It’s Hard to Be Thankful This Time of Year

There are obviously many things for me to be thankful for.  Being alive and cancer free is nothing to shake a stick at.  Having a great support group who has taken care of me this whole time is equally awesome.  And nothing beats having the best cancer care team in the whole world as the icing on my cake of thankfulness.  But despite all these things I know I should celebrate this Thanksgiving, I’ve been feeling a bit down the last few days.  At first, I pushed my depression aside as temporary, but it has persisted and I’m still feeling off. 

The anniversary of my Mother’s death was this past Wednesday.  It has been 29 years since she left us and each year I think it won’t be a big deal when her anniversary comes around.  I mean, I was three years old when she died and it’s been a long time since her death.  I have a ton of friends who lost parents when they were older and able to process their respective losses much better than a three-year-old could.  That said, it confuses me each year when I catch myself in a melancholy mood during the Thanksgiving holiday.

I’m in a particularly melancholy mood right now, given the battle I’ve fought this year.  I feel like I should feel more empowered, content, and happy with life, but I’m experiencing quite the opposite.  When I think about my Mom’s death, I realize now more than ever before, how hard her battle was.  I can’t imagine what chemo was like for her, receiving the same Adriamycin crap they gave me, but in one dose instead of four.  I’m also sobered by the thought of what my Dad went through during her treatment, watching her slowly deteriorate and die in front of him.  Again, I can’t imagine that experience.  My path has been much easier and for that I am truly grateful.  But it’s hard to be thankful this time of year when the anniversary of my Mother’s death highlights the things I have lost.  And when I think about the things I have lost to this disease — my Mother, my breasts — I feel sad and angry.  I’m staring at my physical therapist’s notes to me on how I can regain range of motion in my arms; I’m feeling that sensation of numbness in my chest and armpits; I notice a slight twinge of pain as I reach behind me to scratch my back; and I realize that I’ve lost a lot this year.  And yes, I know I’ve gained a lot more than I’ve lost, I for whatever reason, I am still focused on my grief.  I suspect the haze of depression will fade in a few days and at that point I can focus more on the positives in my life and all that I have to be thankful for, but for now, all I want to do is sit on my couch and cry.

Even Better News Makes Life More Complicated

I had my post-mastectomy follow-up with Dr. Pinder on Friday.  She came into the examination room with a big smile on her face, commenting on how excited she was when she received my test results after my surgery.  I responded that I, too, was extremely happy to find out that the margins were clear of cancer and that I didn’t need to have radiation therapy.  She replied that not only were the margins of tissue taken from my mastectomies clear of cancer, but Karla was entirely gone.  Dr. Pinder explained that only approximately 20% of people who receive chemotherapy respond that well.  She was extremely excited about this news because the fact that I did so well with chemo makes it likely that my prognosis will be positive and I will remain cancer-free in the future.

I misunderstood my test results when they were given to me on the phone right after my surgery.  I thought the margins of the tissue my surgeon took were clear.  I had no idea that Karla was entirely gone.  I’ve had a few brief moments where this news made me a bit sad, wondering if I had the bilateral mastectomy prematurely.  I mean, hell, if I responded so well to chemo that Karla packed up her bags and exited my life that easy, then perhaps I didn’t need to have my undiseased left breast taken off?  But when my mind goes to that space, I remind myself that I was 31 years old when I was diagnosed with a very aggressive strain of cancer.  Regardless of how well I took to chemo, I know in my heart that my body is predisposed towards having breast cancer, and it will be just a matter of time before the researchers confirm that my genetic mutation is, in fact, deleterious.  I will take the blessing of a positive prognosis for what it’s worth and not question my earlier decisions about treatment.

Part of what makes this news a bit hard to swallow is that all my girlfriends are having babies.  Within a total of eleven months, ten babies will have been born to my group of friends.  There has been a lot of talk about babies and breastfeeding, and it’s been a bit sobering now that my surgery is complete to look at my chest and realize that I will not be able to breastfeed any children I have.  It’s one aspect of my surgery that bothers me once in a while.  I know that any children I have will be okay, breastfed or not, but I do worry about my children’s immunity to disease, my ability to bond with them, and the whole slew of things we may miss out on because I am unable to breastfeed.  I know I need to get over it, but the wounds from my surgery are still fresh (figuratively, that is).  It will take some time to really process the changes to my body.

And there has been no other area of my life that highlights the changes to my body as much as getting back into the “singles scene.”  I had my first date in a very long time on Friday evening, and although it went well, I just don’t know if I’m ready to start dating again.  I feel extremely tentative about my body, and I’m worried that my fear will continue to hold me back in social situations.  I’m not sure I want to continue to date this particular guy, but what I do know is that I will need to discuss these issues further in therapy.  Thank God for therapy.

Everything’s Dangerous

I have to vent.  My mastectomy scars are healing nicely, so I decided to start using a shea butter skin lotion to keep my skin and the scars hydrated.  Tonight, I searched online for appropriate lotions for this type of scar care, and found out that the lotion I’m using is considered “bad” because it contains parabens.  Every fracking commercial lotion made contains parabens.  And if the lotion doesn’t contain parabens, it contains something else “harmful.” 

