The day after my mastectomy I was released from the hospital with a nearly concave left chest and a drainage tube at each end of the incision that ran from mid-chest to under my arm, stopping just short of my back. I looked like a Cyborg.
Not until I saw my surgeon ten days later and had both tubes removed was I able to get a special bra with a puff to “even things out”. Which hadn’t been such a big deal because I really wasn’t feeling wearing anything remotely nice with plastic sucky thingies protruding from my body, but I was excited when I was finally allowed to get a post-surgical bra.
I liken it to getting a training bra. It looked kind of like one and came in sizes such as small, medium, etc. The assistant in the Women’s Resource Center looked at my ta (the singular of tatas), nodded her head and said, “Medium bra, small puff”. Whatever. I couldn’t be sad about the “small puff” comment because small was better than nothing, which is what I had on the left side. I couldn’t wait to get home and put on my new bra with the insert to see how my tops looked.
Running to my room like a kid at Christmas, I practically threw off the shirt I was wearing. I had already ripped the packaging off the puff in the car and stuffed it into the convenient pocket of my new best friend. I fastened the clasp, adjusted the straps and looked in the mirror only to be totally deflated (no pun intended). The “small puff” was too big! It didn’t even me out, it just made me lopsided in the opposite direction. So I pulled out the filling until it was just about the right size. I guess that would be extra small.
The humiliation didn’t end there, though. A couple weeks later when I received my chemo-port the professional staff had to keep asking me which side I’d had my mastectomy on. Really? I chronicled that experience here (which also includes me on drugs) because if I’m going to share one embarrassing moment I might as well go the whole way.
Finally I was given the go ahead to get a real mastectomy bra and prosthesis. Barbara Graves Intimates in Little Rock is one of the few shops in the area that have mastectomy merchandise so my friend, Beth, and I decided to go into town for dinner and a boob.
Prescription in hand, we weaved our way through the beautiful lingerie that wouldn’t work well on a uniboob and found the very pleasant fit specialist. She took us to the prosthesis room with boxes and boxes of silicone blobs and asked my cup size. I didn’t want to say Almost-a-Boob so instead I came out and told her what I was thinking.
I knew I would eventually have reconstruction and was fairly certain I would have a prophylactic mastectomy at that time. If I was going to go through all that trouble you could be sure I’d be making the surgeon earn his money. So instead of matching up my right breast I wanted to see what it would be like as a larger version of me. The problem, however, is that insurance will only pay for one prosthesis if you had a single mastectomy and those puppies are expensive.
That’s when the helpful lady told me it’s very common for women to return their “breasts” after reconstruction. The foobs (fake + boobs = foobs) are then cleaned and sterilized and given to women with no insurance. So Blue Cross/Blue Shield bought a regular foob for me and Barbara Graves donated a filler foob for the other side. And a happy day it was when I could proudly stuff my bra and not feel like a fraud.
The Girls (as Beth named them) were treated very special. Every night they had to come out of their pocket, get washed and then put to bed in their cradle. Seriously, that’s what the box was called. A cradle. Sometimes they were hot and sometimes they were heavy and sometimes they misbehaved abominably - like when I went swimming at the YMCA in my new mastectomy swimsuit and the Girls decided they’d rather swim around my waist instead of stay where they were supposed to – but for the most part they were my good friends. They did their part to make me feel a little more normal than I otherwise would have. That is until late December 2006 when I put them away for the last time and had reconstruction.
We had moved to Pennsylvania six months before my reconstruction so I wasn’t able to drop the Girls off at Barbara Graves' when I happened to be out running errands. They slept peacefully in their boxes on the shelf of my closet for two-and-a-half years. And then a month ago we drove down to Arkansas for a visit.
Instead of luggage in the back of the car, we had our dog. The luggage had to go in a special travel bag on top which had to be taken off and put inside the car during our overnight stay on the way down and the way back. Along with the luggage was a bag full of mastectomy bras and camisoles and two boxes with breast prostheses in them. When we stopped on our way down the guys were taking everything out of the bag – a bit of a pain – and I heard Todd tell Taylor, “Well at least we won’t be bringing mom’s boobs home with us.” Because, you know, they were so large and unwieldy.
While on vacation my mother and I ran into Little Rock one day and I took all the mastectomy paraphernalia with me. We drove up to Barbara Graves, I walked in with all my goodies and the attendants seemed as appreciative as if I’d donated a bajillion dollars. Or maybe a couple grand. And it made me happy. Maybe now some woman with crummy or no insurance will be able to feel a little more normal than she otherwise would have.
Or more appropriately, where has the last week gone?? Is this what happens when you go back to work? You're actually up and out and doing things and the next thing you know, the entire week is gone and you're onto the next one? And not just the working thing, either, but Todd was in Phoenix last week which meant I was running the kids all over the place just about every night. So who has time to blog? (Sorry Lynilu!)
Saturday I worked in Katie's room with her. Holy moly, is all I'm gonna say. 'Cause really, anything else would just be mean. OH ALL RIGHT! I've just gotta say a little more. What an absolute disaster! We got a lot done, but we're far from finished. We did see - and even vacuum - a good deal of carpet that we haven't see in quite some time. That was exciting.
Saturday night I had a little bit of a meltdown. It was a cumulation of a lot of things - some big, some not so big - all related to cancer in some form or fashion. It sounds pretty lame to me considering I've been out of treatment for over three years now. It's this stinking "new normal". I don't like it. I miss the old normal. I was fairly happy with the old normal. It wasn't perfect by any means, but I was comfortable and content with who I was. Now I have a hard time seeing that same person. And not just my outward appearance, either. Even my way of thinking is different and not necessarily for the better.
I blame Beth Moore for the cryfest. My Home Team is doing her study on David and Friday we watched a video where she talked about the process of dealing with an overwhelming circumstance when you're close to God. With each step she mentioned I could see a short video of my life three-plus years ago played out and, frankly, it hurt.
I saw myself flat on the floor next to my bed, crying my heart out to God. I saw myself during the days before my surgery, praying the doctor was wrong. I saw myself as I was going through chemo, weeping and praying for success and asking to be around long enough to see my grandchildren. I saw myself when I was weak or in pain or heartbroken over my long distance marriage, praying for the strength to just get to the next day. And I saw myself following all my scans and appointment with my oncologist after my last treatment, praising God and thanking Him for getting me through it all.
Try as I might to go to my happy place and ignore Beth Moore altogether, I couldn't do it and I ended up in tears. Stupid Beth Moore. Stupid leaky eyes. But what great friends I have to love me despite my little emotional outburst.
After that I was kept pretty busy and didn't have a lot of time to think about and process the lesson. But deep inside I knew it would happen because there are some things I'm still dealing with that make me very sad, though I tend to just push those matters to the back. But Beth had opened the door and by Saturday night the door flew open and it all came spilling out. Poor Todd. Or I should say poor, wonderful Todd.
There is, as usual, much more to the story that I'm not willing to share. Some things are just too personal (she who wrote nearly every detail of her breast reconstruction says). At least for right now. Some day it will be written down for all to read, though. Because nobody ever told me it would be like this and though I realize everybody is different, I'm finding out these taboo issues are common among survivors.
Not surprisingly, I slept really well Saturday night! And last night, too. I had the hardest time getting out of the bed this morning. Not only that, but I'm just about to admit I'm getting sick. So far I've managed to deny it to myself and everyone else, but the sandpaper in my throat can be ignored for only so long. And now it's after 11:00 and I have to get up early tomorrow!! Because, you know, I'm still working toward that Mother Of The Year thing. Only 352 days left! But I have to say, each freezing morning I get up and out early enough to drive my kids the half a block to the bus stop the less appealing the award is looking to me.
So there you have it. That's where I've been. Right here, doing my thing - whatever that may be.
Yesterday was another pleasant drive into Philadelphia. Little traffic, not much in the way of frustrating drivers, great music and a Venti White Chocolate Mocha from the new drive-through Starbuck's I pass on the way to the freeway. I drove straight to Penn Tower and found a parking space without the least bit of trouble.
Since I had time to kill I headed up to the Rena Rowan Breast Center on the 14th floor to visit their boutique. I had read about these sisters, one a breast cancer survivor, who started a breast cancer boutique called Faith & Hope in Abington (a Philly suburb). I also read they sell some of their products at the Rena Rowan boutique.
