Category Archives: Breast Reconstruction

Life After Treatment

Posted on by
2

I don’t feel like I’ve been writing very much about cancer (per se) these days. Maybe it’s because I am done with treatments going on three months now. In fact, this Saturday will mark the three-month anniversary of my final treatment and it also happens to be my eleventh wedding anniversary. Hot spit.

Being done is super. I’ve been tooling around London a fair bit and when I step back and think about it, it feels oh so different to be going about my business as “a normal person” rather than as “a cancer patient.” Of course, when I was a cancer patient I still tooled around and did things, but somehow it always felt like I was squeezing the good stuff in between appointments.

For a period of about seven months, appointments formed the scaffolding of my existence. First, a myriad* of appointments with surgeons and oncologists and the requisite imaging and scans and preparations for surgery, then the surgery itself and the follow-up appointments. And shortly after that, chemotherapy every other Thursday for four months. Then, two-and-a-half weeks following chemo, five weeks of radiation, five days a week. Plus a ton of extra appointments for random crap like the shingles on my head, a 7mm-deep collection of blood under my right thumb which caused it to look like a sickly Goodyear Blimp and other tedious but not-too-serious medical travails.

When you look at it that’s a busy schedule. So, getting out and doing things not related to killing cancer or dealing with the spate* of problems that killing it spawned seemed extra. As in extracurricular. “Outside of.” It’s Latin you know.

*My dad will be so proud. I used myriad and spate in the same post.

Now that scaffolding is gone. It’s been disassembled and put back in the shed and I am building a new one all on my own. Unless you count the every three-month check-ups. But those aren’t often enough for me to consider them the same way structurally. Not even close.

There was an article in The Times last weekend by a breast cancer survivor (Gail Rolfe). She wrote about life after treatment and how she battled depression. Here is the link but you have to subscribe to The Times online in order to read the whole thing, I’m afraid, unless you get the times delivered and have last weekend’s still lying on the coffee table or awaiting recycling in your blue recycling bag (are they blue outside of Camden? I dunno).  http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/health/mental-health/article3572415.ece

I suppose I am entirely too subjective to judge whether the article resonates with people who haven’t been touched by the topic. It was easy for me to understand what she was talking about, even though I am, thank goodness, not personally struggling with depression. Because I do struggle with a lot of things post treatment.

She made a number of points that I have made in previous posts and have noodled about in some detail. The obvious first one is that it can actually be hard/weird/disquieting/scary (I could go on) when your treatments are over and you are on your own. This is true. That scaffolding has been removed. And you sort of feel like, okay, I made it through that unbelievable shit show, so now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

It’s like that solid, stable bridge you’ve been walking over has just become invisible but you have to move forward because you can’t turn back and you can’t stand still. It is, to say the least, unsettling. And not easy. Did I mention that the bridge has become a suspension bridge, that it shakes when you walk, that the drop below is fatal and that most of the people walking along beside you have fallen back? Now you’re getting the picture. You need a lot of core strength to walk over that bridge. If you are strong and centred it makes the movements easier and more natural. But it takes focus and will and strength. It doesn’t just happen by itself. Unless you are truly unthinking.

I’ve talked to so many people who said they were depressed or freaked out when their treatments ended and had that walking over the invisible bridge feeling. Whose friends didn’t get it because they thought it would just be party party party when the last drop of crap went into the vein or the last photon beam zapped the problem area.

It is so very personal. So very individual. What you feel at that moment.

The biggest deal for me was being done with chemo. Sure I had radiation ahead of me but that didn’t seem like that much of a thing, compared. Being done with chemo was the biggie. As you may have read, I had a number of visitors that last time. My husband and two fellow survivors came to hang out, not all at once. But by the time the treatment was winding down my guests had left and I was alone. And it was great. To have the last bit of that nasty liquid drip in and then get disconnected and bid the chemo suite adieu.

I didn’t feel anything negative in that moment. Of course it may have helped that I was wearing a pink, fringed bob wig, a feather skirt and rubberized leggings at the time. How can a person feel bad in that? Really. It’s like happiness armour.

The point is that for many people that isn’t such a triumphant moment. Or at least it is a moment of major ambivalence or even terror. Keep that in mind if you know someone going through this so that when they are finishing you say “how do you feel about being done” rather than “so you must be so excited to be done!” How the hell can you know how they are feeling? You can’t.

Back to the bridge.

Sometimes my mind wanders into troublesome places and I have to extract myself from that and force myself to take another step on that rickety-ass contraption. Force myself not to worry about the what-ifs and for the moment not to dwell, at least, on the topic. At times like that, being able to forge ahead and take that next step is sort of like having faith, but also just accepting the futility of obsessing over things over which we have very little control. Squeeze the core and advance. And don’t forget to breathe. That’s sort of what life is like even without cancer. Isn’t it? A leap of faith. Letting go. Moving forward.

In her article, Gail mentioned being a member of the club no one wants to join. I get that for sure. I wrote about that very thing. I am downright pissed off that even though I am done with treatment, I am still not really a normal person. I’m a little bit bitter about it. I think about it. It affects my actions daily. What I eat and drink. I get a little antsy if I feel that I am exceeding my self-imposed limit of alcohol (bad for cancer) or that my diet is too high in fat (bad for cancer) or sugar (bad for cancer). It irritates the hell out of me to have to think about things in this way.

You might retort: you don’t have to but rather you choose to. Fair point. But see even when I go “aw, screw it” and say, have those two chocolate Oreos and wash them down with a cup of hot chocolate despite the fact that I had a small bowl of vanilla ice cream two hours earlier, I think “oh crap that wasn’t so good.” But as my oncologist said, you have to live your life. I can’t live it on a seaweed and raw cabbage diet, people. And I can’t let myself go and not take care of myself either. I am not into extremes. So I take the middle road which goes something like this: eat a healthy diet, exercise regularly, indulge from time to time and try not to beat myself up about it too much.

You will say that over time this will change and I will think less about these things. This may be true. In fact I hope it is true. But knowing myself, I will always be careful. Or at least more careful than I was when I felt a little less mortal.

I got a newsletter from the lady in charge of the organic farm that delivers produce to me every week explaining that she had found a lump in her breast and had a scare but that her biopsy had come back clean and she was exhilarated and felt “immortal.” Interesting. I think if I had had that result rather than the shit luck I had I still would have come out feeling a little more mortal, not the other way around. I mean, something’s gotta get you. Think I should call her up and suggest that she might have a heart attack tomorrow? I know, probably not.

