuter, smaller shirts at Target but I figured I should wait and see what size I’ll actually need once the damage is done and the healing is over.
I do know that I want to wear some bright stuff for awhile. I’ve been living in black shirts for way too long. I also know that I plan on buying some really cool and very long silk scarves to accessorize my lack of breasteses. (Hollah! Susan! Greatest Med Term teacher, ever!) AND I’ll be making some really big and chunky necklaces. I haven’t liked wearing necklaces on top of these big boobs of mine, they just make me feel fatter.
There are good things to a bilateral mastectomy (just thought I’d throw in a real med term so poor Susan wouldn’t quit teaching the class) – those old boobs made me look fat.
So I’m driving in my car and I’m wondering, has having breast cancer changed me? It’s only been, what, three days since my diagnosis. Seriously? It feels like I’ve known this forEVER! In three days’ time, I have not changed. And I can prove that by the swear words that came out of my mouth when some old broad was driving 35 mph in a 45 mph zone, smack dab in front of me. As was the old man driving next to her.
I ran into an old acquaintence at Target. She asked me how I was doing and I told her I had breast cancer. She hugged me and was awesome about the bomb I’d just dropped on her. I thought that was so cool of her.
Man, this is going to be a random entry. I’m just in a chatty mood.
I got a message from the breast clinic to call them back, that they had some good news for me. I was kind of hoping that they were going to tell me that I didn’t have breast cancer but that because of their error, they were willing to give me breast reduction surgery. This was not the case. It was good news, my chest x-ray and lab tests showed no signs of cancer any where else. I was just disappointed that they weren’t a bad clinic that made frequent misdiagnoses.
I suppose I should be happy that I’m going to such a great clinic, but still…it would have been nice.
And now, the chatty mood is over. Man, that was quick. I’m tired and going to lay down and watch dvr’ed stuff for awhile.
Good gravy, People! You’re organizing a Group Grope in my honor? I thought I was goofy. But I am glad that you’re doing something to take good care of yourselves. I am tickled pink.
My surgery is at 1:00 on Wednesday. Let the groping begin. On Wednesday. Until then, keep your hands to yourself.
Ooh. We should turn it into a Grope Your Neighbor thing. Could be interesting. Share your mugshots, okay?
Somebody (I’m sorry, I’ve had so many comments and e-mails, and not enough time to work out a spreadsheet for them all) said something about me having a theme song, and wouldn’t it be cool if I had a theme song.
I have had a theme song since 1981. Mike Post and Stephen Geyer’s ”Believe it or Not”, which became the theme song for the show Greatest American Hero, with that adorable William Katt.
It comes on the radio and I’m yelling, “My theme song!”
Here’s the thing, my maiden name, which was always mispronounced and became my nickname through high school, into college and with my first marriage, rhymes with the lyrics in the song…”it’s just me.”
I don’t want to share my maiden name with you, but my theme song still works when used with a misheard version of my nickname . A nickname of my nickname that was given to me by my friend CiNDy’s mom after I’d called the family’s house looking for CiNDy. “CiNDy, somebody named The Belly called you,” was the approximate message her mom gave her.
And so, seeing as how I’ll be handing over my breasts next week allowing my belly to be the prominent player on my front side, I share my theme song, with nicknamed nickname, to reflect my soon-to-be silhouette…
Look at what’s happened to me,
I can’t believe it myself.
Suddenly I’m up on top of the world,
It should’ve been somebody else.
Believe it or not,
I’m walking on air.
I never thought I could feel so free-.
Flying away on a wing and a prayer.
Who could it be?
Believe it or not – THE BELLY!
It’s like a light of a new day-,
It came from out of the blue.
Breaking me out of the spell I was in,
Making all of my wishes come true-.
Believe it or not,
I’m walking on air.
I never thought I could feel so free-.
Flying away on a wing and a prayer.
Who could it be?
Believe it or not – THE BELLY!
And really? Look at those words. It came from out of the blue? It should have been somebody else?
Hell, yes!
However, I can’t ask myself “why me?” because I already know the answer: “why not me?” It just is what it is and I’ll do what I have to do. Could have happened to anyone.