The boutique is shaped a little like a horseshoe. You walk through the doors to see pretty t-shirts, jewelry, car magnets, candles, note cards, and all the "safe" merchandise. As you come to the bottom of the horseshoe there are doors to the back where women can go and try on wigs or bras or whatever they need. It was the oddest thing when I saw one of the rooms. My heart slammed into my breastbone as if someone had jumped out at me. As I wound around to the other side of the boutique I came upon the wigs and scarves and bras and prostheses and surgical camisoles. Subconsciously I wanted to peruse the lingerie and pretty scarves - almost like I was in a dream, but my rational self reminded me I didn't need any of it.
I didn't panic and run out, but I had to leave. I'm not even sure if I can put a name to the way I felt. A little sad, possibly, but not much. Maybe a little relieved that I don't need to frequent the back. I think mostly I was surprised. Surprised at what, I can't figure out. But it was almost like waking from a dream and thinking, "Oh. I don't need to be here. I should go."
So I did. I went back down to the 10th floor, checked in and settled down to read my book.
Sitting in the waiting room of a plastic surgeon's office is quite an experience. I sit there and surreptitiously observe the other patients, wondering if they're there for liposuction or a tummy tuck or botox or something noble like reconstruction of some type. Of course, I'm not quite so haughty when I'm in there for the laser hair removal. But yesterday was all about the reconstruction so I could judge. (I'M KIDDING, PEOPLE!)
The nurse called me back and asked for my height and weight. I told her 5'7" and 125 pounds. Not really. That would have been a heinous lie. Sadly I told her the truth and the horrible facts have been recorded for posterity. I put on my lovely little gown and read some more while I waited for the doctor.
As I've mentioned several times, University of Pennsylvania is a teaching hospital which means the doctor can't go any place alone. I was a little disappointed when he only had one resident in tow instead of a legion. Dr. Serletti and I chatted about Caddy Shack for a few minutes, then he asked how everything was "working out for" me and I said fine. Odd choice of words, don't you think?
How are your boobs working out for you?
Great! They're a wonder for opening up stubborn pickle jars!
After the riveting conversation came the part where I opened the gown and posed for pictures. "Oh yeah," he said. "They look great." Geesh! It all sounds so seedy! And it surely doesn't sound very professional, but I promise it was all so very clinical - even with the camera and the other guy in the room. (I shudder to think what kind of perverts are going to find this blog now.)
The entire "exam" lasted about 10 minutes. He checked out my abdomenal scar as well and liked how it had healed. So I am now officially released from the plastic surgeon's office. Time to recondition my Pavlov's response - no more flashing my girls for just anyone in a lab coat.
It seems kind of weird. This has been my life for the last year-and-a-half. What excuses will I have to drive into Philadelphia now?
On my way home I stopped off at the Valley Forge Barnes and Noble and met Cristie there again. Of course, the discussion about my doctor's appointment lead to another one of those discussions. I love how she makes me think (even if I prefer not to) and I'm going to write about yesterday's discoveries later.
I'm interested to see what the next chapter will be about. I only hope it will provide as much blog fodder as the reconstruction did!
So what's up? Nothin' much going on here. Just the usual. You know. Todd's at work - he's got major short timer's disease, but he's making a valiant effort; Katie's babysitting; Taylor's at CIY in Tennessee - kind of like church camp only much more intense. Katie's Little Homies are going camping this afternoon through Saturday morning so Todd and I get some just us time. I think I'm going to make reservations at that new Italian restaurant we were going to eat at for our anniversary, but they were booked. Yeah. That's a great idea.
***
We watched "Fools' Gold" last night and LOVED IT! The chemistry between Kate Hudson and Matthew McConnohotty is nearly palpable. It had everything I love in a movie. Adventure, romance, humor, an exotic location and even a bit of history. Well, made up history, but still.
The prude that I am was a little disappointed at a flash of anonymous boobies. It's PG-13, for cryin' out loud. It was a quick flash, but so very unnecessary. It reminded me of when I was in 8th grade and my AT group went into Hollywood to see Romeo and Juliet at Grauman's Chinese Theater. Really cool experience, but the boys in the group were thrilled when Olivia Hussey jumped out of bed, baring her chest. (But really, what do you expect with a name like Hussey?) The girls were just embarrassed. And a little envious. Or maybe that was just me.
***
OH! Have I told you we actually have a Sonic AND a real Starbucks with a drive through now? Maybe two miles from the house, if that. The only problem with the Sonic is it's such a novelty up here that they have to have traffic managers with walkie talkies directing cars who are waiting for the next available slot. It's totally insane. I mean, I love Sonic and all - you know I do - but it's not THAT great.
Last Sunday after Youth Group a bunch of the older kids went to Sonic. They parked in the lot and walked over to order and eat at the picnic tables out front. You order in the same kind of speaker box as if you'd pulled up to a slot, but you give them your name so when they come out they know where the order goes. So here's the conversation with the Sonic chick and my son:
SC: What's your name?
T: Taylor.
SC: What is it?
T: Taylor.
SC: Tyler?
T: Taylor.
SC: What was that?
T: Billy.
SC: Billy?
T: Yup.
***
This is the top of the swimsuit I bought for Hawaii the other day. I consider it was a good day because I didn't cry in the dressing room. Didn't even feel the urge. I certainly don't like the way I look in a swimsuit. Heck, I didn't like it when I was 40 pounds lighter. But it is what it is so there's no sense getting depressed about it. But what thrilled me was the fact it's just a normal top and it just happens to hide both my mastectomy scar (my left mastectomy scar is pretty high up) and my port scar. I also got two different bottoms - red regular bottoms and a coral SwimMini.
***
This morning I found a great deal on plane reservations for my parents to come up for Thanksgiving. So I called Mom and we booked those babies before they went away. Mom and Dad actually get in on my 43rd birthday. I think we'll celebrate with a chocolate cake and 29 candles. It's just been the four of us for the last two Thanksgivings so we're really looking forward to having some family to help us celebrate.
***
All this goodness leads me to today's verse.
If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!
Apparently I'm back from hiatus. Does ten days qualify as a hiatus? And is it just me, or do you guys think of a hiatal hernia when you see the word "hiatus"? Just me? Hm.
Anyway, today was the final touch up on my tattoos. Happy I am that's over because it means my reconstruction is officially complete! I see the plastic surgeon in July - I think. Could be June. I'm not sure. Guess I'd better check on that. - for the final word and then I will be released. Which I suppose means I have to be happy with the results.
"Happy" isn't exactly the word I would use. "Resigned" maybe? No. That's almost too harsh. Oh, I don't know what the proper adjective would be. All I know is, while the results aren't what I had imagined, they're not so bad and I'm okay with them. And really, the issues I have with the girls are private matters now that I'm not taking my shirt off to every person in a lab coat. Meaning most people will never see what the problems are.
Speaking of people in lab coats, I wonder what my last appointment will be like. I'm used to seeing the plastic surgeon with a felt tip marker in one hand, a camera in the other and a plethora of students behind him.
Not only did I have the touch ups today, I also had my second round of laser hair removal under my arms. I was cursing myself (in my curse language which is usually something like, "Dangit, Jen! You're such a bonehead!" - I'm such a potty mouth) because I forgot to take some ibuprofen before the appointment. I also cursed my lack of leather accessories because it left me with nothing to chomp down on. I figured my Crocs would taste like rubber and that's just icky.
So I'm laying back in the chair, left arm up over my head and eyes shut tight behind metal goggles, anxiously wondering when she's going to zap me. You know how they say you don't remember pain? What a crock! I had no trouble remembering the sizzling, smelly snap each time a hair follicle was obliterated and I wasn't looking forward to it today. So I kept trying to picture gloriously hair-free underarms in an effort to convince myself the pain was worth it.
Turns out the first treatment was such a success that there wasn't even half the zapping going on today. Oh, some of them hurt pretty bad. They liken it to a rubber band snap, but I liken the worst zaps to being vigorously poked with an extremely hot needle. Last time she put ice packs under my arms afterwards. This time they weren't needed.
I go back for my last laser treatment on June 30th. Hopefully that will be the end of it and I'll never ever ever have another unwanted underarm hair for as long as I live. If only I had the money and the pain tolerance to do my legs and bikini area. Looks like I won't be throwing away my razors any time soon.
Today was my first day back at work since spring break and the kids' first day back to school. To say this morning was crumby is an understatement! After more than a week of sleeping late to all of a sudden getting up at 6:30 - or 5:45 if you're Taylor - was, in the infamous words of Jeff Spicoli, gnarly, dude.
