Attracted to Frankenstein?

I’m drunk.  I’m happy though — I’ve had more friends visit me the last couple weeks than I can count (and that’s not just because I’m drunk).  I just pray my father isn’t reading this . . .  though he did find my 21+ ID when I was 16 years old.  Sorry Snookie (yes, the bar manager at Rumors), you did let in a 15 year-old into the VIP room of the hottest bar in Waikiki.  But you can’t complain — I definitely brought a ton of business.  Again, I pray my father isn’t reading this.

I have always had a love for life that I smile at every time I think about it.  Even now, I can no longer feel my chest, my drains are out but I still feel pain where the drains were, and I look like Peter mother-fracking Pan, but I do feel empowered.  I am a flat-chested Wonder Woman who is excited to take on the world.  I did laundry today and noticed a bra in my dark load.  For the first time since my surgery, I felt an emotional response about losing my breasts.  I looked at a black bra sitting on my drying rack and I felt no pain.  I didn’t feel a sense of loss.  I didn’t feel any sorrow.  I felt a sense of confusion of knowing that I had a ton of bras but no need for them right now.  My girlfriend Erin reminded me that I would be able to shop for fun, new lingerie when I had my reconstruction done.  But it’s so far out there — the reconstruction that is — that my mind is not there yet.  How the hell can I think about a reconstruction when I look like fracking Frankenstein? 

I’m excited, however, for the man who sees me for me without the breasts.  What a litmus test I have — testing every potential partner to see if he sees me for the amazing woman I am without the typical female physical markers.   What is it like to be attracted to a beautiful woman who looks like Peter Pan with her shirt off?  OMG.  I can’t imagine. Bring it on.

The Road Gets Easier

I received my pathology report a couple days ago, and all is well — the lymph nodes my surgeon removed are normal, the pathologist found no cancer in my left breast, and found no invasive cancer in the breast with Karla. I need to wait for my doctors to conference on Friday (10/24) for formal confirmation that I will not need radiation. Keep your fingers crossed until then.

I have started looking at my chest more and more. I don’t think I’ve really processed the fact that my breasts are gone. I’ve been preoccupied with treating the pain, doing the exercises suggested by my doctors and consulting physical therapists, and doing everything to maximize healing. I’ve also been pleasantly distracted by all the attention I’m getting. I keep getting flowers, gifts, emails, texts, calls, and all kinds of love. Dawn posted photos of a bunch of our friends all over my condo, so those photos and all the beautiful flowers I’ve received are the last things I see before dosing off. I have slept well each night since my surgery, and it’s not just because of the Vicodin.

My drains should be taken out tomorrow (at the least, three of the four drains should be taken out tomorrow). That will be a huge step in the healing process, given that the drains cause me more grief than the actual incisions. I can’t wait for the night that I’m able to sleep without the dang drains in. I also can’t wait to get off of the Vicodin. I hate pain killers. I’ve never been on painkillers as long as I have been on this Vicodin. I’m now starting to battle the side effects that I’ve never experienced before — primarily itchy skin and constipation. Hopefully the pain will decrease significantly after the drains are taken out. I sure hope so.

I Think the Worst is Over

It’s done.  I am officially boobless.  I’m in a lot of pain and on a lot of Vicodin.  The doctors tell me that this is the worst of it, so I’m looking forward to things getting better.  I’m ready to move on.

As expected, I did sob almost uncontrollably when they called my name to prep me for surgery.  My surgeon, Dr. Wechter, found me quietly bawling in the surgery induction area when she and the operating team came to say hello and introduce themselves.  I think I may have made one of the residents cry.  Dr. Wechter came to my side, took my hands in hers, and affirmed that crying was a very natural response and that anyone in my situation would cry also.  She told me that I should take as long as I needed to process that moment and “get it all out.”  She also assured me that everything was going to be okay.  Her calm and authoritative demeanor was unquestionable – when she said that everything was going to be okay, I believed her.

After inserting an IV in my hand, the nurses escorted me to the surgery room.  The bright lights, tons of monitors, super cold temperature, and blurry faces around me (I’m absolutely blind without my contacts) made my heart start to race.  The anesthesiologists went to work quickly.  The last thing I remember was the anesthesiologist asking if I liked what he had just given me and if I would like more.  I nodded yes and passed out shortly thereafter.