This reminds me of the night back in the fall of 1980, when I got attacked in a parking lot by a guy who wanted to do very bad things to me. Oh! He grabbed my boob, and that’s what saved me…let me back track.
One fall night, right before college was back in session, I was hanging out at a bar with a bunch of friends. My boyfriend (who became my first husband) was up in Minneapolis and I was in Mankato (south of Mpls.) All my male friends had paired up with all my female friends that night, and I got bored, so I asked my friend Maynard for his apartment key.
While walking to Maynard’s apartment, this big & hairy guy was walking toward me. I stepped off from the sidewalk we shared (spidey senses) and went to the center of the parking lot. He walked to the center of the parking lot. I walked back onto the sidewalk. He ran up and grabbed me. Started to drag me behind a dark apartment building. I was silent, trying to stay on my feet while he was pulling me by the neck of my sweatshirt. For cripe’s sake, the only time I didn’t talk and it was a time when I really needed to talk.
He was this growling beast. As we were nearing the side of the building, Gorilla Boy couldn’t wait and he grabbed my breast (I can’t remember, but I bet it was the bad one!) and my instinct took over. I smacked his hand away and yelled, loud enough to startle the both of us, STOP IT! He jumped back, I took off running. He chased me. He was 6′5″ and my little legs weren’t much of a match.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to work my key into Maynard’s lock so I ran for my friend Nacho’s apartment, yelling “Nacho! Nacho!” I could hear the beast gaining ground as I hopped over the hole in the ground I’d known was there for the past couple of years. The Big Rapist Wannabe didn’t know about the hole and stumbled into it. I made it to Nacho’s apartment door which was, thankfully, unlocked. His roommate Carlos was there and after he figured out what I was trying to say (Carlos was from South America, my frantic English was hard for even me to understand)
Carlos locked me safely into the apartment and followed the guy to an apartment in the same complex, half a block over. Thankfully, the guy was caught and plead guilty.
And do you know how I reacted to it all?
Thank god it was me, because my little buddy Karen, left the bar and followed my same path about 15 minutes later. Had it not been me and my mouth, itty bitty Karen would have been raped.
So. What am I trying to say?
I guess it’s better that I’m the one battling breast cancer instead of somebody of lesser fight that it might have struck had it not landed in me?
You’re welcome?
Next Wednesday a very nice surgeon will be taking my breasts away. And for this, I am thankful.
I know. I’m about the biggest lunatic in the world. But really, I don’t want them. They have caused me nothing but trouble. buh-bye boobies.
Besides, the surgeon was going to have to remove the lumps and surrounding tissue and lymph node, and possibly more, which is about the size of an egg; meaning I’d have to have reconstructive surgery for sure. And I’m just not sure I want reconstructive surgery so I offered them both for her removal.
I don’t want implants. I might eventually want my belly fat moved to my breastal area (I’m so glad I took that medical terminology class so I could have medical words like “breastal” in my vocabulary…hi Susan! You are a great medical terminology teacher!) I can have that done at any time, later. It involves using fat and muscle and I did not want to recover from abdominal surgery at the same time I’m recovering from boob-removal surgery. Again – thank you Susan!
I do believe that it will be very healthy for me to make sure that I have ample amounts of belly fat so that I am always prepared for the day I want reconstructive breast surgery.
Get in mah belly!
We won’t know what stage of cancer I have until lymph nodes have been looked at, after surgery. Unless the lymph nodes have very bad things to say (I have talking lymph nodes!) my prognosis is good. I will be going through chemo and possibly radiation. But we won’t know about the radiation until we’ve made the fat lymph nodes sing (they sing, too! I hope they perform well on ice! AND IN THE METRODOME ON SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY!!!!!)
Seriously. I am the goofiest person cancer has ever confronted. Good luck, cancer. I will use my ridiculousness to defeat you!!!
I am Her2 negative. Which means that when Harry Connick Jr. played the Her2 cancer fighting drug inventor, Dr. Denny Slamon, in the movie “Living Proof”, he was not acting for me.
I still like Harry Connick though.
I don’t know what that all means. I just know it means nothing to me but that people have asked “Are you Her2 positive?” No. I am not.