****
My family is conspiring against me to get a dog. I don't want a dog. Don't get me wrong. I love dogs and have had several in my lifetime. They're wearing me down, however, and I'm pretty sure we'll be owning one soon. As long as I'm not the one getting up in the middle of the night with it or cleaning up the backyard is all I'm gonna say.
****
I'm reading the most excellent of books! It's called Mistress of the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin. It's a medieval (1172) mystery in the fashion of CSI - two of my favorite genres all mixed in together! Here's the back blurb:
In Cambridge, four children have been murdered. Wrongly accused of the crimes, a small community of Jews threatened by Catholic mobs is given sanctuary by Henry II. To assist in proving their innocence, he summons an expert in the science of deduction and the art of death. She is Adelia, a prodigy from the Medical School of Salerno, and an anomaly in a medieval world, who is forced to concel her identity and her purpose from England's grave superstitions and condemnation. One man willing to work with her is Sir Rowley Picot. His personal stake in the investigation makes him an invaluable ally - and in Adelia's eyes, a suspect as well. From navigating Cambridge's perilous river paths to penetrating the dark shadows of the Church, Adelia's investigation will not only reveal the secrets of the dead, but in time, the far more dangerous ones buried by the living.
Now if I only had time to read more...
****
Tomorrow I go back for the tattoo touch ups and my first laser hair removal treatment. I'm so excited about never having to shave/Veet my underarms again.
****
Thursday is my thyroid biopsy. I'm seriously not concerned about the results. I've had these nodules and calcifications for at least 10 years. I AM, however, a little freaked out about the actual procedure. Todd is taking off work to go with me which means I'm getting a Venti White Chocolate Mocha out of the deal so I suppose it's not so bad. Besides, Radioactive Girl gave me the scoop on what to expect so I know it's not going to be as horrible as it sounds.
****
I'm listening to my iPod and 100 Years by Five for Fighting is on right now. If I listen to the lyrics it will make me cry. Not because they're sad. They're just, I don't know... So very, very true.
I'm 15 for a moment Caught in between 10 and 20 And I'm just dreaming Counting the ways to where you are
I'm 22 for a moment She feels better than ever And we're on fire Making our way back from Mars
15 there's still time for you Time to buy and time to lose 15, there's never a wish better than this When you only got 100 years to live
I'm 33 for a moment Still the man, but you see I'm a they A kid on the way A family on my mind
I'm 45 for a moment The sea is high And I'm heading into a crisis Chasing the years of my life
15 there's still time for you Time to buy, Time to lose yourself Within a morning star
15 I'm all right with you 15, there's never a wish better than this When you only got 100 years to live
Half time goes by Suddenly you're wise Another blink of an eye 67 is gone The sun is getting high We're moving on...
I'm 99 for a moment Dying for just another moment And I'm just dreaming Counting the ways to where you are
15 there's still time for you 22 I feel her too 33 you're on your way Every day's a new day...
15 there's still time for you Time to buy and time to choose Hey 15, there's never a wish better than this When you only got 100 years to live
****
I've become addicted to Sudoku. I hate it, but I can't stop myself. I have to do two or three puzzles every day and then I dream about it at night. The other night it was like a cross between Hollywood Squares and the beginning of the Brady Bunch with faces and numbers or numbers and faces or something. I don't know, but it plagued my sleep all night long.
****
I slighted Ben in my telling of how the boys scared the girls last Thursday, but only because I didn't have all the details when I wrote that post. Ben's part was rather devious and I believe Jesus warned about people like him. He went down to the basement and told the girls he needed to use the computer for something. Then when Taylor was scratching and knocking on the basement windows and the girls were freaking out, Ben was their hero. First he told them it was only the wind, then he said he'd go check it out and when he came back he told them it was just the wind. Nothing to be scared about. So he got them a little worked up and then lulled them into a false sense of security, priming them for Taylor's entrance. And he seems like such a nice boy, too.
****
The girls that spent the night were my little homies. Or K Squad Unit Fresh as Taylor calls them. We had been talking about the last days of Jesus' life the previous two weeks so Thursday night we watched The Passion of the Christ only after getting the parents' permission. A part of me was hoping either the parents would say no or the girls would change their minds. But no such luck. And it actually turned out to be a very good thing. Intense, but good. And after the movie was over they decided to watch Hairspray. lol
****
There's a two-inch gash on my good coffee table in the living room. Not a scratch that I could maybe rub out, but an honest to goodness gash. I just wish I knew how it got there so I could make myself feel better by blaming someone. But no one has any idea how it got there. The hand-me-down coffee table in the family room is fine. The really cheap table is fine. The good coffee table? Not so much.
****
I'm terribly behind in my bloghopping. Now that I'm feeling better and things are getting back to our regular routine, maybe I can catch up. But right now I think I'll go take a little nap...
I made a trip into the city today for the final step in my reconstruction - my tattoos. Just like every other phase of the entire breast reconstruction experience it was kind of weird. I didn't get Celtic knots or targets or even a rebel flag and a girl duck (Dixie and Daisy). I chickened out and didn't even ask.
I have to go back in four weeks for touch ups and I'm going to start laser hair removal of my underarms at that time. I'm so excited. I think insurance should pay for that as well since the need is a result of the mastectomy, but they don't see it my way.
Every time I look at my new chest I'm put in mind of hobbits. Why? Because when they were filming the Lord of the Rings movies they used the belly hair of a Yak on the hobbits' feet. When my surgeon grafted skin from my tummy to make a left breast I ended up with belly moles, stretch marks and some hair I hadn't even realized had been on my stomach.
**My boobs don't resemble the feet of hobbits and the hair doesn't look like Yak fur. I don't have Magnum P.I.'s chest now and there is no cleavage plumage or anything like that. Just so you know.**
Having the image of a hobbit pop in your mind when you see yourself in the mirror is a little disconcerting. The technician told me today she would remove that hair without charging me or insurance for it. YEA!
All this excitement has exhausted me so I'm going to bed now. But I leave you with a few snapshots of Valley Forge. I took pictures of my tree but they didn't turn out very well. The sky was too blue and the sun was in the wrong spot to show the contrasting colors of the branches and trunk. I'll have to go back when it's earlier in the day and a little more dreary.
I must have seen 100 deer today and it wasn't even dusk. You have to be very careful driving through Valley Forge because there are herds of them and they will run out in front of you.
I just can't figure out why the Continental Army starved back in 1776 with all this venison around!
An original farmhouse that was used by the Continental Army.
Reproductions of the bunk houses used by the soldiers. I thought the snow lent a special touch.
The Latest Installment of the Reconstruction Chronicles
My drive into Philadelphia today served as evidence that I'm still a long way away from my New Year's Resolution. Here's an example (singing in italics):
Indescribable, uncontainable, you placed the stars in the sky and you know them by name, you are amaz...
Buddy! This is a freeway, not a country road!!
Who has told every lightning bolt where it should go Or seen heavenly storehouses laden...
Whoa, Lady! Sorry I called you Buddy. What's with the hair??
And I'll sing glory, hallelujah, I lift Your name on...
Dude!! Move over!!
Obviously Christian music does not a good Christian make. Although I did get a prime parking spot in the impossible parking garage at the hospital. Luck? Or something else??
The nurse ushered me back to the little room and I changed into my lovely gown while she took down my vitals. Then she left me alone with my book. I was happy. Hey, I'll take quiet reading without guilt any time I can get it.
After a nice little while the doctor came in. He was not, of course, alone. He introduced me to Dr. Morelli and we shook hands as if we were getting ready to have a business lunch, the difference being I bared my boobage after the hand shake. The tasteless jokes running through my mind right now simply boggle.
The incision revisions look great. Still not perfect, but good enough that I'm happy with them. The nipple, not so much. He told me I had two choices. He could try one more time to build it up or I could just leave it like it is and schedule the tattooing and that the tattooing would probably even things out. So I opted for the tattooing. It was all I could do not to laugh when he said, with a perfectly straight face, that's what he would do if it were him.
I'm still thinking of something with a Celtic flair. (JUST KIDDING!)
Well, Ladies and Gents. I'm off for a nap. I ran a fever all day yesterday - at one point over 102 - and I'm starting to run a low grade fever now. So I'm going to try to nip it, nip it in the bud!