I woke up in a ton of pain and very upset by the bright lights.  I remember being an absolute terror to the nurses in the recovery area.  I tried to pull myself out of bed to get into a more “shady” area so that the bright lights wouldn’t bother me.  I also thought my girlfriend, Jackie, was in the recovery area with me, so I screamed for her to grab my sleeping mask for me.  I got angry after not receiving a response, thinking that Jackie was being mean and holding out on me.  The nurses must have thought I was crazy.  To make matters more interesting, there was a nurse in the recovery area who looks exactly like my Stepmom.  When I saw her, I was convinced that I had not made it through the surgery alive and that I was in some weird purgatory-type area.  I mean, why else would Jackie hide my sleeping mask and my Stepmom be caring for me after surgery? 

When I finally came out of the haze of anesthesia and realized I was not in purgatory, I was ravenous.  The anesthesiologists had given me very good anti-nausea medications, so I was able to eat well.  Two bowls of chicken broth, a bowl of beef broth, a bowl of cream of potato soup, a bowl of cream of tomato soup, a taco salad, some mashed potatos, and an orange shake.  I can only imagine what the kitchen thought about me — the fat ass in Room 1259.

I had tons of visitors that evening, and it was uplifting to have my Seattle (and part of my Portland) family with me to support me.  Gary and Heather joked with the nurses that with the number of visitors I had, they would need to supply a red velvet rope and bouncer.  For many moments that evening, I actually forgot about the pain.  Perhaps it was the Vicodin, but I doubt it was just that — I was laughing a lot with everyone and had a smile on my face.

Although I came home yesterday, it took me a while before I had enough emotional strength to look at the incisions.  I have worked with my therapist on this moment for the past month, so it was a big event to finally look in the mirror to see what my body looks like.  I have seen tons of photos of women post -bilateral mastectomy, so the actual incisions didn’t bother me.  Seeing those incisions on my body was the biggest shock.  I’m not sure I’ve actually really processed what’s happened to me, so I suspect that I will have several “freak out” moments in the near future.

It’s been nice to be distracted by all the wonderful care I’ve received since my surgery.  Dawn drove up from Portland to take care of me this week.  Destiny, Sven, Richie, Winda, Oz, Gary, Heather, Marshall, Stefan, and Shea all came to visit me in the hospital.  Jackie slept in a cot next to me while I was in recovery in the hospital.  Howard was my first visitor at home and brought me fresh hummus, yummy olives, and fresh flowers from his garden.  Laura brought over dinner last night and lunch today.   I’ve received more flowers than I have countertops and tables to support  — thanks Marshall, Brian & Shannon, Levi, and Princess Jae & Bunny Ben!  And I have received more calls and emails than I can remember while on Vicodin.  The amount of love and support I’ve received is so overwhelming that it’s impossible to feel sad or depressed.

Bye Bye Boobies

I’m sitting in the waiting room of Virginia Mason Hospital.  My surgery is in an hour-and-a-half.  The radiologist just performed the lymphscintigraphy on both of my breasts so that my surgeon will know which lymph nodes to evaluate first during the surgery.  The radiologist had to give me eight injections at each nipple to do this procedure.  Now that was an unpleasant procedure.  But I every time I hear another name called at the front desk, I remember that the real unpleasnat procedure is yet to come.  I dread the moment when they call my name.

Thankfully, I’ve been through this process several times before, so I know what to expect after I am escorted to surgery induction.  Changing out of all my clothes, putting on what the nurse will refer to as “hospital Victoria Secret underwear,” being asked my name and birthday several times by several nurses and technicians, watching the nurse put the IV in my hand (which I hate), meeting with the anesthesiologist, yada yada yada.  Though this time, I am fearful that I will start sobbing uncontrollably the moment right before the anethesia hits, because I know that coming out the other side will not be like any of the other times I’ve been in the operating room.

I know I will hear the surgeon call my name to wake me up.  I will feel terrible throat irritation from the breathing tube.  I’ll have to pee but won’t be able to if I try.  I won’t be able to hold down a frigging saltine but I’ll be ravenous.  And my head will feel like I was hit by a semi.  But what I can’t mentally prepare for is the pain I know I will feel in my chest — both from the surgical scars from the mastectomies and from the pain in my heart that I know I will feel when I realize that they are really gone.  I scared shitless that it will be like waking up only to find out that the nightmare has just begun.  I laughed a lot yesterday and even this morning during my lymphscintigraphy.  I worry most that I will lose the ability (physically and mentally/emotionally) to laugh.