So this other thing on my mind post treatment is, go figure, boobs. Why not since they seem to be on everyone else’s mind too.

To wit: a day after the article about depression after cancer treatment was a spread in The Sunday Times magazine (the cover of which featured a model with a t-shirt on that had a rather grotesque–I thought–photo of naked breasts on it) about the longstanding obsession with breasts and how prudish we have become about naked breasts. It touched on topics such as the topless pap pics of Kate Middleton, how uncomfortable English women feel about sunbathing topless, how bipolar America is about boobs (simultaneously prudish and obsessed) and it contained a timeline about the naked breast including “historical” events such as Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction. It even had a quote by Marilyn Monroe lamenting being defined by her tits (well, and ass).

I didn’t really get the whole point of it. But I guess I am jaded. The article promised that I would not think of breasts the same way after reading it. Um, whatever. Like I needed to read that to get some perspective. I mean, step into my office for a minute, honey…

Just a week ago I visited my plastic surgeon, thinking that at long last he would put back some of the saline that he was instructed to remove from my temporary implants prior to beginning radiation in June. If you didn’t read my posts about that, it had to do with exposing more of the left breast to radiation than was desirable given that my cancer had been only on the right side. (The temporary implants, called expanders, are really place-holders for my permanent implants which I should get sometime early next year. The process of inflation is to form a good “pocket” in which the permanent implants will lie). The long and short of it was that I was too, and I quote: “pumped up” for them to get the correct angle so they had to partially deflate me. It was not an awesome experience.

It has been a few months and frankly I’ve grown used to a flatter look. But for some reason, (maybe because the killing it part is over) lately, I had sort of gotten focused on getting some volume back in the rack. So I was rather nonplussed when my surgeon told me that in fact he thought we needed to wait a little longer before inflating me. The skin looked good, better than it had the last time he examined me, he assured me, but things were still a bit inflamed from the radiation and he wanted to see if they would settle down and soften up a bit. Which of course raised a number of questions. What if they don’t? What if this is as good as it gets? Will I have to settle for a smaller size? Will the surgery get screwed up regardless of size? What kind of implants should we use? Has the plan changed? Is there a plan?

I felt like yelling “but I want bigger tits and I want them NOW” à la Veruca Salt in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Just to see what would happen.

It’s really quality not quantity that concerns me, at the end of the day. Oh shut up, male readers. I am being serious. If he can make them look decent I don’t care if they are petite. It would be nice to feel a little less like part of that club no one wants to join and a little more like just another chick with boobs, hanging out in the ladies locker room. Not that I am planning to parade around topless once I have my new set. At least not at the gym. But I might if they are really top quality. Just to see if anyone notices they’re plastic.

My surgeon once told me about a breast reconstruction patient he had once. She was an ageing rock star’s (don’t worry he didn’t tell me who) girlfriend, who the first time she came to his office, produced a tiny dress from her hand bag and said “do what you have to do but it has to look good in this.”

You know what, I can really respect that. Honey badger don’t give a shit as long as it looks good.

How I got from deep thoughts about life after treatment to this point I am not quite sure but it’s all part of that journey on the invisible bridge.

A Further Look at Airport Screening Issues

Posted on by
Reply

Howdy. You may have read my posts about encountering airport security at Heathrow. If not click on Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security (before) and End of Shit (after).

Well, it turns out that a host of ladies sporting bionic buzzies have had troubles with so-called insensitive TSA employees. My friend Dee just sent me a link to an article about the very topic. Check out http://globaltravelerusa.com/web/view/tsa-apologizes-to-breast-cancer-patient-for-embarrassing-screening-at-jfk#.UCTliYaeypY.email. The gist of it is that last fall, a lady who had recently undergone bilateral mastectomies with reconstruction and had those expanders with the metal ports in them set off the screening gizmo at JFK airport and was not exactly treated with kid gloves.

Now look, I am the first to speak out in favour of heightened airport security in this crazy world we live in. Anyone could produce a document from a “doctor” indicating that they have some prosthesis that might set off the screening thingie.

Nonetheless, I agree that a modicum of civility is warranted. Even if the TSA folks are not satisfied by a card or a doctor’s letter proclaiming the presence of a prosthetic medical device (and I ain’t saying they should be), should not the bearer of such be offered a private screening if so desired? You can cop a feel or have a look, but only in the champagne room, please.

Luckily for me, I am not easily embarrassed and did not mind being patted down in public at Heathrow airport. I don’t think I would like having to go into a private room and take off my top, but if asked I would do so. Safety first, after all. I really don’t give a shit.

But not every person embraces the honey badger way. I read about one poor lady who had to remove her bra for the authorities and about another whose prosthesis was manipulated from side to side by a TSA employee. Not really a turn on.

At the end of the day, most people don’t know a damn thing about breast cancer or prosthetic devices. The TSA is not going to concern itself with whether you have had a hard time being treated for x, y or z over the past months and whether their exam of you gives rise to emotional trauma. They just want to process you and make sure you aren’t going to blow up at 35,000 feet. And after the shoe bomber and other pathetic sacks of excrement like him, you can hardly blame them.

I have to fly three times in the next ten days so I’ll have plenty of opportunities to get mistreated and will let you know how it all goes. If I get invited into the champagne room I can tell you right now that I plan to charge for it.

 

End of Shit

Posted on by
9

The other day I was in the waiting room at my plastic surgeon’s office. The appointment was just a quick check so that he could see how my skin was reacting to radiation toward the end of treatment.

While I waited, I flipped though a beauty magazine, lingering longingly over pages of young, scantily clad women with impossibly perky boobs. I was interrupted by three persons entering the waiting room, two women who vaguely resembled one another and a man.

They were joking around rather loudly and weren’t being very British so we easily struck up a conversation. Turns out one of the ladies was there to get her nipple tattoos as the final stage of her reconstruction, having been through double mastectomies, chemo and radiation. It was great to see another lady out the other side of it all. It had been about two years since it had all happened for her. She was chipper as could be.

The other lady was this woman’s sister, and the man, her sister’s husband. They had come along for moral support and to watch all the magic happen.

The lady said that when she was done with her treatment, she’d had an “end of shit” party. End of shit. Isn’t that the perfect way to describe it all? I think so. Now I don’t know if she coined a term there or if “end of shit” is a British thing. Maybe someone British can tell me. Meanwhile, either way I like it. I’ll have to have me an end of shit party too.