Oy! I have so many things to blog about, not the least of which is a visit with our very good friends from Missouri. But it will have to wait a little bit longer.
Before I go on to my riviting post I have to say a thank you to all of you who left me such nice, encouraging comments on my last post.
I'm rejoining the YMCA tomorrow so I can start swimming again. Swimming without the fear of certain fake parts floating to places they shouldn't be.
Last week we were lucky if our highs made it into the 30's. Now they're telling us it's going to get up into the 50's, even 60's for a few days this week. People are all excited about the warmer temperatures and some of them (like my son) are even wearing shorts.
I'm so tired of hot flashes. Tired, I tell you. The other night I was working in the kitchen and I took off my sweatshirt. Then I put it back on. Then I took it off. Then back on. This went on and on all evening. Right now I'm sitting in a freezing house and I want to turn up the heater, but I know if I just hang out here for a few minutes I'll be sweltering in no time at all. How long do these things last??
Desperate Housewives is on tonight. So nobody call the house at 9:00 Eastern Standard Time because I won't answer.
Wednesday I have a follow up appointment with the plastic surgeon to check on the revisions he did back in December. My opinion of the revisions? Meh. Things still look funky to me, but whatever.
Speaking of whatever, I leave you with this YouTube video in honor of our Missouri friends:
This morning I was able to take the dressings off the three incision revisions. In my vast surgical experience I've decided removing tape is the worst "procedure" there is. Next time I'm throwing back a shot of whiskey and gnawing on a leather strap.
I found myself on the brink of dangerous territory as I looked at the doctor's handiwork. It would have been so easy for me to go down that path. In fact I took a couple steps in that direction. I know I've said I don't expect perfection and I really don't. Why would I need perfection anyway? As I've stated time and again, I gave up my nude modeling career years ago.
However, knowing that in my head and believing it in my heart are two different things when I see the blatant evidence of the disease. And I suppose that's the problem. Not so much the fact my left breast is still misshapen, though not as much as before, or the fact my chest is just a series of scars - they will fade with time. But what all those imperfections remind me of.
And once you start hanging the streamers and blowing up the balloons you're only a cake and some punch away from an all-out pity party. Without any effort on a good day I can let myself become depressed about such superficial things: the scars all over my torso that nobody outside of the medical profession and Todd will ever see; the 30+ pounds brought on by different medications that seems nearly impossible to budge; two rounds of menopause, including hot flashes and night sweats. And those thoughts lead to wondering what the last two-and-a-half years would have been like if I'd never had cancer.
It doesn't take much to trigger the melancholy. A hot flash, the feeling of my still-swollen tongue as it pushes against my teeth, waking up in the middle of the night because I don't feel quite right... Even something as ridiculous as looking at a woman on TV or in a magazine in a low cut dress or bikini that I would never wear anyway, but knowing no matter how good of shape I'm in I'll never be able to wear anything like that even if I was inclined to because of my scars.
However, this morning as I looked at the raw, bruised revisions and began wishing for a normal looking body, I decided to pop the balloons and tear down the streamers. I must have missed a couple because I've been in a bit of a funk today, but it could have been so much worse.
I gave everything to God two-and-a-half years ago and He was ever faithful to bring me through the most difficult period I've ever known. Why don't I give him this small thing in comparison? It's not like I'm new to the peace and comfort and joy He gives so freely. I'd already experienced all that long before my diagnosis and was overwhelmed with it when I needed it most. So what's my deal?
My deal is that I've taken my focus off Jesus and put it on my physical issues. The things I'm struggling with are so minor compared to what I've been through so I decide to just manage them myself. Stupid, stupid girl. I know better. I really do. But it's time to start walking the walk, not just talking the talk.
I'm going to try to give everything to God again. That's not to say I won't still whine now and then. Heck, that's part of my charm! I also know I'll still get the blahs. God may be bigger than anything, but I am still human.
We'll see how I'm doing on Saturday when I remove the rest of the dressings!
You know, when I had my breast reconstruction I had no idea I'd still be having procedures nearly a year later. And I'm still not finished, though hopefully the only thing left will be the tattooing.
I'm sitting here again trying to think of a delicate way to put what I had done yesterday, but nothing comes to mind. There's just no way to phrase "I had a reconstructed nipple gone bad fixed", in a way that won't make some people squirm. Sorry. And the only other words the thesaurus has to replace "nipple" is "teat" and "udder". I refuse to use those terms as it relates to me. *WHEW* Since I've now gotten past that I can go on.
Remember when I had my nipple reconstruction in August? It all seemed to have gone well, even though I did end up with an infection on the right side. Once that cleared up, however, all appeared fine. Except for the left "protrusion" decided it didn't want to be anymore. So I had it built up again yesterday and hopefully it will choose to stay around this time.
I also had the incision on my left breast smoothed out. This is probably getting to be redundant for many of you, but I'm going to explain my reconstruction yet again.
May of 2005 I had a left radical modified mastectomy. What that means is they took everything that even slightly resembled breast tissue. I was left with an 8-inch horizontal scar from the center of my now extremely flat chest to just before my back.
Last December I had a breast surgeon remove the right breast, but she left most of the skin and sort of scooped out the tissue. Then the plastic surgeon took over. First he basically performed a tummy tuck, then he kind of stuffed the right breast, replacing what skin was removed with a patch from my stomach. After that he re-opened my left mastectomy site and because skin is only so elastic, used more skin from my stomach to fashion the skin of my left breast and then stuffed it with tummy fat. This patch was approximately 6" X 3". He also did a bit of microvascular surgery so that these "transplants" would have their own blood supply.
For any of you who sew you can see how difficult it is to insert a rectangular patch into a straight cut and make it nice and round. Instead of a round breast the left side looked more like a trapezoid. So I had three areas along the incision smoothed out yesterday as well.
Imagine yourself standing in front of a surgeon who is holding a purple felt tip pen. Now imagine you're half nekkid and pointing out areas on your boob for him to draw on. Yeah. Funny thing is I didn't feel any embarrassment or discomfort. It was a very "whatever" moment.
Just like last time I hop up on the table and he shoots my desensitized breast with Lidocaine. This time, however, I felt the needle when he was on the outside of the incision. He left me alone for a few minutes and when he returned started to work. First was the patch where my cleavage is. He begins cutting with the scalpel and guess what. I FELT IT! Not the pressure like I described the last time. No. I felt THE KNIFE CUTTING MY SKIN!
You all are yelling things like, "Oh, No!" and "You poor thing!" right now, aren't you? Well don't cry for me, Argentina, because it's not quite as bad as it sounds. It felt more like a scratch. I told him I could feel it so he shot me up with more Lidocaine. It didn't do a lot and I felt every stitch he gave me.
It was the same thing for the other two areas on the incision. I laid there thinking, "This would be so much better if I were unconscious." The nipple, however, was gloriously pain-free.
Tomorrow I get to take the dressings off the three incision sites and then Saturday off the nipple. I don't expect this time to be as traumatic as the last since I know now what it will look like.
This is kind of funny and I wish I would have thought to take a picture with my phone. But yesterday morning I show up to work and there's a picture on the bulletin board. It's two circles with two slightly larger circles around them and then two big circles around those. Think of the "O"s on the Hooters signs. I asked Beth if I was supposed to take it to the surgeon as a reference for him. She laughed and said one of the little girls in the Monday class drew that for her. It was her eyes wearing glasses.
In my Marsha, Marsha, Marsha post on August 31st I listed some topics I was going to be addressing in the near future. Near has gotten away from me and now it's just the future, but I'm going to make good on my word:
Todd's blog
Not much to say here. His last post was on September 11th. I don't see it going anywhere. Too bad for you, really good for me.
Hot flashes/Night Sweats
I'm guessing in August I was going to complain about the hot flashes and night sweats. Most likely I'd whine about how unfair it was to go through menopause twice, as if once isn't enough. The hot flashes I went through during chemo were different, though. Then it was like I was like going from a cool room into a burning furnace. The hot flashes since my hysterectomy have been more gradual and not as intense.
Now that it's cold, however, I've not been dealing with them quite so much and that makes me happy. And Todd's happy because I like the house cold at night so I don't have night sweats. So I suppose you could say menopause has been good for my marriage.
Unveiling
If you don't know what I'm talking about here or if you just want a refresher you can read Still Under Construction (One of my better posts).