That’s about that for now. I have a wealth of knowledge rattling around in my head and perhaps it may all stop for a bit so I can make sense of it all.
I do know that the cancer clinic I am going to is great with hand holding and brain de-rattling, any time I need it. Until they can’t take any more of me, change their name, move from their current location, and leave no forwarding number.
My gut is not a mess. I have moments of crying but mostly I have moments of everything’s going to be okay - once the vomiting stops (I have already declared copious amounts of vomit on the horizon and I haven’t even met my oncologist yet) I’ll be ready to get this crap behind me.
You people and your comments and e-mails are awesome! I have laughed out loud and I have been thankful, so very thankful with all your support and advice and forced huggery.
Wow. I knew I had friends who would help me get through this, I just didn’t realize how many friends I had and how willing I’d be to accept all of their thoughts and wishes and even those offers of prayering.
Dan? Really. Allison sent you a message from the great beyond that she didn’t want to see me yet?
Dude. That’s awesome. It’s bullhockey and I know it but it’s really awesome to think of it being a possibility. Iwonder how she’d react to my cancer fighting style? She was the Grace Kelly of cancer compared to my Norma Desmond style. Which explains why you married her while was I have always been just a friend.
Just a friend. Ha! Like we’re “just” anything!
People who don’t know who my Dan is…Dan went to college with me back in the late 70s. He went for one year (while I went for 5…neither one of us graduated, but Dan passed our biology class – I did not – and it was my 2nd attempt at biology class) and we have been friends ever since. You don’t know lucky I am to have a Dan in my pocket.
And that I have The Big Nugget (the husband – for all my school buddies new to the blog) who doesn’t mind that his wife has male friends. I hear that can be tough on some men. My husband is secure in the knowledge that I adore him and will never leave him. No matter how many times he asks.
So here’s the deal at this moment…
I had an MRI this afternoon. Got on the table and put my boobs in the boob-cups that made me want to start whistling the theme song from Austin Powers. I was really nervous that having to lay on my anterior (shout out Med Term pals!) side was going to cause alot of pain to my lump sites as my lump sites are horribly painful right now and incredily swollen from the needle biopsy. But they had it all nicely cushioned for me.
I had no trouble going into the big MRI tube. Probably didn’t hurt that I’d taken a Xanax after signing the consent form. I still had moments of near-hyperventilating but was able to control my breathing during the 40 minutes of scanning. That really wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t even feel much discomfort when they shot in the dye. Just a little cold and a weird taste in my mouth.
Tomorrow I meet with the surgeon to get more details and set the surgery date. I should have more info. then.
You know something? This has all happened so fast that I can’t even remember how I got on this crazy ride. A person’s life can change in an instant.
I’ve got so much I wanted to share with you all today but I’m so tired and need to go to bed so I can deal with more emotions tomorrow. This is exhausting and it’s not even the hard part.
Thank you, again, dear reading friends. Every one of your comments and e-mails lifts me up.
It is with a heavy heart that I inform you people that your positive thoughts didn’t work. You should have shaved your heads right away.
I’ve got breast cancer.
Infiltrating (or is it invasive?) ductal carcinoma. And some in a lymph node.
I will have you know that I had already decided I’m going to die.
I got over that and had some pizza.
And then I talked on the phone and got my appointments lined up for an MRI and a consult with a surgeon. So apparently I’m not ready to die just yet.
You tell me you wouldn’t hop to a death sentence if you heard that you had breast cancer and I’d have to call you either a big fat liar or very blonde.
I won’t know more until I meet with the surgeon. I don’t know what stage I have but I do know that tumors are Grade 3, which means they are agressive, fast-growing mother fuckers.
I don’t know what the hormone receptor is, I don’t even know what that means except that Sting and Buzz do but I refuse to listen as I am overwhelmed, and am new to the breast cancer lingo.
I can tell you that I plan to have both breasts removed and at this moment, have no wish to have new ones put it. That could all change but for right now I’m kind of excited to be rid of these damn things. I never wanted them in the first damn place. I’m no Chas/tity Bono, never wished I was a man, but boy howdy, when I first got breasts, I was not a happy girl. I guess it was my clairvoyance letting me know that they were really going to cause me trouble.