But now I am on break. Summer vacation.

I had my final radiation Friday at noon. One more time on Trilogy (see Meet Trilogy if you haven’t met her), my arms overhead, envisioning my super heroine with flowing cape and hair, standing hands on hips atop a hill and sending white-hot fire from her eyes into the enemy below.

That was what I usually conjured during treatments. That and I couldn’t help but think of the old Raid television commercial in which cockroaches spontaneously combusted with a “pow” and a cloud of smoke, after yelling: “RAI-AID?!!!”

In any event it was weird to have that last treatment. So much of my time has been devoted to getting through “the shit” and really it was sort of anticlimactic when it was all over. But nice nonetheless. Nice to be DONE.

I spent the rest of the day packing, or to be precise, overpacking for our summer trip to Cape Cod. I had trouble narrowing down the summer outfits because in London we have had so little summer that I wanted to cram in as many light and colourful ensembles as possible before we have to pull out the coats again.

When I’d finished with the clothes, I rifled through my four-inch thick medical file folder to find the ID cards for my expanders. I put them in my handbag along with our passports and a letter from my reconstructive surgeon just in case I set the metal detector off (see Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security if this doesn’t ring a bell, so to speak).

Actually my doctor wrote two letters. The first one was to me:

Dear Emily

I do not think Style 133 metal base valves set off airport alarms. I do not want to see you wrestled to the ground, dragged off to custody, being forced to watch the Olympics from a prison cell. Nonetheless I am emailing in a second note a letter that could be produced if there were problems. Safe journey and lots of love.

Kind regards and best wishes

Yours sincerely

It’s definitely the best letter I have ever received from a doctor. And the only funny one. And I have a lot of letters from doctors, most of which I have amassed in the past seven months.

The second letter was a basic statement that I have been under his care and have these gizmos in me and that if there are any issues the airport folks can reach him on his cell.

Soon enough, Saturday morning was upon me and with it the moment of truth. I inched forward in the security line. Plunked my iPad and MacBook Air and plastic baggie of liquids and pastes into grey bins, removed my belt with chunky metal buckle and awaited my turn. The kids went through first. Nothing. Then me.

And of course my tits totally set it off.

“Step over here, madame,” said the security dude. “I need to tell you something,” I said. “I have these prosthetic devices… I have a letter,” I replied. He ignored this and just waved me toward his female associate for a pat down.

I assumed the position and again started to explain myself. But by the time I got to “I have a letter” she had completed her pat down and sent me on my way. So I never got to produce the letter. At least I have it for the way back just in case the folks in Boston are skeptical that I am an evil fembot bent on world destruction.

We had loads of time to kill at Heathrow because we had left an hour early in case the men’s cycling road race caused any traffic delays. So we enjoyed breakfast in the British Airways lounge, watched some Olympic coverage and browsed the shops.

The flight itself was uneventful. I accepted a glass of champagne before take-off to toast my end of shit.

For lunch I ordered the special “Olympic-inspired” fish pie and then had afternoon tea (sandwiches and scones) a couple hours later even though I wasn’t really still hungry. I have trouble turning away food, even on an airplane.

We breezed through customs and made it to my in-laws’ house in Wellesley, where we were to retrieve the Subaru wagon and drive to the Cape, relatively quickly.

After using the facilities, we were about to head out when our five-year-old, who was sitting in the front seat of the car while she waited for the rest of the family, announced that the rearview mirror had “fallen off.” My immediate reaction was that she probably pulled it right off while screwing around in there. My secondary reaction was that I didn’t fancy spending an hour in an auto body shop waiting for the damn thing to be repaired after a seven-hour transAtlantic flight and with a two-hour drive ahead.

I called my father-in-law at the Cape and asked if he kept any crazy-glue in the house. He admitted that the mirror had fallen off before (more than once) and that crazy glue wouldn’t work. At that point my husband emerged from the basement with a roll of duct tape.

So we duct taped the thing on and set off for the Cape. It wasn’t perfect but it held all right. And we made it.

It’s nice to be back in America in a cozy, familiar house with the ocean breeze and the outdoor shower. A welcome change of venue for my end of shit.

I suppose that technically there is more shit ahead since I have further reconstructive surgery, but that doesn’t really count as “shit” because it will be happy times to improve my rack so that I, too, can possess impossibly perky boobs.

Meanwhile, now that I have killed it I will have to find something else to do with my time. But one thing is certain. I am going to keep blogging. Because there is no end of shit about which to write.

Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security

Posted on by
4

In a recent e-mail, my mother-in-law asked me whether she thought my saline boob expanders — if you don’t know what I am talking about think of them space savers for my implants — would set off the metal detector at the airport on account of their magnetic ports. I credit myself with thinking of a lot of things but this had not occurred to me. And I doubt it will happen. Nevertheless, in the spirit of the Boy Scouts, I have decided to be prepared.

I have thought about what to say to the authorities should bells go off when I step through, having handed over my watch, belt and iPhone.

Feel free to vote for your favourite.

Option 1: “Stand back; bionic tits coming through, people.” I mean Jaime Sommers has nothin’ on me. Cue corny bionic sound effects and slow-mo.

Option 2: (Said when wand is passed over each breast and sound indicates presence of metal.) “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet; the dude behind me has a metal asshole.”

Option 3: “Oh, those are just my 24-karat tatas. I like to travel in style.”

Option 4: “Take cover! They’re gonna blow!” (That one probably isn’t a good plan because it would likely subject me to rough handling and possibly even a cavity search in a small windowless room, causing me to miss my flight).

And Option 5: (If I get the pat-down rather than the wand.) “Ooh, baby don’t stop. That’s more action than they’ve had in six months.”

What? Yeah, I know. I’m a weirdo. But one has to have a sense of humour about these things for Christ’s sake.

Smaller Tits in Sixty Seconds

Posted on by
5

Remember my favourite catch phrase? Come on, it’s from Boob Retrospective, Armpit Wig and Top Ten Reasons Fighting Breast Cancer Isn’t All Bad. I’ll give you a hint, it’s the No. One Reason. Well today we had the converse, or should I say concave. Which is virtually what’s happened to my newbs.

Just to recap, if you missed my last post (Deflated), I had to get some of the saline taken out of my expanders so they can get the right angle when giving me radiation and thus avoid zapping my left side, which does not need to be treated.

Boy am I psyched the flat look is in. And that I have a relatively small ass so that my latest (unwanted) physical adjustment doesn’t leave me looking too imbalanced.