The unveiling was, um, what's the word I'm looking for... OH! I know! Lame. I knew things weren't going to look like me, but I still wasn't prepared for how unlike me they looked. And this just succeeded in dredging up all those crappy emotions associated with having breast cancer. Anger at the stupid disease, sadness at how it's changed so much, unrealistic guilt because I shouldn't have these emotions when I'm so healthy now, and acceptance that I'll probably have these feelings to some degree for the rest of my life.
After the unveiling I got an infection on the right side. Antibiotics cleared it up and I thought all was well. I was scheduled for tattooing in October and further work to smooth out the rough incisions on the left side in December, but I cancelled the tattooing because the left side is nearly non-existent. So when I go in for the procedure in December he'll fix the left side to hopefully look like the right side. THEN I'll get the tattooing done a couple months after that.
The last biopsy my regular dermatologist performed suggested bug bites. Apparently the fluid had chemical properties indicative of an allergic reaction to bug spit or something like that. So it was decided I had scabies. Except for the fact the bites didn't spread anywhere other than that one specific region. Still, we all did the scabies treatment, washing everything that could be washed and spraying everything that couldn't. It seemed to slow things down for a little bit, but then it all flared up again with a vengeance.
Not only did I have those horrible blisters or bug bites or whatever, but I also broke out in another horrible rash from my neck to my feet. It looks like I have developed an allergic reaction to high dose steroids. Thank goodness this is a fairly new development because I was given a massive dose of steroids with each chemotherapy treatment.
I finally got in to see the specialist. He did another biopsy and the results came back as indicative of bug bites again. Like he said, however, indicative doesn't mean definitive. He completely dismissed the idea of scabies and wasn't convinced at all these were bug bites.
So as of today I still don't have a diagnosis. I'm a medical mystery. If only I could run over to South Jersey and see Dr. House. I'd put up with his snarky attitude. I'd probably snark right back. But it doesn't so much matter anymore anyway. At one time I had upwards of 80 of these annoying blisters/bites, but now I only get a couple at a time and sometimes (like this very moment) I don't have any flared up.
40+ models on Rachel Ray
What was I going to say about this subject?? I think just that it depressed me because I'm 41 and I feel like cancer treatment made me much older. When I was much younger I always looked young for my age. I thought that would be a great thing when I got older, though I think by the time I was in my late 30's I looked like I was in my late 30's. I know the extra weight makes me look older, but maybe it's just that I feel older. Though I have to say I'm finally, FINALLY after two-and-a-half years, starting to feel closer to my age. And we have so many young friends that sometimes I forget I'm actually middle-aged.
Sunburn stripe on leg
I first posted about this at Summer Fun. This particular sunburn lasted probably a month. Before chemotherapy if I'd burned like that - which I wouldn't have - it would have turned into a tan. But because my chemical make up has been completely altered my skin does funky things. Like look like a burn for more than a month. Weird.
I've been overwhelmed with the comments I've received to yesterday's post, both on my blog and through email. Thank you, each and every one of you, for your positive comments, encouragement and prayers.
Todd was spot on in his comment. That was one of the most difficult posts I've ever written. Mine is not an anonymous blog. My parents, sisters and several other family members read it, along with people I have personal relationships with here and in other parts of the country. Knowing they're reading about my great deal on furniture or the latest adventure in parenting is one thing. Knowing they're reading something so personal is quite another.
I decided to squeeze my eyes tight and go for it because it's a very real issue. Not just for me and Todd, but for thousands of other couples. Whether it's cancer or another medical condition, intimacy is almost always altered. The sad reality of that is marriages are ruined because of it. I never even considered that until I started conversing with women who were going through divorces and/or painful counseling while being treated for breast cancer.
I am grateful to God for the marriage He's blessed me with. Yes, I mourn the loss of certain aspects of my previous life - I have moments when I feel as though Todd and I have been cheated. But much greater than that I am filled with abundant joy and gratitude for the life I have now. I know for an absolute certainty my marriage is based on so much more than a physical relationship and I know I'm loved without condition. If that doesn't make a girl blissfully happy, nothing will!
As for the sermon series, I don't know what we're going to hear. I do know that whatever is said it will be Biblical. Not a "how to" message, but what God's design is for men and women. And I don't have a problem with hearing such a message in "mixed company". Young children won't be present and I have a hard time believing the sermon will get the teenagers all hot and bothered while preaching sex within the boundaries of marriage.
***
Shushan (Cute screen name, by the way) - I wanted to address your comment about not wanting to hear anything on this subject at this period in your life. I totally understand what you're saying. I AM at a place where I can hear whatever might be said. However, I went through chemotherapy in Arkansas while my husband lived and worked in Pennsylvania. The weekends he didn't come home I didn't want to hear anything about husbands and wives. It was too painful.
But the way I feel about it is Biblical subjects should not be avoided for any reason. If a person is uncomfortable because their toes are being stepped on then they need to just deal with it. (And have I been through some painful sermons for that reason!) But if a person is uncomfortable for the reasons you're talking about I think it might be better to just avoid those particular services. Just my two cents.
***
There's a whole lot more I could write, but a great deal of it would probably be redundant. So I'm going to end the topic here and hope I managed to express the important stuff. And being the shallow, superficial gal I am, I'll be back to the mundane in no time at all!
Did that get your attention?? I have a lot to say on both subjects and this post may end up rambling, so bear with me.
Our church - Christ's Church of the Valley or CCV - is very different. It is a non-denominational Bible church that looks a bit like a movie theater on the outside; has a minister who has been known to wear Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt while he preaches; and has a rock band, cement floors, and three big screens on the inside. There's not much in the way of ritual or tradition and we hardly sing hymns, mostly singing contemporary Christian worship and praise songs.
I may not be a Bible scholar, but I know a thing or two about what Jesus had in mind for His church and in the 16 months we've been attending here I've yet to see something that contradicts His ideas. If I have any complaint about the church at all it's that we don't sing traditional hymns more regularly. I'd like a nice balance between contemporary and traditional music. That, however, is my personal preference and doesn't make a flip of difference in my worship.
This church is obviously not for everyone. Some people are wired for the traditions and the rituals. It's not a question of which church is right and which church is wrong. It's a matter of which church am I going to get the most from. For my family it's this progressive, edgy church.
I have been told - in very subtle, indirect ways - that because this is a "new" church (meaning not a traditional denomination) it can't be pleasing to God. I don't beg to differ, I just do. I don't believe there's a denomination or church or person on the planet that has figured everything out. It's not God's word (the Bible) that's infallible. It's man's interpretations and that's why there are so many denominations. And because of that I believe that every church has a flaw in it somewhere.
So while CCV has its own flaws, here's what it does well. It (the people of CCV - which are truly the church) loves the less than lovable in big and real ways. There's a song by Todd Agnew called "My Jesus" and every time I hear it I think to myself that's one thing we got right.
Cause my Jesus would never be accepted in my church The blood and dirt on His feet might stain the carpet But He reached for the hurting and despises the proud I think He’d prefer Beal St. to the stained glass crowd But I know that He can hear me if I cry out loud
I grew up going to church; lived a happy, normal, middle class life; never got into any trouble; had great, loving parents, etc. And a lot of our congregation has a similar background. We also have a lot of people who have backgrounds that would make your hair stand on end. So many of them had tried other churches at one time or another and they were made to feel less than worthy to be there. HELLO! It's church!! And who did Jesus hang out with? The dredges of society.
I'm not saying CCV has a monopoly in this market because I know we don't. I know a lot of traditional churches that look beyond the surface or the less than pleasant aspects of people and welcomes them with opened arms. But there are still a lot of churches out there (or people in those churches) who disdain anyone who doesn't meet their ideas of "good church-going folk".
What does all this have to do with sex, you may be asking. I'm getting to that. CCV is starting a three week series next week called "Our Rotten Sex Life" and the first message is entitled "The Greatest Sex You'll Ever Have".
This is the huge banner hanging on the side of our building, right next to a major freeway.
Part of me is a little hesitant to bring all this up, having people know that I go to the sex church (as I heard it referred to in the grocery store the other day). But the thing is, sex is from God. He invented it and He wants husbands and wives to enjoy it. A lot. I have no doubt there are those who saw that banner and thought "that crazy church is blazing a path to hell", but the truth is this subject matter is biblical.
My parents will be visiting the first Sunday of the series, but I won't let that stop me from taking copious and detailed notes.