Size Really Doesn’t Matter

This evening, I went to a swanky Downtown Seattle bar to meet up with some of my former attorney and paralegal colleagues.  As we were enjoying each other’s company, we started talking about my breast reconstruction.  We discussed whether I should have small “C” of full “B” implants.  The bartender, who was approximatley 10-15 feet away from our table, interrupted our conversation to alert us that we should change our conversation because others could hear what we were talking about.  Being me and not being ashamed of a very natural conversation, I challenged our bartender to put our conversation to rest by telling me what size implants I should have.  He immediately said that I should have full “Cs.”  I clarified that I was only 5′1″ “on a good day” and asked him to re-evaluate his suggestion, even getting out of my chair to demonstrate my height and frame to him.  He blushed and quickly changed his answer to full “B.”  I mean, even the dude trying to get a good tip out of us recognized that I shouldn’t be a circus freak.

Our cute bartender ended his shift shortly after our exchange and came over to flirt with us on his way out.  He indicated that I was just fine as I was and pointed out that there was much more to me that would be attractive than my boob size.  He winked at me and walked away.  Gotta love the moments of reinforced self-esteem!

Really Feel the Pain

Right before I started chemo I had a long conversation with a dear friend of mine, John.  John knows me pretty well, and he confronted me with his concerns that I would “put on a happy face” during treatment, not ask for help from others, and not allow myself to cry and be sad when necessary.  I assured him at the time that I would be fine and that his concerns were misplaced — that I would, in fact, allow myself whatever I need to get through this experience in one piece.  Today I realized that John’s concerns were, in part, very valid.  I have not really allowed myself to feel sad or depressed about my situation and what’s happening to me.  I have not let my guard down very often to let myself cry.  And although there’s value in being able to “power through” a tough situation, I know now that I am not immune to the grieving process that must occur with the huge changes that will happen to me within a week.  

I woke up in the middle of the night last night/this morning and had a panic attack.  I realized that this time next week will be the eve of my surgery.  No more lolly-gagging around, acting like nothing’s wrong and hoping that I will wake up and all of this will be a bad dream.  No more taking mental solace in the fact that my surgery “isn’t until next month.”  It’s time to really confront what this disease will take from me and I am so fucking angry about what’s about to happen to my body that I can hardly contain myself.  I’ve let go of so much anger in my life in the process of dealing with Karla, so it’s very confusing to be in a space where I’m fist-clenchingly angry.  I know this is a different kind of anger than the anger I used to harbor in my life, but it’s still very uncomfortable and confusing.

I’ve come a long way, and right now I feel like I am generally a happy person who doesn’t like dwelling on bad stuff — especially when it comes to me.  Even in the midst of my crappy diagnosis and the hardships of my treatment, I’ve kept a positive attitude.  I admit that I’ve had moments where I’ve questioned “Why me?,” but all in all, I haven’t spent a lot of time in that mental space.  When confronted with any form of sadness, depression, or even self-pity, I’ve quickly ushered my mind into “problem solving mode” and/or distracted myself with projects and activities (e.g. working out, cleaning my condo, watching bad reality programming).  This is avoidance behavior and I know it.  I recognize that is important to allow myself to feel sad/mad/depressed.  And I mean really feel it in order to process it.  Feel it for longer than 10 minutes or a couple hours.  Maybe even let myself be mentally or emotionally out of commission for a day or two.  However, I’ve not allowed myself to wander in that territory.  I’ve been in “fight” mode for so long and it is such a natural part of who I am and how I deal with conflict, that I’m in unfamiliar waters as I feel the sadness start to close in on me.  I’m scared shitless and I don’t know what to do to make myself feel better.  There will be no ushering of my mind into problem solving mode this week.  There may be some distractions, but only out of necessity (i.e. work and getting my condo ready for me to be home for 2 weeks).  It’s time to grieve and to assure myself that mourning is okay. 