In the military we call this sort of thing a Temporary Pneumatic Setback or “TPS.” Sort of like SNAFU (situation normal: all fucked up) but shorter. Although SNAFU also applies. FUBAR (fucked up behind all recognition), TARFU (totally and royally fucked up) and BOHICA (bend over here it comes again) also apply. I could write a whole post about military acronym slang and how it is applicable to my current situation. HOOAH.

But I need to get back on point.

Candy Floss (if you don’t know her read Zero), Bill and I went to the appointment with my plastic surgeon this morning. Yes, it was a menage à trois (à quatre if you include the surgeon… and à cinq if you count the nurse). I discussed matters with him for a couple minutes and then it was down to business and he and the nurse stuck those needles in there and sucked out 120 ccs from each “boob.” When they were done I looked down and my girls resembled half full plastic baggies. Not a great look, but really kind of funny. I couldn’t help but be amused.

Undeterred, I whipped a padded bra out of my bag and put it on. Not terrible. And just think of the instant weight loss! I’ve heard you can lose even more in an office visit if you saw off a leg though.

Then CF, Bill and I exited the building and took ourselves to an early lunch. I wore my “rubber” leggings as well to give edge to my ensemble. I figure if I have pink hair and rubber leggings no one in their right mind will be focusing on my tits, or lack thereof. The two of us together on Marylebone High Street must have been a sight. Oh, look, there goes Lady Gaga and her conservatively dressed lawyer friend out for a bite at Le Pain Quotidien.

Speaking of which, do you realise that I have been to that particular LPQ (I’m into acronyms today) with my own hair, with Gabriella (my other lover — oh please — read Armpit Wig if you don’t know her), bald as a cue ball, with a scarf and now with Candy Floss? I wonder if the staff there recognise (it’s plural in England) me or if they think I am five different people. They probably just think I’m a “right nutter” (this means a real weirdo but you could have guessed that couldn’t you?).

And I can live with that because I kind of am. I mean my kids are so used to my weirdness that they let me leave the house bald or with pink hair. And they aren’t even embarrassed by me. Which is kind of great, isn’t it?

I had a great rest of the day. I bought two groovy t-shirts at agnès b (one with an octopus and one with other sea creatures including a lobster). They look good now but there is room for more boob for later as well. Stylish and practical.

Then my friends Susan and Donna and I and Agnieszka took the girls to see The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe in Kensington Gardens. It was a terrific show with a great set (tee hee — I said “set”). A circular stage and there were creatures done up à la Lion King, people flying through the air on wires and singing, you name it. We were there with about five hundred British school children because the Brit schools are still in session through some point in July.

Then we hopped on a bus and took the kids to the Hard Rock Cafe. I hadn’t been to an HRC in ages. Check us out. Here I am with my groupies.

When I got home I looked at my flatter self. Not so bad, really. I think I could really kill it with this look for the next month and a half or so.

I just hope it was enough so that they can get their angle. The scan tomorrow will tell all. Send me and CF good vibes. We need ’em. Because if it didn’t work and they have to deflate and delay again I might have to go AWOL.

 

 

 

 

Deflated

Posted on by
Reply

There is some required reading prior to delving into this post, people. I know. You feel like you’re back in school. Sorry if that gives you nightmares. But here’s the deal: If you have not read Boob Retrospective or if you read it ages ago and it is not fresh in your mind, you should read it now so that you know what I am talking about.

I had a shitty morning. I was minding my own business, cooking up some scrambled eggs for my five-year-old, when the phone rang. It was my radiation oncologist. I answered and she thought I was my husband. I guess my voice was a bit deep because I hadn’t been up that long. I figured she was about to tell me that all systems were go for my radiation starting on Monday after getting the scan results from last Friday.

But no.

What she told me, rather, was that they were going to have to take some of the saline OUT of my expanders before beginning radiation because otherwise it would cause me to get some radiation to the left breast. (They don’t want to deliver any radiation where it isn’t needed for obvious reasons and if heaven forbid you should ever need any to that area in the future you have problems if it has already been irradiated).

Because I was in front of my children I held it together and finished cooking the breakfast. But then I went into my room and had a good cry. I mean for fuck’s sake. Here I am, finally a sunny day in London, and no more every other Thursday chemo to contend with, and now this Thursday I get to visit the plastic surgeon so he can make my boobs… smaller. By 4 centimetres. Talk about reverse progress.

I can assure you this is not going to look good. I don’t mind so much about the flatness, but it will get all wrinkly, particularly at the top and on the sides where the expanders don’t have much fluid in them. And I get to go through the next six weeks in London and then enjoy my beach vacation like that. Really good for a girl’s self-image. It’s a lucky thing I haven’t gone swimsuit shopping yet. That’s sure to be a barrel of laughs. “Um, yeah, do you have anything that will work with… this?”

The day after the deflation I must have yet another radiation planning scan and then the whole delays my treatment by two days. “But I already bought plane tickets for the US and we were leaving the day after my treatment ended.” I said. My radiation oncologist said that we could double up on two days provided the treatments are at least six hours apart. And that I could get reinflated “right away.” But naturally I won’t be here to get reinflated. I will be in the United States on my bloody vacation, won’t I. Wearing a potato sack.

I really shouldn’t complain, seeing as I have my scalp and mole biopsies to look forward to next Tuesday. That and I found this weird little lumpy thingie on my right arm yesterday and believe you me, once you find a little lump on your body that ends up being a tumour, you do NOT like to find any little lumpy thingies anywhere else. At all.

I am sure (and I am assured via telephone) that this is nothing. However, I don’t like it.

My plastic surgeon was in surgery all day today so I have not been able to speak to him about my impending deflation. I am certain he is no less unhappy than I am about having to undo his slow, steady expansion. Alas. Sucker punched again.

Well, screw all of that. I was meeting my glamorous Parisian friend, Marie, for lunch today at a little place called Cocomaya. So I went for a brisk half hour walk in the neighbourhood, it then being too late for me to get to the gym and back before lunch. Then I put on my lowest cut shirt, showing off my fresh cleavage tattoo. I figure I might as well display what I’ve got before it’s stolen away from me on Thursday morning.

And I went out and had a very nice time with my friend. After lunch I walked through Hyde Park to Harrods to see about the big sale that’s on. I really need to go horseback riding in Hyde Park one day soon. I haven’t been horseback riding in ages.