And this is where it all turns personal. All of you who know me in the real world may not want to read further. It could be too much information. I've gone back and forth about whether I should write this for everyone to see or not, but the reality of it is this is my life. And I won't be writing anything that won't be in my book for all to read - if it gets published.
So here we go. *deep breath*
Todd and I were in our early 20's when we got married. And in the way of most all young couples things were great.
In our mid to late 20's we had children. Those of you who have ever had small children know where I'm going with this. Who has the time or energy for sex??
Somewhere around 34 I hit my stride you could say. Todd was one happy, if not exhausted, man. I've heard of women peaking in their 30's, but a peak suggests a downward descent and things were pretty even until half way through my 39th year. April 27th, 2005, to be exact. The day of my diagnosis.
Nothing works like a cold shower better than a diagnosis of some mortal illness. As you can imagine - or some of you may know first hand - sex is the last thing on your mind at a time like that.
Then there are the physical issues that come with surgery and chemotherapy. And did you know with certain chemos - maybe even all of them - you are advised against sex for so many days after treatment because the poison can leach to the partner? Yeah. So there's a little education for you today.
Sometimes, as in my case, there are more surgeries to be had after treatment. Everything heals, but things are never the same. I have no ovaries to make estrogen, which, in turn, depresses the sex drive. I also have very little to no feeling from just a few inches below my collar bone to an inch or so below my belly button. If I may be so bold, and I don't know why I should stop now, that's quite the bummer. While a man goes from 0 to 60 in under 10 seconds, us women usually need to be primed and warmed up. No feeling in the "primer parts" makes warming up a little slower than it used to.
(Was that too much? Did you really need to know that?? I realize it's too late to take it back, but I'm just wondering if I've sent any of you running away screaming.)
There's also the matter of body image. I know you all are probably sick of hearing me gripe about my weight, but there's that. And the fact that my girls aren't really my girls, but my tummy just come to live in a different place.
I'm going to be 42 in a month. Before this aspect went south I used to think how lucky we were to be so fulfilled in that area. I also figured if I was 39 and Todd was 40 we still had a lot of good years left. I even thought about how much fun our 25th anniversary trip to Scotland was going to be - you know, sex in a castle and all that. But instead of tapering off slowly it was like hitting a brick wall.
If you've followed my blog for any length of time you know I've had one medical issue after another until very recently. I'm thanking God because I'm not having any of those issues anymore. Not to any extent, anyway. So I'm anxious to hear what Brian has to say on the issue of sex. And while I know for a certainty things will never be the way they had been, I'm still hoping for a great trip to Scotland!
It's 3:30 as I'm typing. 3:30 a.m.. A.M. as in morning. I've been awake since about 1:00 and the two things that keep rolling through my mind are:
1. I can't wait for the dead of winter. If it was freezing in here I'd be blissfully bundled up, sleeping like a baby instead of flipping and flopping and trying to get each side cooled off by the ceiling fan. It's not even that hot, but I can't seem to get cool or comfortable.
2. All that's left is a band of gold... I can't get that stupid song out of my head.
I tried reading, but that didn't do any good. So then I picked up a financial budgeting book thinking that would bore me into somnolence, but obviously that didn't work, either. It just made me want to check my bank balances.
So I'll tell you about my Thursday and hope this post will make sense by the light of day. Then again this is me we're talking about. My well-rested, caffeinated self doesn't always make sense. What makes me think my blurry-eyed, muddled-headed self will?
I had to see the nurse at the plastic surgeon's office in Philadelphia this morning. At one point it took me 8 minutes to go 1 mile. Then when I pulled in to the parking deck I got behind a lady in a walker. Seriously. The woman was walking up the middle of the lane in a walker, up hill, and I couldn't get around her. The whole stinkin' length of the parking garage.
Surprisingly I didn't feel aggravated. It made me laugh because it was so incredibly ridiculous. That and I wasn't in a rush so who cared.
Oh. Also because I had a yummy mint mocha iced coffee from Wawa. Except I don't recommend drinking it while you're eating a Reece's Peanut Butter granola bar. Then it just tastes like mouthwash.
Anyway, I had to see the nurse because the right side of my recent little procedure became infected over the weekend. She said that there was some breakdown, but that's very normal. She also told me I was doing an excellent job taking care of "them" and the doctor would be pleased when I saw him for my regular follow up next Wednesday. Then she prescribed me an antibiotic.
After that I had a routine checkup with the White Russian. I had a little over two hours to kill so I hung out at Borders. Stupid, stupid girl. I ran in to buy one book. Lord John Grey and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon. Found it with no problem. And four other books I had to have as well. Dangerous Book for Boys by Conn and Hal Iggulden; Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier; and two historical fiction books set during the English Restoration (King Charles II). The books are downstairs and, while I may be awake, I'm not in the mood to run downstairs just for the titles. But ever since I read Forever Amber I've been fascinated with that time period.
I seriously need to stop this madness. If I was still reading three or four books a week that would be one thing. But I only read one book the entire month of August. That's horrible! I think part of my problem is that I need a change in genres. I do this every once in a while. I've been on a romance kick for a while and I love romance novels, but it's time for a change. Thus the straight historical fiction.
And since the nurse told me I was such a good girl (or something like that) I treated myself to an iced white chocolate mocha and a chocolate cherry scone. Well, I was hungry and that was all Border's cafe had to offer.
When I left the store I noticed a used book store across the street. Apparently it's been there for a while, but this is the first time in over a year that I noticed it. So I filed that bit of information away for later.
Saw the White Russian and got a great report. My blood work is all within good limits. My blood pressure was excellent. The nurse and I crossed off several medications and narrowed it down to two. Well, three if you count the antibiotic I'm on. Though I'm thinking I could surely use some Lunesta tonight. Maybe we were a little too quick with that!
I promised the kids I'd stop at Hope's Cookies after the oncologist's visit. That's not exactly true. What I said was, "Let's just say I was to stop in at Hope's Cookies after I see the White Russian, what kind of cookies would you want?" But that was close enough to a pledge for me so I bought chocolate chip for Katie, Peanut Butter Chip for Taylor and White Russian cookies for me. (It's a theme with me, okay?)
That used book store I'd spied earlier is right behind Hope's. So I meandered over there for a quick looksie. Guess what happened? I bought a book. I bought a beautiful leather bound copy of Milton's Paradise Lost. I swear it jumped off the shelf and I had to catch it so as not to let it's beautiful cover be marred from bouncing off the cement floor. Then we bonded and I had to take it home. Or something like that.
Once I got back in the car I endeavored to look straight ahead on my way home lest I be tempted by yet another book store. All this book buying is probably why I felt the need to peruse the budgeting book this morning.
Todd is out of town and Taylor was busy with school and social functions, so Katie and I went to dinner, picked up my prescription and came home to watch Steel Magnolias. Remember my comment a couple posts back about needing to schedule time for a breakdown? Not so anymore. I am cleansed! All it takes is a little Sally Field having her own meltdown after her daughter's funeral. Why didn't I think of that earlier?
It was rather funny. Katie was laying on the love seat and I was sitting in Todd's green chair (Yes - it's back to being his chair) and we were both sniffling and hooty-puckering and laughing at each other all at the same time. And then when Clairee offers Ouiser (I checked the spelling on IMDB) as a punching bag we became nearly hysterical.
Good times.
Now it's 4:05 and I have got to get some sleep. I'm interviewing for a part-time position with our church's new preschool tomorrow. The position is 9:00 to 12:00 and I had originally thought I might like to work two days a week - Tuesday and Thursday. But when the director called me about setting up an interview she said she would love to have someone (hopefully me) all five days. But I don't want to give up my ladies' bible study on Friday mornings so it may turn into four days a week. We'll just see.
If I don't get to it tomorrow, I'll get to the wedding and the rest of Rhode Island on Saturday. My alarm is going off in a little over two hours so I'm going to try to fill that time with dreams. Good dreams. Dreams that involve a snug sleeping bag and a cot in the frozen tundra and no bands of gold.
A year ago today I published my first post. I can't believe I've been doing this for 365 days. Tara Marie and Amanda inspired me to start it and my purpose was mainly to keep family and friends who are scattered across the country updated on our happenings here in Pennsylvania. It's turned into so much more, though.
So happy blogiversary to me!! Where's my cake??
UPDATE
My new additions have yet to make their debut. Friday I'll be able to take the tape and dressings off and get some idea of what I may eventually look like. And Susan, they are supposedly permanently semi-erect. I guess I'll always be sort of cold but not really cold for the rest of my life.