In less than one week I go under the knife and lose both my breasts.  I know that the person I stare at in the mirror every morning will be much different (both physically and mentally/emotionally), but I have no clue in what way I’ll be different, and that scares the shit out of me.  Will I be a depressed boobless hag?  Will I be ever be happy and content again?  I’m also really starting to lament the loss of my breasts.  They may be small and one may be diseased, but they have been my breasts since the beginning, and I have no clue what it will be like to confront my body in the mirror for the first time without my breasts.  I do not look forward to that moment.  My therapist reminded me today that moments of change, though stressful and in my case shitty, are moments of growth.  I wish I could focus on that obvious positive spin, but right now all I can think about is how I will soon lose the body I was born with.  I’m scared because I don’t know how to redefine who I am without the body parts that not only make me a whole person, but that make me a woman and make me me.  The wave of drastic change is rushing toward me like a tsunami and there’s nothing I can do to avoid the inevitable reality that awaits me on the other side of the anesthesia.  It also doesn’t help to know that it will be a full year from when my reconstruction begins to when I will be as whole as plastic surgery can make me.  I’m having a “Book of Job” moment and all I want to do is throw my hands in the air, curse the fucking heavens, and allow myself to scream, cry, bitch, and repeat.  My challenge this week is to allow myself to do just that.

National Breast Cancer Awareness Month

My snarky law clerk, Eric, came into my office today to remind me that it is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Eric is one sarcastic bastard, and for that I love him.

Eric’s “reminder” got me thinking about what it means to me for this to be National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  I’ve seen a lot of soundbites on TV reminding women about breast cancer screening or reporting the stories of various breast cancer survivors.  I think back to last October, when my main health concern was my endometriosis and fibroids, for which I had surgery.  Breast cancer awareness was definitely not on my mind. 

I’ve also thought a lot about how breast cancer was not on my radar because I’ve been under the impression that my Mom had lung cancer that spread to her breast.  At least that’s what my Mom’s doctors in the 70s told my Dad.  Now, 30+ years of research has taught us that it was most likely the other way around.  And to think, I am and have been an avid non-smoker forever.  Don’t get me wrong, I love not having: (1) lung cancer, emphysema, or any of the other lovely diseases associated with smoking; (2) ashtray breath; and (3) an addiction that costs me $5 a pack.  My issue is I can’t help but feel like a ninny for taking up the anti-smoking cause this whole time without bothering to check the research to verify my breast cancer risk.  I’ve learned so much this past year, and it just sucks that all this information (or at least most of it) was available to me well before my diagnosis. 

But then I think about what I would have done differently if I had known prior to my diagnosis that yes, my Mom had breast cancer first, and yes, I’m at a much higher risk of breast cancer than the regular population.  Let’s be honest — it is likely that I would have done nothing differently.  Maybe I would have gone in earlier for screening, but as for my day-to-day, it is very hard to break inertia.  And if you know me, you know that that concept is doubly true for me.  It took the actual diagnosis to shake up my world and get me to reevaluate the path I was on.  It would have been nice, however, to be a bit more mentally prepared for that reality.

We continue to learn more about breast cancer every day.  I don’t mean just doctors and researchers, I mean everyone — employees around the water cooler, people on the bus, and even friends sitting around a dinner table, which was my experience last night.  I had dinner and great conversation with some old friends from Hawaii – Rachael, Mike, and Marita (and Marita’s husband, Ian).  Rachael and Marita are sisters and they shared with me that their doctors advised them to start mammogram screening 10 years prior to the age of the youngest woman in their family diagnosed with cancer.  Since they have an aunt who was diagnosed at 45, they both intend to start screening when they turn 35.  I had never heard of this method of calculating when to start mammograms.  And although when to start screening may be different for every woman, I realized today that there’s a lot of information out there about preventive care that I don’t know.

In a little over a week I will have both of my breasts removed.  Although it may be too late for me to utilize information about preventive care, it is not too late for most of women out there to take control of their destinies and get educated about their own breast cancer risks.   And that’s exactly what National Breast Cancer Awareness Month means to me – refusing to dwell in the mental “safe zone” of having a lack of information (or outdated information in my case).  Rather, using this month as an “excuse” to seek the information to confirm one’s actual breast cancer risks and when screening should start.  Wow.  I didn’t mean to sound like a PSA, but hell, that’s what motivated this blog post.