Of course Harrods was mobbed with (mostly irritating) people. Including one red-faced old bag who yelled at the nice man behind the loose tea counter as he was assisting me “what are you the only one working behind this counter now?” “Yes, madam.” “What the others are all on tea break are they?” “Yes, madam.” “Bloody hell!” I thought she might reach across the counter to strangle him. I suppose this would have been an opportune moment for me to whip off my headscarf and say “is it all right with you, madam, if the nice man finishes helping a cancer patient who is about to have her boobs taken away (again)?” But I am sure she wouldn’t have given a shit (especially since she was probably drunk) so I completely ignored her and just slowed down my order a bit.

I bought strawberry and mango black teas and this lotus situation that comes in an unremarkable little pod but then opens into a gorgeous flower once you pour boiling water over it. I guess I have to see my own situation this way. I am just in my pod phase. Soon I will bloom again (just please don’t pour boiling water on me).

Following that I bought some fresh cod (you may as well pick up something for din din if you find yourself at Harrods in the late afternoon) and some very fine artisanal chocolates. When I got home I gave each child one chocolate and then I gave myself three. This was met with mild outrage by the seven-year-old but I looked her straight in the eye and said “Mommy had a hard day.” And then I popped that third one into my mouth and savoured it. No guilt whatsoever.

I had my eighth and final chemotherapy treatment two weeks ago this coming Thursday. Every Tuesday night before a Thursday chemo I used to think, I have one more day. One more day to feel normal before they hit me again. This week was going to be a day when I didn’t have to think that. But now I am thinking I have one more day. One more day to look (somewhat) normal before they take my newbs away for about eight weeks, just in time for summer. One more day. One more thing to endure. One more festering turd on the road to killing it.

Of course I’ll be a good sport. I will embrace the flat look. Make it work for me. Conceal the wrinkly bits if they show. Get a padded bra or shove a chick fillet in there to plump things up.

And I will still be me. Because they can’t take that away from me.

 

Kids Say the Damnedest Things

Posted on by
6

Yesterday I had the best day. I accompanied my five-year-old and her grade on a field trip to the American School’s very large park in north London where the kids watered, raked, weeded and played until they were dirtier than dirt. I was the official class chaperone.

The weather held and was terrific. A cool breeze at first and some light haze but that burned off, giving way to a peach of a sunshine and a nice, dry, warm day.

On days like that (when I have something in the morning, or in this case, all day, at the school), I hop on the morning bus with my younger daughter. There’s space, so why not? My daughter was so excited that I was coming she was positively quivering with energy. And couldn’t suppress a smile to end all smiles. Those are some of the best things. That delight and excitement in a young child, especially when it is due to your very presence.

Being outdoors with the pre-K (called K1 at ASL) and their teachers was one of the highlights of my year. I loved observing and getting to know some of the other children in my daughter’s class and the other K1 class and it was wonderful to spend some QT (quality time, come on) with the teachers as well, particularly since the end of the school year is upon us and soon they will be teaching new little persons.

But one of the best parts was experiencing the funny things kids say. They are just so honest and there isn’t a lot of psycho-drama. Around noon I found myself eating lunch in a small group of girls. One girl looked at me (I had on a leopard print scarf — of course I did) and remarked “why are you bald?” I thought it was interesting that she assumed I was bald under the scarf. How did she know there wasn’t hair under there?  I thought about my response. Being careful, because this wasn’t my kid. “Well, I had to take medicine that made my hair fall out,” I responded. “Why would you want to do that?” The kid asked. “Exactly,” I thought.

So excellent. And a very good point.

After the gardening, snacks, lunch, nature walks and play ground time were all over, and after the bus ride back to school, during which my kid almost dozed off, so exhausted was she from the rigours of the day, we re-entered the classroom. I hung out and observed the kids do their thing, including practicing for a big concert that’s happening tomorrow morning. Guess I’ll be back on that school bus real soon…

The teachers put on some special music at the very end of the day and the kids started to dance. I got into it with the class and the teachers and shook my thang. I love to dance and i am not afraid of making an ass of myself in front of little (or big) people. So I did the twist and boogied and shimmied away with them. The kids found this hilarious and were laughing and dancing with me.

That’s when Charlotte announced cheerfully: “my mom can’t shake her boobs anymore.” Oh yeah? Just wait Char, they’ll be bouncing again one day. Not much, but a little. Let me just finish killing it and then we can get to the fun bouncy part of this adventure.

Kids say the damnedest things. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Summer Buzzies Are Out

Posted on by
Reply

For the (wow I’ve already lost track so fill in blank) day, the weather in London has been absolutely, positively supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. I don’t think I saw a single cloud today and that is something else considering how the wind blows things across this island.

We had a mellow day. My big event was walking to Hampstead for a polish change, a medical necessity to help strengthen my nails (sort of hard hit by the chemo drugs). Plus it gives a bald girl a lift. A little colour is always good.

I slathered on SPF 50 and put on the bare minimum of clothing, having worn my parka just last week! (Do you think that warranted an exclamation point, or what is overkill?) A black GAP body tank top, my H&M striped miniskirt, flip-flops and an apple-print headscarf (also H&M). I’d post a pic but I am in my pyjamas now and that train has left the station.

Then I hoofed it up the hill to the Beauty Boutique on Flask Walk. I love this place because it is low-key, friendly, they know who I am and act normal toward me. How nice.

With good weather comes skimpy clothing. People of all shapes and sizes partake, and there were indeed some eye-catching ensembles this afternoon.

The thing I noticed most was how everyone’s tits were out. Lots of tank tops, bustiers, revealing sundresses, you name it. A little sunshine and all hell broke loose. The women of north London were practically serving them up on a plate.

Lots and lots of cleavage. And bouncing scoops of flesh.

As I mentioned in “One to Go,” after chemo on Thursday I saw the radiation oncologist. She warned that there was a good chance the radiation would foul up the reconstruction on my right side. Nothing to be done about that but wait and hope for the best. Expect the worst.

I am not gonna lie. I ain’t thrilled about this. But it wasn’t new information. It just sort of sucked to hear it again when I am about to kick chemo’s ass and embark on the next phase. Got to hand it to the docs, though, they are on the ball. Yesterday I got my entire radiation schedule e-mailed to me, with times and everything. It’s on my iCal, waiting to be crossed off.