I believe I've taken yet another step in permanently scarring my children. Monday night we were gathering around the table for dinner and everyone was talking about their day when I said, "Mom got new nipples today. Taylor, would you please pray?"
ANNOUNCEMENT
Last, and maybe least, but probably not to most of you, though others of you will be indifferent, is this big news.
It is with great hesitation and not just a little trepidation I announce that Todd has started his own blog today. Jenni & Me, based on the book Marley and Me - you know, about a dog. Hmm...
So if you have a chance, go over and say hello, but don't believe everything you read. M'kay??
I’ve been trying to think of a delicate way to say this, but I’m not having much luck. So I’m just going to say it. I drove into Philadelphia this afternoon for nipples. Yep. You read that right. I saw my plastic surgeon and he somehow fashioned nipples for me. It was a very strange experience.
I think I’ve mentioned this before, but Dr. Serletti is one of the best breast reconstruction surgeons in the country, one of several handfuls who do the particular surgery I had in December. He’s the head of his department at the University of Pennsylvania – a teaching hospital, which means very rarely do I ever get to see just him and a nurse.
When I had my surgery there would be flocks of student plastic surgeons coming in my room to essentially feel me up and make sure I had good blood flow to my breasts. Modesty is not something a person can afford in a teaching hospital. Besides, when I reminded myself it was actually my displaced tummy they were poking and prodding it wasn’t so humiliating.
Today, however, was just the doctor, the nurse and a fellow surgeon. Apparently my doctor was showing the other doctor how HE does nipples and I’m a great candidate because I have two different examples for him to work with. The left breast had been removed by a radical modified mastectomy a year and a half before reconstruction, while the right breast was a skin sparing mastectomy done at the time of reconstruction. This probably doesn’t mean a whole lot to most of you, but trust me. There’s a fairly significant difference.
I’ve decided the ability to draw with a felt tip pen is a prerequisite to being a plastic surgeon. It seems like every time I go in there he’s leaving little drawings on me. Today I had to stand there with my ridiculous gown around my waist while he drew X’s on my chest, stood back to eyeball his artwork, and then drew tiny spokes out of the X’s, all the while Dr. McSomething-or-other looked on approvingly.
After that it was up on the table where he shot my feeling-less boobs with lidocaine “just in case”. That was a breeze because I couldn’t feel the needles. Just the way I like it. Then he draped a pad over my chest that had a three inch-hole for him to work through.
So I’m laying there, trying to figure out where I should look because I’ve got three people standing over me and if I’m not looking at one of them then I’m staring into the bright light, when the doctor makes his first incision. That was freaky because, while I may not have any feeling in that area, I could feel the pressure and the “pop” when he made it through the skin. Even now I’m shuddering just thinking about it.
I’m not complaining, though. The way they usually do nipple reconstruction any more is to pull up some of the fat and fashion it with the tissue and skin. In six weeks or so I’ll go back and get everything tattooed. But the way they USED to do it was a skin graft from either the inside of the upper thigh or… or… oh, I can’t say it. It’s much too painful to even voice out loud. Just think of the MOST delicate area of the female anatomy and you get the picture. If they still did it that way I would be using Todd’s idea of gum drops because there’s no way. NO WAY!
Dr. Serletti is as professional as they come. He’s very nice, but he’s all business. In a bizarre chain of conversations, however, he started talking about Caddy Shack as the funniest movie of all time. In fact he hikes up to a cabin in the Adirondacks with a friend of his and they take a VHS of that movie every time. It was shocking to learn he has a sense of humor.
I don’t think I can impress upon you enough how strange it is to be laying on a table with three people hovering over you: one of them sewing a nipple; one of them snipping the sutures and blotting the blood; and one of them watching the happenings with clinical interest; all the while talking about movies and books and generally chatting about things you would otherwise discuss over coffee.
After everything was plumped up and sewn into place, the doctors left and the nurse dressed me so I still have no idea what they look like. It will be another four days before I get to see the handy work. I have no doubt things will look a bit weird, but probably no weirder than they’ve looked for the last two years.
I go back in three weeks and at that time we’ll discuss the tattooing and also more revisions to the left breast. Because it was a delayed reconstruction Dr. Serletti had to use an approximately 3” by 6” scrap of belly skin to make the breast mound and the incisions are a bit jagged. So instead of a round breast I have sort of a trapezoid. At least I’m unique! But he’ll smooth those edges out to make things look a bit more normal.
Foolishly I always thought – if I ever really thought about it – that reconstruction was a surgery and then you were done. Boy was I wrong! Which makes me all the more glad that we put off Hawaii until next year. I should be completely finished with all this by then.
This morning I started back into my “healthy” mode, drinking a lot of water, walking two+ miles on the treadmill, counting my points, etc. But, as I’ve said before, any type of medical procedure induces a craving for something of the java variety – hot, cold, whatever. The best I could do was a cold bottle of Starbuck’s Mocha Frappuccino for the ride home. I should have known I’d need at least two, but I only bought one.
Probably better that I only bought one since they’re more points than I should have had. **sigh** Thankfully, tomorrow is another day…
It's Sunday afternoon and the family is at church. They went to the late service; stayed for a VBS meeting and will just end up staying for youth group. I don't mind and am enjoying the solitude.
I flipped open my bible to wherever it would go this morning and it took me to Nehemiah. When I think of Old Testament books I like I usually come up with Psalms, Esther, Song of Solomon (I'm guessing this is where my love of romance novels came from), Jeremiah -- but not Nehemiah. I think I may add it to my list.
Now before you non-religious people run away screaming for fear of a sermon, don't worry. I don't preach. I just found this interesting.
Nehemiah goes to Jerusalem to rebuild the great wall and all the gates after it had been destroyed 100 years earlier. Chapter three is a listing of who did what and I found it fascinating. I mean, think about it. This happened somewhere around 2500 years ago and we have a complete list of who did what to the wall.
It lists which family worked on which gate and what they did and for some reason it just really impressed me. My favorite thing about this chapter, though, is that it only mentions so and so and his sons, so and so and his sons, etc. But verse 12 says Shallum and his daughters repaired their section. GIRL POWER!! LOL
This isn't the first or second or probably third time I've read Nehemiah, but it's the first time it really caught my attention. And that's my "Interesting Bible Facts" for the day. Or week. Possibly month. Maybe even year.
***
Yesterday Todd took me for my first outing to Target. It was nice. I made off with new jammie bottoms, a book, toenail polish and some great exercise. We walked around the perimeter once and had to stop in the garden department so I could sit for a little bit. When we got home I hit the hay and slept like a rock for about two hours. It was great!
***
When we walked past the maternity section I looked at the clothes and had the same thought I always do. If only they'd put the belly panel on the back of the jeans to accommodate my large rear. I'm thinking with the current fashions of tunics and baby dolls, etc., the shirt would come down past the comfy stretchy part anyway. I may have to look into this. It could be the next big thing. Pun intended!!
***
My recovery still continues to move along nicely. I am totally stunned at how little pain there is and how well I'm getting around. All without the aid of my adored Percocet. (I'm sure you all think I'm a prescription drug addict by now, but I promise I'm not. I haven't had a Percocet since Friday!) Bending down to pick stuff up is a bit much and I have weight restrictions so I can't be doing laundry or vacuuming. Darn. But I really don't feel like I just had surgery a week ago. This one was so much easier than the reconstruction!
I am being plagued with thrush again, however. That has got to be one of the nastiest things of all times. I'm lucky in that I don't have pain with mine, but it is aggravating. And gross. It took me a good six months or so after my last chemo treatment before it was completely gone. Or so I thought. Now it looks as though it's back again and it's a bugger to get rid of all the way. But seeing as how this is my last real medical issue (power of positive thinking) I should start rebuilding the immune system that's been trying to get strong for the last year and a half. Then I'll be able to fight off this disgusting yeast infection and I won't have a fuzzy swollen tongue ever again. At least that's my plan.
***
My last musing for the day is my diet. Or nutritious eating. I'm continuing on Weight Watchers and even declined offers for food while I'm recuperating because I NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT! When Katie and I were in New York City we ate dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe and they took our picture. I bought it so we'd have a picture together for our trip, but I hate it. I'm huge!