Thank you for all of your support. You can’t even begin to know what each and every one of your comments and e-mails has meant to me. The only way I can truly show you how much they mean to me is to continue to share this journey with you.
By the way, my brother and my sister both told me that I had to be strong. To which I replied, No I don’t. I figure that I’m going to be sick and in alot of pain and by god, I am going to be the Norma Desmond of breast cancer. All drama, all the time. They also told me that I had to think positively to which I replied, No I don’t. I’m going to be one cyncial of a mother fucking breast cancer victim (I’m in victim mode right now) and I expect every one around me to do my positive thinking for me. It’ll be an experiment in the Power of Cynical Thinking and How It Can Cure Breast Cancer.
Note to Dan – I told you and Allison that I’d be a wimp if I ever had to go through what Allison went through. And dammit, Dan, do you remember what you said? “I know you would.” Ain’t this going to be a grand time?
Note to Cindy – You already know what you’re in for and you haven’t changed your phone number. You rock!
Note to Buzz & Sting – What the hell? Right? Now you know why you both had to get breast cancer. It’s so you could be my Kung Fu masters. To me this is proof that I AM the center of the universe. Thanks for being there and for keeping me calm.
My poor husband. He is in for a very rough ride. I will have you know, however, that when I had decided I was going to die from this, he informed me that it wasn’t cancer that was going to kill me. Dude threatened to kill me on the day I found out I had breast cancer.
That cracks me the hell up.
Also? He has decided that he will shave his head and donate his hair to a wig-making company.
And if you know the state of The Big Nugget’s hair, you will laugh your ass off.
Howdy friends. So. The Lump. It has a friend. And both of them are no friends of mine.
What we all thought was going to be some sort of obnoxious cyst is apparently a couple of troublemaking not-cysts. After a series of needle biopsies, tissue samples are in the hands of the breast clinic’s pathologist and I should have some more details tomorrow afternoon.
The original lump is about 3/4″ across. The other one is smaller, nearer the underarm. But I don’t know how much smaller. All I know about that one is that when the radiologist was performing a needle biopsy, she hit a lymph node, turning that into a game of STOP THE BLEEDING, NOW!!!
They put some sort of metal “tag” into the first one for whatever reason they do that, but were unable to put a metal tag into the second one, because of the bleeding. Me, not having any clue as to how bad things might become asked “So, how do you get that metal tag out? Do you use a magnet?” Duh. Apparently the masses guaranteed that I’d be having surgery.
Fuck.
A magnet. Good gravy, what a dope.
I should have known things weren’t going my way when the techs turned way too nice for my taste, as did the radiologist.
I have a huge hemotoma because of the bleeding lymph node. And I have six sites where needle biopsies were performed. I am a painful mess.
I am a fucking mess.
Tomorrow I’ll have more idea of what sort of battle lies ahead.
You people need to start thinking benign thoughts because if this goes bad and I end up losing my hair, you’re all getting your heads shaved! I just pinky sweared you! Bet you didn’t see that coming because had you seen that coming, you would have stopped reading this entry before I pinky sweared you.
I started to hyperventilate as I was getting ready to drive to school for my anatomy test this morning. We had a snow storm, the streets were slick, and I have a 1/2 hour drive on a good day. It took me an hour.
But here’s the thing, I didn’t really care about the snow. I didn’t care about arriving in class late (although, some poor gal showed up 12 minutes after the test began and the instructor told her she was too late).
I plugged in my ipod for the drive, hoping to stop the panic with some fun music. It just didn’t help. I could feel my pulse in my neck and I could feel how shallow my breath was.
I got to school and got into class, then I started crying. Thankfully, not a blubbery crying. More of a sniffing and tear-dropping cry. It got harder to contain once my friends in class saw that I was falling apart. Bless them for wanting to help and bless them even more for giving me the space I needed. It took me awhile to compose myself enough to ask my friend, Karna, for some kleenex. And I knew it would be easier if I didn’t make eye contact with the teacher. She’s so danged compassionate that she would have just set me off more with her concern.