I just hope that at the end of the day I won’t have too many complications. Radiation has what my reconstruction surgeon calls “the bystander effect.” For every one bad cell that you are targeting, it destroys or alters about a billion healthy cells. This is too bad. But Das ist so.

Having implant-only based reconstruction surgery following (or prior to) radiation can be problematic. Your skin acts different, the blood supply is affected and you are more prone to bleeding, infections and capsular contracture. Capsular contracture is when scar tissue forms around the implant and sort of squeezes it. It can cause the implant to be hard and/or misshapen. And sometimes further surgery is required, including eventually removing the implant.

I don’t really want to be an Amazon.

I’ll tell you what, though. If that shit happens, if that is my lot, then I’ll take it over the cancer.  I’d rather be an unwitting Amazon than have a great set of reconstructed boobs for two years and then find out I have a recurrence in my chest wall.

If that shit happens, I will become Katniss (from The Hunger Games, people) and take up the bow and arrow (although it is reputed that the Amazons had their left breast removed not their right, so that they could shoot arrows and throw spears more freely, despite being depicted with both breasts in artwork).

I will admit that it is not my first choice, and it would definitely cramp my fashion style. However, sometimes you have to make a sacrifice in order to kill it. And my reconstruction surgeon has more than one trick up his sleeve. So we’ll play it by ear. And meanwhile I will continue to watch the parade of large, jiggly buzzies romping up and down the high street.

An unruly sea to which I not so long ago belonged.

Writer’s Block

Posted on by
24

It has occurred to me that at some point I may get writer’s block. In fact, it is almost a sure thing. How could I not at some point struggle with what to write on this blog or how to write it?

I was thinking about that yesterday. Then I considered that, provided I stay on schedule, only one month from today I will receive my last chemotherapy treatment. After which I will have five weeks of radiation, five days a week, which should prove anticlimactic comparatively (from what I have heard). More on that later.

I thought, dang, what if I have nothing interesting to write after chemo is over? No more interesting chemo ensembles (see What I Wore To Chemo Today)… No more entertaining other patients in the chemo suite with my antics and bad behaviour (oh I forgot to tell you that the last time I was there this one dude kept coming up to me and telling me he was really feeling my outfit and he was there with his wife, who was the patient!  Shameless!)… No more bizarre, unexpected “side effects of the week” (more on that later too)…

I mean, every time I gear up for and go to chemo I am inspired to write something. There is a ton about it I haven’t even told you yet and I still have three treatments left. It’s just excellent fodder for the blog. So it will be a real shame when it is all over. Not. Chemo sucks. But I won’t be too hard on it since it is killing the hell out of anything floating around in there that doesn’t belong.

I suppose when I do radiation I can still yell “die, motherfuckers,” and imagine my heroines (see Chicks I Dig Vol. 1) going in there with their signature weapons and obliterating any microscopic cells that dare to remain near the original site of the tumours. (That and cross my fingers that the radiation doesn’t burn my skin too badly and otherwise complicate the final stages of my reconstruction, because in the end I would really like a nice “set” out of all of this nonsense.)

I just don’t want my posts to become boring. Or predictable.

When my hair grows back I won’t be able to write about being bald anymore and all of the interesting things that go with that particular side effect. Or take anymore badass “I’m bald and I’m killing it” pictures. But I suppose I will have been there and done that, so maybe that’s not the worst thing. I mean how many times can I take a picture of my bald self looking pissed off and post it and think “I really like what I’ve done here.” (A lot actually — you should try it sometime it is pretty great.)

Who knows where all this will take me. I just hope that you’ll continue to tag along. I need you. I want you. I have to have you.

Speaking of which where are you right now? Are you in the US or the UK? Kenya or Kuwait? Why do you read this? Do you know me? Did you once? Is or was someone in your life touched by cancer? Are you a survivor? Are you just curious? Tell me… I’ll be right here. Killing it.

Breast Cancer for Dummies Part Deux

Posted on by
4

Because I started my blog in the midst of chemotherapy, rather than at the beginning of my story, I have jumped around quite a lot. This has turned out fine, because — at least in my experience — life is rarely linear. However, I do feel that it is time to continue with the story of how I ended up here, five out of eight chemos in, fighting breast cancer. This leads me to the second instalment of Breast Cancer for Dummies.

As I mentioned in my first post on this topic, “Breast Cancer for Dummies Part I,” I am not a doctor, nor do I have any expertise on this subject other than what I have learned along the way in dealing with my own disease. Nevertheless, I believe that you will find the following useful if you ever wanted to know more about breast cancer without reading a text-book, or if you are just curious to know how I got to this point. If this grabs you then you should start with Part I above if you haven’t already read it, or maybe give it a skim to refresh your recollection if you have read it. Conversely, if you find this all too technical and “involved,” fear not. More silly posts about this, that and the other thing are forthcoming. And I won’t be offended if you skip this one.

Moving right along…

Where did I leave off? Ah, yes. I took you through finding my lump, having imaging, getting biopsies and initial diagnosis. So here we are in the first week of January 2012 and we have, in the right breast, multifocal, ER+, PR+, HER2-, Grade II Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (DCIS) and Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC) with no apparent lymphovascular invasion. The biopsies reveal at least two tumours, oriented radially, each appearing to measure under a centimetre.

Oh, and I won’t make you take a multiple choice quiz this time because I know you were upset about that in Part I and it made you have flashbacks from the SAT or whatever torturous British or [insert appropriate nationality] exams you had to take. I don’t want you breaking out into a cold sweat and shorting out your computer, tablet or smart phone. Isn’t that nice of me?

Anyhoo, when we left off I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. What then? The first order of business with cancer like mine was to see a breast surgeon. When I was told this it sort of took me aback. What about an oncologist? What about “the whole picture?” Well, how it works is, they like to get the tumour(s) out of you first and then they figure out the whole picture. So breast surgeon it is. He looks at the pathology from your biopsies and your imagining and recommends what kind of surgery you need. This becomes step one in the big “killing it” game plan.

I found that putting in place the game plan was a big deal. Once I began to do so, I started feeling a hell of a lot more in control, because I knew what step one was. This was instrumental in moving beyond the initial shock of “how can I have cancer?!” and “why me?!” and all of that unproductive Nancy Kerrigan-esque jazz. No one likes a whiner.