So instead of making excuses like I always do -- you know the kind. I've just had major surgery and I deserve to eat three scoops of ice cream or That shot hurt so I think I'll get the biggest White Chocolate Mocha with as much fat as possible to make me feel better. -- I'm counting my points. I was sort of hoping the combination of ovaries, cervix and uterus would be about 10 pounds, but apparently it wasn't. So tomorrow I'll see if I've managed to lose any weight, even though my exercise has been curtailed again.
I know I was supposed to post pictures and tell you all about the trip to New York City, but that's going to have to wait. Tomorrow is my surgery and I feel compelled to write what's on my mind.
Maybe I’ve just forgotten the emotions and anxiety before surgery – and I’ve had plenty to be considered a veteran. The listing of my past surgical history always takes up more room then the medical forms allow for. But for some reason I am much more agitated today than I think I’ve ever been before a surgery. Except for maybe my mastectomy while there was still a chance I didn’t have cancer.
I’m fairly certain one of the reasons for my apprehension is the skin issues I still have. My rashes seem to be fairly well under control, but a new one popped up just yesterday. And as for the blisters, I don’t know what to think. Every time I think they’re going away I find another one or two and we still don’t have a definitive diagnosis.
And all this started with my reconstruction surgery in December. So I can’t help but worry this surgery will just start something new. Then again maybe all my skin issues are strangely related to my ovaries and once they're removed from my body my rashes and blisters will miraculously disappear. A girl can hope.
Another emotion I’m feeling right now is anger. I’m furious that I’ve been put in this position because of a stupid mass of mutant cells that decided to take up residence in my left breast. Those cells have turned the lives of myself and my family upside down. Even after all this time we’re still “suffering” the effects. Breast cancer has become an epidemic so I’m hardly alone. It makes me mad for all the women and men who have to deal with this disease.
I also feel as though I’ve been gypped. Like the little girl I was who would let most everyone have their way while I stood back and waited patiently for my turn. I’ve been waiting for my turn for two years now.
When I had surgery and then went through chemo I knew my “baggage” was temporary. The hair was going to grow back. The blood counts would come back up. My energy would be restored. I’d lose the weight I’d gained. My family would be reunited. My breast would be reconstructed.
Once the house in Arkansas sold and the kids and I made our move to Pennsylvania I thought reconstruction would be the end of my road. Before my diagnosis I liked taking a bath in fragrant bubbles and slathering delicious smelling lotion all over. I liked wearing something special for Todd and I liked what happened when I did. That was just one aspect I wanted back after the reconstruction.
Between surgery and treatment, the effort of gussying up alone was too much. Then when I was feeling better I still had the image issues. A woman can feel only so sexy when she has only one breast. That is to say not at all – at least in my case.
So I thought once the reconstruction was over I’d have a better self image. I’d lose the weight I’d gained and I’d get back my regular life. Todd and I would get back the intimacy we’d been forced to forfeit. I was looking forward to buying new clothes. Clothes that would flatter my new figure. Maybe a couple new nightgowns and a sexy, but modest sun dress to wear on our date in Hawaii.
Instead I ended up with at least three different skin issues and severe bleeding problems. Tomorrow I’ll go in and get the bleeding problems taken care of. Then I’ll have several more weeks of recovery, but I do know I’ll feel better when all is said and done.
That leaves me with the skin problems. I know that they will eventually go away as well and maybe THEN I can get back to the business of being normal. Well, my new normal. But normal nonetheless.
So I’m still the kid holding the rope while everyone else gets a turn to jump. I want to jump so badly, but I’m trying to be patient and wait my turn. Even though it seems to me a couple of the kids have had two turns already.
It sounds so silly as I read it, but that’s the truth of it. What probably sounds even sillier is that, while I hate what we’ve been through, I don’t think I would change it. I’ve seen God work in my life and the lives of my husband and children in ways I never would have imagined. And honestly, if any of this has brought even a little bit of glory to God, then it’s worth it. When I put it that way, it all doesn’t seem so very bad.
I'll be back in a few days to tell you surgery went swimmingly and I didn't say anything embarrassing while on drugs. Or off drugs. I hope it won't be a lie.
A mastectomy is an amputation plain and simple. An appendage, if you will, has been removed from the body. Obviously it's not as traumatic or life altering as the loss of a limb, something you rely on to perform every day tasks. I don't know of many women who use their breasts to perform every day tasks. At least not personally.
One does have to learn to adjust, however. Some of the more chesty women I know who had one breast removed had balance problems at first. Their center of gravity seemed to be skewed directly proportionate to the size of the breast removed. I was not what you would call a buxom woman to begin with so I never had the problem of veering off to the side while trying to walk a straight line. Well, not because of that, anyway.
I noticed it when I reached across my body with my left arm but that eventually became "normal". Nowhere did I noticed the loss more acutely than when I was trying to sleep. I'm a tummy sleeper and I had to learn to hold the pillow just the right way so I wouldn't roll to the left. As with all things, I finally adapted and it became second nature.
Now that I've had the reconstruction I find myself having to "reach around" my left breast which seems so funny to me. My pre-BC boobs very seldom ever got in my way. But last night was the first time since the surgery that I decided to try sleeping on my tummy. It didn't last long at all. I'm back to square one and am going to have to retrain myself again.
On A More Serious Note
I know you all have heard about Elizabeth Edwards' metastasis to her bones. No matter how good a prognosis a breast cancer patient has (or any cancer, for that matter) there's always the fear of spread lurking in the deepest recesses of your mind.
I have a particular mechanism that is both beneficial and detrimental to me. I push unpleasantness so far back that sometimes I don't even realize it's there. It has served me well over the years and helped me to deal with things rationally and straight on. But holding big, scary things in means they're just going to grow until they break out eventually.
I broke like a water main when the Edwards made their announcement Thursday. I desperately hurt for both of them, their worst fears being realized. And I cried for me and every other woman I know - and those I don't - who have been cursed with the disease. So many strides have been made in breast cancer treatment, but there's still not a cure and that's a scary thought.
Several people have said they need to quit the campaigning and focus on their family. That is certainly what I would want to do in the same situation. But we all deal with things so differently and it could very well be that keeping her focus on something other than her disease will be just what she needs. Not that focusing on her family isn't a good thing - it's vital. But focusing solely on the family only brings your own mortality closer to the surface.
Regardless of personal or political beliefs the Edwards deserve our thoughts, our prayers and our admiration. They are both a good example of strength in the face of adversity.
The mundane ramblings of a busy homemaker trying to get out of housework
About Me
Name::Jenster From::Pennsylvania, United States
wife of a great man who loves me despite my lack of domestic skills ** mother of two pretty wonderful teenagers (and I really mean it) ** reader ** writer ** active member of a terrific bible church, serving women ** breast cancer survivor View my complete profile
The prude that I am was a little disappointed at a flash of anonymous boobies. It's PG-13, for cryin' out loud. It was a quick flash, but so very unnecessary. It reminded me of when I was in 8th grade and my AT group went into Hollywood to see Romeo and Juliet at Grauman's Chinese Theater. Really cool experience, but the boys in the group were thrilled when Olivia Hussey jumped out of bed, baring her chest. (But really, what do you expect with a name like Hussey?) The girls were just embarrassed. And a little envious. Or maybe that was just me.
Last Sunday after Youth Group a bunch of the older kids went to Sonic. They parked in the lot and walked over to order and eat at the picnic tables out front. You order in the same kind of speaker box as if you'd pulled up to a slot, but you give them your name so when they come out they know where the order goes. So here's the conversation with the Sonic chick and my son:
This is the top of the swimsuit I bought for Hawaii the other day. I consider it was a good day because I didn't cry in the dressing room. Didn't even feel the urge. I certainly don't like the way I look in a swimsuit. Heck, I didn't like it when I was 40 pounds lighter. But it is what it is so there's no sense getting depressed about it. But what thrilled me was the fact it's just a normal top and it just happens to hide both my mastectomy scar (my left mastectomy scar is pretty high up) and my port scar. I also got two different bottoms - red regular bottoms and a coral SwimMini.
It's 3:30 as I'm typing. 3:30 a.m.. A.M. as in morning. I've been awake since about 1:00 and the two things that keep rolling through my mind are:
I’ve been trying to think of a delicate way to say this, but I’m not having much luck. So I’m just going to say it. I drove into Philadelphia this afternoon for nipples. Yep. You read that right. I saw my plastic surgeon and he somehow fashioned nipples for me. It was a very strange experience.