People. It’s not the lump. And it is the lump. And it’s my son. And not my son. And it’s my poor husband having to deal with all of this shit. So much, that I told him I didn’t need him to take me to my appointment at the breast clinic today. I do need him. But I don’t need him. Do you know what I mean? And he knows to wait until I ask for his help. I think the point is more that I don’t want to ask for his help. Because I don’t want to go to the breast clinic. And I don’t want to have another conversation with the intake person at my son’s treatment facility (fingers crossed for next week, okay?) She was a total stress-inducer. When I call back this week, I’m going to request someone else, if she gives me more stress.
But hey, I think I did great on the anatomy test.
Dear Friends of Kitschin Logic:
It is me, The Lump. I thought I’d take the time to address you, the readers of my hostess.
I don’t like you people.
I don’t like that Kitschin Logic found me so easily. I had hoped to hide for months, until I grew bigger than her head. But that bitch found me. I blame it on the nerve. I was tired, it’s hard work to attempt to take over a body, and leaned against the nerve. I just wanted to puff on something carcinogenic for awhile. The nerve threatened to make a fuss. I said, “Shut up nerve, or I will grow around you and squeeze your mouth shut!” But that damn nerve is braver than I thought and damned if it didn’t shout out “I hurt!”, allowing Kitschin Logic to find me so easily. Too easily.
I have to admit, it was hysterical to watch K-Lo get all worried and pissed and become a nuisance to the medical community. Man, did those fools scramble for her, getting her in right away; finding me and taking photographic evidence of my location. What really gets my lump panties in a bunch is how you readers have calmed her down. Damn! What fun is it being a lump if you can’t scare the shit out of a person?
Also? I fucking hate lemon meringue pie!
You’ve all had weak lumps so now, K-Lo has decided that I am a weak lump, too. Do you know what happens when a person has positive thoughts? Their body fights lumps. This is not fun for me, the lump.
I haven’t decided whether to stay and fight or to quit.
You are a bunch of supportive fuckers and I hate you.
Sincerely,
The Lump
The other night, The Big Nugget and I were watching t.v. A commercial came on with a model wearing a skimpy outfit.
The Nugget said, “You should wear something like that.”
“I’d look like crap in that,” I replied.
“I’d squint,” he said.
“Asshat.”
I let it slide. But do you know that he asked me yesterday if I’d told anyone what he’d said? Because, you know, he thought he was so damn funny and all.
Which, of course, he is.
Asshat.
This is the weather map of Minnesota right now. What you have here, is a mess. I’m in the green right now. That would be rain (see the neapol? that’s me). Pink is freezing rain. White is snow.
Want to know what’s fun about rain in Minnesota in January? It turns everything into an ice skating rink. Yesterday I saw this guy walking to his car. He hit some ice and somehow managed to not land on his ass. But the dance that man did must have him hurting like crazy today. It was awesome!
I plan to stay in the house and study all day. There’s no need for me to get out there and see what else can go wrong with me.
So…I’ve been wearing the CPAP since Wednesday night. It took me about an hour of wearing it before I conked out. Now I can just slip it on at the bedtime and fall asleep quickly. On Thursday, after 5 hours of class, I was really tired and took a little nap. Yesterday I thought I was tired so I lay on the couch to watch a little t.v. and see if I’d fall asleep. I did not. Which is pretty amazing because if I lay on the couch late in the afternoon, I always fall asleep. I’ll keep you posted on this interesting news. Also, if there is any breaking news, I will interrupt this blog to keep you informed.
Hey…I got a free box of turtles at Sam’s Club yesterday. A sample person was giving out free samples of fudge from a candy place in Pittsburgh. I lined up. There wasn’t a line, but I ran up like there could be a line any second. And then the sample lady kept giving me more flavor samples. It must have been Diabetic Day at Sam’s Club because nobody else wanted to try her fudge. God. It was great fudge. I bought a box and then bought a box of the turles, which were 2 for 1. So she handed me my 2nd box. And then she handed me the box they have to go in for check out (you know how Sam’s Club is). But then she said “I’ll give you a 3rd box for free) and managed to fit the third box of turtles into the 2-box check out box.