Now, if you read my first post, “Halfway Through Chemo… How Did I Get Here?” you may recall that having spoken to Beth, my plastics/breast reconstruction surgeon buddy, I had already begun to wrap my head around removing the entire breast (maybe both) even before I had my diagnosis. Beth had seen and heard about a number of women who had opted for lumpectomies and then ended up with a recurrence in the same breast and thus a mastectomy anyhow. She had also seen women who had opted for a single mastectomy who ended up back under the knife for mastectomy number two after a recurrence in the “healthy” breast.

That being said, the most common surgery for breast cancer remains lumpectomy. With lumpectomy, the tumour is removed and then generally the patient is given radiotherapy to reduce the risk of a local recurrence in case any cancer cells remain at or near the site. Sometimes more surgery is required after the pathologist examines the removed “lump,” which you can think of as a cube of tissue, each side of which is rubbed with ink to determine whether there are “clean” or “dirty” margins. This is not an exact science, but the gist is that the surgeon wants to get a clear margin around the tumour so that dirty a/k/a cancer cells are not left in the patient.

So there I was, back in London, armed with my initial pathology. And I needed a breast surgeon.

One of the greatest sources of stress we faced was figuring out whether we were going to be comfortable doing my surgery and any additional (if any) treatment in London, having lived here for exactly five months, or whether we felt we needed to haul ass back to the US. So after we made some enquiries about the best and the brightest — hee hee! I almost wrote “the breast and the bightest,” — I started calling around. I went totally honey badger on the situation. (By the way if you still do not know what the honey badger is, I am going to get a little annoyed at you. So please watch Randall’s YouTube video linked above and get caught up.) I managed to secure two appointments with London-based breast surgeons on very short notice. A good sign.

Days later I saw the first guy. He was both a breast and reconstruction surgeon. He recommended based on my pathology and imaging that I have a mastectomy in the right breast and monitor the left breast. He ordered an MRI to try to get a better sense of the locations and sizes of my tumours.

Three days later, I saw the second surgeon. He also did both breast surgery and reconstruction and concurred that I needed a mastectomy. That the cancer was multifocal warranted removing all the breast tissue. I was comfortable with this and frankly relieved that both surgeons recommended the course of action I had already envisioned based on my conversations with Beth. I thought about the healthy left breast. I had been told that in the UK, many surgeons are loath to do a risk-reducing mastectomy when the unaffected breast can be “monitored” going forward, as surgeon no. 1 recommended.

I have to say, I didn’t like the idea of that. I did not ever want to deal with this again. Plus, I figured at the end of the day if I was going to lose one boob I might as well just do them both. One boob, two boobs, whatever. Just kill it.

I pushed the second surgeon on it. “If I were your sister, would you advise me to remove the other breast?” His head nodded an emphatic “yes” before “breast” even left my lips. His eyes never left mine as he said the word. Okay, this was my guy. He was honest and straightforward and aggressive. That was what I needed, wanted. So I decided I would have them both done. By him. Step one of the game plan firmly in place. Check one box. Kill it.

I know. This post is kind of heavy, not as much fun as the beer fermenting in the bathroom or wearing leopard print to chemo. But you have to take the bitter with the sweet, my friend. It is part and parcel of the whole picture and I want you to understand where I am and where I was.

And did I mention there is a silver lining? When you do a bilateral mastectomy, you do tend to have an easier time getting a more symmetrical cosmetic result. So that was a plus in my mind right there. No cancer and matching boobs. Good show!

Step two was a visit to a reconstruction surgeon. Now, as I mentioned, some breast surgeons (these are the folks who do lumpectomies and mastectomies — their job is to remove the cancer) do their own reconstructions and are “oncoplastic” (onco being cancer and plastic, well, duh…).  But there are some pretty tricky reconstruction procedures to choose from these days, and many breast surgeons do not dabble in some of the more involved techniques.

I was told I could have an immediate reconstruction following skin-sparing bilateral mastectomies, which means that they were going to give me new (temporary) boobs right away after removing all of my breast tissue, but keeping as much of my own skin as possible. That way you look down and see your own skin. It’s just what’s inside that’s all new.

This is quite a departure from a radical mastectomy, which for years was all that was available to women, leaving them with a scar from armpit to midline. Of course, some patients today still require a radical mastectomy, depending on the extent of their cancer. Yet for many of these women, a delayed reconstruction remains a possibility. I was simply fortunate enough to be a candidate for instant gratification. An immediate boob swap, as it were.

But what kind of boob swap?

I went to see the breast recon guru so that I could consider all the possibilities. This guy is known not only for his excellent breast reconstructions but for his fabulous boob jobs to the stars. Aim high, I always say. I liked him immediately. He was gentle and kind and sympathetic, and I felt comfortable in his hands (literally — I mean all modesty goes out the window with this, people). I stripped and he felt me up. And then he pinched my tummy and my bottom and the inside of my thigh. Why? He was weighing his options. There are some pretty amazing microvascular surgeries they can do now where they take a bit of tissue from your abdomen, inner thigh or rear-end and make a boob out of it. Really. The benefit of these surgeries, although they do involve a site scar and require a long recovery period, is that the reconstructed boob can last indefinitely if all goes well. This is because it is made of your own tissue and fat, so it looks and acts more like a natural boob, which is — as we all know — mostly fat.

He didn’t pinch me for long, however, before it became clear that these fancy procedures were not an option for me. Not enough extra tissue, he said. I hadn’t eaten enough fries (chips if you are a limey). In a way I was relieved. It was sort of nice to be told that I was too thin for that option (aw shucks). Also, then I didn’t have to decide whether I wanted to deal with a seven-hour surgery that would require months of recovery while trying to take care of a five-year-old and a seven-year-old.

Now don’t get me wrong, the autologous tissue flap, as these things are called, is an excellent and desirable option. If done well and pulled off without complications it yields a more natural breast and can last forever. But it is a big deal. And there just wasn’t enough fat on me to do it so that was that.

Implants it is, he said. Okay. Do it up.

Have you ever seen a silicone implant? Most of them are shaped like M&Ms. They are symmetrical. But being in Europe has its advantages. Here, they have been using “shaped” implants for well over ten years, implants that are still in clinical trial in the United States. These are also known as gummy-bear or 410 implants and are made from cohesive silicone that is less liquid-y than the traditional silicone implant (thus the comparison to a gummy bear, though I wouldn’t want to eat one). These implants are interesting for breast reconstructions because they are shaped more like a natural breast, with a slope and a projection. That is, they are flatter at the top and rounder and fuller at the bottom. More boob-like.