That doesn’t happen very often. Pretty cool. She must have noticed my lump and though it’d like a box.
You didn’t think I was going to write an entry without my lump, did you?
Today I used the lump as an excuse to buy a lemon meringue pie.
I do not hate this lump as much as I did yesterday. Because yesterday I did not have a lemon meringue pie.
Today I decided that the lump is a zit. With a little hat.
Also? The lemon meringue pie was only $4.99. So even if I didn’t use the lump as an excuse to buy the pie, I would have anyway.
I really like lemon meringue pie.
I still hate the lump.
***
I picked up my brand spanking new CPAP machine today. Oh people, I am in love and I haven’t even slept with it yet.
It’s so cool.
It’s a new model. Just came out two months ago. So it’s got all sorts of cool. And it’s completely silent. Which is kind of disappointing to me because I like white noise and I was hoping to turn off the fan I oftentimes use. It’s cold in Minnesota in the winter. And when you have to sometimes use a fan to block out the noise of other people in the house, it can get colder.
I got a mask with just the bits that go a bit into my nostrils. And it’s a new-fangled headset that’s designed specifically for the ladies. It looks sporty and it’s got these “mittens” that go over the face straps so I won’t get lines on my face from it. I could get my maw-in-law to make a headgear mittens pattern and get all sorts of strap covers. Sexy ones for the hotel nights. And that sporty look is so very important because I like to look sporty while I’m sleeping with headgear.
I just know the CPAP going to solve all of my problems. My borderline high blood pressure. My borderline diabetes. My borderline depression. My way over the top anxieties. My sleepy problems. My son’s drug addiction. My lump. My mother.
Unless I can’t sleep with it one.
But if I can’t sleep tonight, I’ve got lemon meringue pie!
I can’t express enough how much your shared stories soothe me. Thank you!
Won’t it be nice when this cyst is just that, a cyst with a tiny benign hat, so that I can go back to non-lump entries?
I woke up at 4 in the damn morning, worrying that the clinic I was referred to wouldn’t be in my insurance’s network. I forgot to ask. Thankfully, after a search today, it is in my insurance’s network. I had a good second choice but I really wanted to go where the new clinic sent me because I am in love with the new clinic and also, I once (1981) had a telephone conversation with the man who donated the money to start the clinic I was referred to. I figured it was a sign.
That makes all kinds of sense to me.
So today I went to school and blurted out in a class that I had a lump in my breast. The poor teacher, she asked how our long weekend was, so I told her. But it’s all good because this was a class with My People and I need My People to know what’s going on because just like you guys (I heart you guys), you keep my tiny-benign-hatted cyst from killing me. As my brain would do if I let it run wild. I try not to let my brain run wild too often. It’s dangerous!
My school people are good for me, too. They don’t have the detailed boob lumpage that you guys have (lordy, we are a full life raft, aren’t we?) but they let me spew it, got mad about it, and then we got some lunch and went back to school work.
My boob hurts today like somebody punched it in the face. Over and over again. It’s nice to have a break before it gets the shit kicked out of it again, next Monday.
Stupid boob.
I need to go nap, now.
Oh! But tomorrow?! I pick up my CPAP – and I expect great things from it. Great things!
“I have to find a high tech article that relates to the business office for my business tech class,” I told The Big Nugget. “You should help me!”
“I’m not helping you with your homework,” he replied.
“But I have a lump!” I whined.
“You’re a lump,” he replied.
“You’re an asshat,” I replied to his reply.
And the beat goes on.
Hey. How you doin’?
Me? I’ve got a cyst. And the cyst seems to be wearing a little hat. A little circular hat that needs to be looked at more closely because if you have a cyst, it’s apparently not a good thing for it to be wearing a hat.
Shit.
So I’ve got an appointment at a local breast clinic for a closer look, next Monday afternoon.
Until then I’ll spend my time between reminding myself that the clinic thinks it’s just a little benign tumor and my head thinking I’m a goner.
Boobs are stupid. I’ll tell you, like I just told my friend Dan, on the phone (hi Dan!) “I’ve hated my boobs since the day I got them.”
I’m sure Dan appreciated hearing that. Dan likes to hear about my lady parts. Right, Dan?
I wish I were the kind who keeps my worries to myself. Just calm the hell down and wait for things to be okay. That’s not me. I get a worry, I blow it all out of proportion in my head, and then I let every know what a dramatic goofball I am by sharing the worry with them, only to find out I didn’t need to worry afterall.
That being said.
I have a lump in my right breast.
Found it last night.
That goddamned right breast has caused me nothing but trouble. Remember? It was the leaky one? And how it caused me to leave the OB/GYN/BITCH clinic because my doctor told me not to worry about it? I did talk her in to a referral, eventually (more than a year after I noticed the leaky damn thing). Went through some really invasive testing. They shot dye up my nipple.
Fucking right boob.
It was an intraductal papilloma.
A wart within a duct.
I had a wart.
But hey, at least I knew what it was, right?
Since then I found a kinder, gentler OB/GYN office and met a very nice, young female doctor. I was so happy. So imagine how not happy I became several months later when I got a card saying that she was leaving the clinic and that they suggested I give the new gal, Marsha, a go.
I gave Marsha a go. And then I gave Marsha the go away.
She was nice. But she was nuts. I don’t often meet doctors who are nuts. Most doctors I meet are competent and professional. Marsha was damned goofy.
Since then, I’ve been meaning to make an appointment at another clinic. I’ve just never gotten around to it.
So last night, I reach up to push on my right boob because it’s hurt on and off for several months now (I figured it was that damn scar from the surgery or a hormonal thing) and felt this lump. Through two t-shirts. And it hurt like hell. So I went upstairs to let The Big Nugget in on the fun, figuring I didn’t want him poking around because, like I said, it hurt like hell.
“Touch this!” I said, pointing at my evil right boob.
“Sweet!” he said, jumping right up to volunteer for the job.
He found it right away. That’s how fucking big it is. It’s about the size of a nickle.
Then I had to go to bed as it was bed time. But damned if I couldn’t fall asleep because 1) a fucking lump! and 2) my boob hurt more than before I found the lump what with all the damn lump probing.
I’d tossed and turned about who to call in the morning. The old clinic with Dr. Nutso or a new clinic that I’ve had my eye on, who hasn’t met me yet.
I got up at 7 this morning and took a shower, ready to run to the first place that wanted to see my boob.
The new clinic won. And it won because the other clinic didn’t answer their phone at 8 a.m. Thank god. Because the new clinic? It has new magazines! They are current! People! When I get my first job in a doctor’s office, this will be my first thing…I will take over Magazine Gathering and Tossing. New subscriptions are on me! I don’t care. I will not work in a place that has Family Circle from August, 2009.
And the new office? It is awesome! It is a GYN clinic. No babies being born, taking your doctor away from the office.
Of course, I didn’t meet with the doctor I wanted to meet with (he’d worked at the OB/GYN/BITCH clinic years ago…even saw me after Thing 2 was born). He was out of the office this week so I saw a nurse practitioner instead.
And I love her.
Here’s what she says about The Lump: It’s about the size of a half dollar and it is round. Most cysts are round so we’ve decided it’s a cyst, and we’re sticking to it.
I have an appointment to go back to the new office this afternoon for an ultrasound, which will confirm that the nurse practitioner and I are not only positive, we are geniuses.
And that’s how we’re looking at that. But damn, boobs are scary.
Let’s now focus on the fact that I am one assertive mother shut your mouth. I found the lump around 8 p.m. last night and had myself in a doctor’s office this morning (a new doctor’s office, too!) by 8:45.
Who’s the gal with the mad phoning skills?
And insurance?
I went to the Institute of Sleepy today. To get a prescription for a CPAP, seeing as how I can not get myself to wear the oral mouth repositioner that snapped off one of my crowns a good year or more ago. (The nurse I talked with today told me of a patient who had to have jaw surgery after this happened to him. My god! I’m so smashing that damn thing into teeny tiny pieces!)