Well, thanks to a friend of mine whose two buddies recently had breast cancer in the US and whose surgeon happened to be participating in the clinical trial, I knew about the gummy-bear implants. I asked the recon guru. Yes, he said. He liked them and would use them on me. But first I would get saline expanders (basically temporary implants that are inflated with salt water) in order to make a nice pocket for the permanent silicone implants. Getting them primed for boob swap number two later on down the line. Patience is a virtue…

By the way did you hear about that son of a bitch in France who sold all those implants made out of industrial grade silicone? I cannot even tell you what I want to do to him but I think you can imagine. It involves a honey badger.

Okay then, step two in place: reconstruction. I had started to assemble my dream team. And they would work together, the breast surgeon doing the mastectomy on one side with the reconstruction surgeon following on his heels, and then onto the other side.

But we need to back up. There was another order of business to address. This was the sentinel node biopsy. Before beginning the mastectomies, the breast surgeon would remove one or more lymph nodes from under my right arm to find out if they contained any cancer cells. The sentinel nodes are like the guardsmen lymph nodes — the first line of defence. A technician locates them by injecting you with a radio isotope near the tumour and then tracking to which lymph nodes that isotope drains. X marks the spot and the breast surgeon removes this node(s) at the beginning of surgery so that it can be tested for cancer cells, often while the patient is on the table. If cancer cells are found, the surgeon will perform an axillary lymph node dissection (ALND), which is when they remove a number of other (or all) the lymph nodes.

The long and short of it is that you don’t want to find cancer cells in your lymph nodes, because it means that the cancer has started to spread. You can still kill it of course, but it isn’t what you want. If they find cancer in your sentinel nodes, they remove more nodes to see how many of them contain cancer cells. And all of this factors into your treatment plan. Whether you will need chemotherapy to seek and destroy any cancer cells floating around in other parts of your body/bloodstream and/or radiation to kill any cancer cells that are hanging out at or near the site from which the tumour was removed.

The night before the surgery I slept well. Really, I did. I was calm and ready to get on with it. D-Day was February 7 and I had waited about a month after diagnosis for my surgery. Although this sounds scary, I was assured by doctors on two continents that unless you have a very aggressive form of cancer, waiting a month or even two should not make a difference because breast cancer is slow-growing.

Still, the waiting was not easy. Indeed, it was the hardest part. This is because you cannot progress with the next step of your game plan until after the tumours are removed during surgery and then analysed by the pathologists. So you wait, and noodle and try not to be too mental. I dealt with it by going to the gym a lot, which you know if you read “Work It Out.”

The morning of the surgery, my husband took me to the hospital, to be joined later by my mother who had stayed at home to see the girls off to school. Once I was in my room, each surgeon came to see me, separately. Each explained what he was going to do and the recon guru marked up my boobs with a permanent marker and took pictures. Again — all modesty out the window. I smiled for the camera. A little while after that, I waved to Bill and they wheeled me out of the room. The anaesthesiologist had me out in about 20 seconds.

I woke up to my name being called. “Emily… Emily.” I blinked, had no idea where I was. I snapped back into focus. “The node, was it negative?” I asked. The nurse didn’t know. “The node…” I said. The anaesthesiologist rounded the corner and confirmed: the node had been negative. I exhaled. So they hadn’t removed any other nodes. All had gone according to plan.

Shortly thereafter, they wheeled me back into my room. I started ordering my poor husband around immediately, telling him to send an email to everyone that all had gone well and I was fine. I had killed it.

But alas. I still had to wait for my final pathology report. And that is why cancer is such a BITCH. Because just when you think you have won one battle, it sucker punches you right in the face.

I went into the hospital on a Tuesday. On Saturday morning, (still in the hospital) the breast surgeon came to see me. I was happy to see him. We chatted briefly before he got that serious look that doctors get and told me he had some pathology results. Bill was still at home with the girls.

“Were there any surprises?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. I got my notebook. Sat down.

They say that when you get difficult news, you should always have someone with you because you only absorb about 20% of what you are told. I’d like to give myself credit for about 80%, but it is harder when you aren’t prepared.

The breast surgeon said that there were three things we had not expected:

(1) The tumours were larger than the imaging had indicated, because one area of what appeared to be discrete little spots were actually interconnected and therefore counted as one tumour. That one measured 30 mm or 3 cm. The other one was about 14 mm. Shit.

(2) Although the sentinel nodes were clear, two other tiny nodes that happened to come out as part of the mastectomy revealed “micrometastases,” which are bits of tumour that are 0.2 mm to 2 mm in size. These nodes needed to be further analysed to determine whether the cancer cells were in fact that tiny, and therefore less significant, or whether they were bigger and posed more of a threat. If “macrometastases” were found, they might eventually have to go in and do that axillary dissection.

In any event, (1) + (2) = chemotherapy for me. This was not easy news to digest. But I kept writing, determined to take intelligible notes so that I could make sense of it all later.

And he wasn’t finished.

(3) Even though I had had all of my breast tissue removed (the whole point of the mastectomy), the margins of the tissue removed in the right breast were not great. Tumour was “present” at the margins, meaning in my case that it had abutted the natural barriers of my chest wall, posteriorly, and my skin, anteriorly. Therefore, he thought, I needed radiation, something we had been about 85% sure I wasn’t going to face.

That Saturday was rough. And it marked the beginning of yet another waiting period.

But the next bit of news we got was good. A week later, we saw the oncologist and he confirmed that the nodes had only micrometastases. Micro mets used to be undetectable but modern technology has allowed us to find these tiny cells. Some doctors treat the presence of micro mets no differently than finding nothing in the nodes (i.e., they treat such a patient as “node negative”). My doctors, although very encouraged by this news, did feel that the presence of the micro mets plus the size of the tumours warranted a more aggressive stance on both chemotherapy and radiation, tipping the scales in favour of both. Part of this had to do with my age. They tend to be more aggressive with breast cancer when you are young.

When I asked the breast surgeon why there might have been tiny deposits of cancer in these random nodes that “happened” to come out with the mastectomy but not in my sentinel nodes, he indicated that when one has cancer there are probably micro mets present somewhere. It happens. And this does not mean that they will ever grow into tumours. Or that you have a bigger metastasis elsewhere. But it still blows your mind.

And that is how I ended up where I am today, five treatments in. Counting down to June 7, five short weeks from now. My last chemo.

Two weeks after that I will begin radiation, five days a week for five weeks (my, that’s a lot of fives). Whew.

If you got through all of that I commend you. It sure as hell pooped me out.