I go back next week, after the CPAP guy talks to my insurance company and they refuse to believe that I have sleep apnea, or they believe that I have sleep apnea so much that they insist it’s a pre-existing condition and that I had it before I walked into the clinic – and they will not pay for any part of my CPAP machine. They will have nothing to do with me and the CPAP! You did not get that sleep apnea here! Oh! How I want to kill them because I am so angry! This is Obama’s fault!
(Sorry. I thought I was accused of being hateful and full of anger in an e-mail I received today. And we all know that is very wrong. Right? RIGHT?!!!!)
Oh! There was the cutest male resident shadowing the Sleepy Institute doctor today. The doctor asked me where I was working and I told him that I was not working, in fact, I was going to school to become a medical transcriptionist. Are you hiring? (I didn’t ask if he was hiring but – Hey! That’s kind of a good idea! I’ll get my diploma and then make all kinds of medical appointments at which I will ask for jobs! Insurance will pay for my pre-interviewing!) He told me that was a great choice and that I should be pretty busy. I told the cute resident that when the time comes and he needs a transcriptionist, to give a call.
I think I might have also roared like a cat.
By the way, did I mention that I was wearing my leopard-print sweater? I know it’s not a cougar but it’s in the big cat family. Makes me frisky, I guess.
Until next week, I will continue to fight the good battle of trying to stay alive, even though I have quit breathing.
Have I told you that Stella Mirra, Retrieved Golden, wakes me up if I try to take a nap on the couch and stop breathing? I was suspicious at first. But then I made mental notes of each and every time I’d nod off and was awakened by the nudging of the nose of that damn dog! I always seemed to be coughing, too. Which is what happens when I stop breathing (according to my eye witness, Ricky Nugget)…I stop breathing and then I start coughing and choking, in order to start breathing again.
Either my dog loves me and wants to keep me alive or my dog loves food and doesn’t know where it will come from if I’m not the one giving it.
I go back to school tomorrow. *sigh* I wish I felt like alot of my classmates seem to be feeling. They’ve been facebooking about being excited to get back in class. I guess I’ve had so much time at figuring out what to do on my downtime that it’s hard for me to get bored.
I did alot on my winter break. And I have proof.
Gumbo!
I cooked.
I made a couple of pieces of jewelry. (You can buy them here – I’ve been too lazy to put them on my own website. Posting something on Etsy takes seconds. Posting something on my own website takes a journey through paypal’s merchant pages and then through my own website that it drives me insane!)
I tried a bunch of new Christmas cookies, the Red Velvet Whoopie Pies being my new favorite (and definitely a must for my birthday next month).
I saw alot of movies (on video) and read alot of books, too.
I’d have to say it was a pretty successful winter break. I also know that were it not for going back to school tomorrow, I’d have taken it for granted. I’m definitely ready to move on from being a stay-at-home-person. But still, I’m going to hate getting up at 6:15 in the morning. Especially when it’s always dark and always so damn cold!
Like a bowl of Summer!
A new favorite!
I love cooking. And I especially love cooking when new recipes are delicious!
Less words, more pictures.
This is what happens if I miss somebody's 10:07 p.m. snack time
p.s. Stella Mirra, Retrieved Golden, speaks in the font known as “Tom Violence”.
I was going to make some green curried shrimp for dinner, a new recipe, but I didn’t have shrimp. And with today’s high of +6 degrees, I just didn’t feel like going out, if I didn’t have to. So instead I made myself a bowl of cherry vanilla Haagen Dazs ice cream and let the kids and The Big Nugget fend for themselves. Damn that Ricky Nugget, he ate the rest of the really good soup. I should have hidden it better.
I spent the day cleaning up my studio and waiting for my photoshop class to start. Got a good dent made in the studio, which is good seeing as how Hoarders is about to start. A person can’t watch Hoarders while sitting in a room full of ridiculousness.
Photoshop class started and I downloaded the chapters and made an attempt at beginning the exercises but got stuck with being unable to download a photo. That’s probably not a good thing. But I’m not the only one having this issue so I don’t feel alone in my stupidness. The poor woman “teaching” the class said this is her first online class. It might be her last because right now, I’m so not alone with my stupidness.
And now, I must make earrings.