I do my best to eat organic and I’m trying to buy more “natural” cleaning products and cosmetics.  But having had cancer once, I don’t want to do anything that will seriously increase my chances of getting cancer again.  On the other hand, I hate how fear-driven our society is, and I worry that I’m falling into the trap of fear motivating my actions – specifically what kinds of skin care products I do and don’t buy.  I just need a fracking lotion.  How frustrating!

Redefining “Normal”

A couple weeks ago, I received clearance from Dr. Wechter, my surgeon, to start working out again.  At first I took it slow, doing some brisk walking outside and stationary cycling in the gym.  Now I’m back to running full speed and I intend to return to pilates this week.  I also start physical therapy soon.  My energy is up and I am excited to return to my pre-surgery activity level.  My range of motion and strength are still limited, but I am feeling very close to being as “normal” as I can be with no breasts.

I sometimes forget that “normal” for me will be in quotation marks for a while.  These moments come up when I try to move in a way my body used to be able to move but is now different.  Although I can still execute the movement, it’s just not the same.  I can feel my muscles and connective tissue work differently, and it’s a very weird experience.  Dressing and undressing, grabbing a glass off the top shelf, and turning to my nightstand to turn off my alarm will never feel the same.

I also have these moments of forgetting that my body is different when I engage socially with people.  For example, I had a pretty awesome night out on the town with my friends this past Friday.  We visited a couple local bars, and I had great interactions with a few guys there.  I felt very comfortable conversing with these men, and I was excited to be given attention again as a single woman.  I felt almost back to my “normal” gregarious and flirty self.  However, when I was asked for my phone number by one of the guys I was talking to, I became extremely shy.  I was scared by the prospect of going out on a date with someone.  Prior to my surgery, I would have jumped on such an opportunity without thinking.  But here, in this moment with this very polite and engaging guy, I hesitated.  I mean, when do I have the conversation with him about the fact that I don’t have breasts?  My gut tells me that we should have that conversation early in order for me to manage expectations appropriately, but how early is too early?  Too much disclosure early on may scare a guy off.  I’m confused and for the first time in a long time, a bit uncomfortable in my own skin.

Despite all this, I gave the polite guy my phone number and we have a date this Friday to grab a drink after work.  Although I am feeling uncomfortable about how to navigate in these uncharted waters, I’m glad I’ve made the effort to try.  I suspect I’ll crash and burn a few times along the way, but like my physical therapy to address my range of motion and strength issues, I need some romantic therapy to get me back on the horse again and able to address these new issues I face as a single woman who has just had a bilateral mastectomy.  It will be interesting to blog after my date on Friday.

Reminded of My Vulnerability

My sincere apologies for such a long hiatus from blogging.  I’m actually quite embarrassed by my last post too.  My best friend, Martin, and I have dinner every Wednesday and we celebrated that Wednesday a bit more than I had planned.  Good company, good conversation, and good wine mix well, but wine and blogging don’t always mix well.  Again, my apologies.

It has been a little over four weeks from my surgery and I am doing quite well.  The incisions are healing and I’m getting better every day.  I’m slowly getting back my range of motion and strength in my arms and I’m also slowly getting used to how I look in the mirror every morning.  I still have moments when I feel like fracking Frankenstein, but I really do value the peace I feel when I think about how the road ahead will be easier ahead, given the hard choices I have made about my surgery.

My doctors confirmed that I will not need radiation treatment.  Whoo hoo!  That also means that I can have implants for my reconstruction.  Although it’s been several weeks since my surgery, I can’t really focus on the reconstruction yet.  I’m still adjusting after the bilateral mastectomy and will need a bit more time to really process what has happened.

A moment I had in the airport last week reminded me of the impact of what has happened to me and that I have a lot more sorting through to do before I can mentally move on to the next step.  I was on my way to San Francisco to visit friends for Halloween.  Standing in line to go through the metal detector, I took off my coat, shoes, belt, and emptied my pockets.  My friend, Stefan, helped me with my carry-on luggage that day, because I was still having difficulty lifting stuff.  The woman on the other side of the metal detector looked at me and yelled at me to take off my sweatshirt and hat.  I didn’t understand why I needed to take off my sweatshirt and hat, given that I had not yet gone through the metal detector.  Nonetheless, I tried complying with the woman’s requests.  I struggled with my sweatshirt for a long time.  Although I’m much better now, at the time, it took me twice as long to dress and undress as it had taken me prior to the surgery.  While struggling with my sweatshirt, I noticed the long line of travelers watching me, wondering what the hell was going on and why I was taking so long to take off a simple sweatshirt.  I started having an anxiety attack when I realized that not only was I feeling rushed, but that after taking off my sweatshirt and hat, I would be fully exposed.  My t-shirt under my sweatshirt would do little to hide the fact that I no longer have breasts and my almost bald head would expose the fact that I am sick.  I felt more vulnerable than I had been in a long time.  To make matters worse, the stupid TSA lady on the other side of the metal detector was unsympathetic.  She continued to yell at me to get my sweatshirt and hat off so that the line could proceed forward.  I thought about saying something to her or asking for her manager, but didn’t want to be detained by TSA because I complained.  When I finally got through the stupid line and was able to get my shoes on, I started to cry.  And I couldn’t stop crying.  The TSA lady’s lack of sympathy, crappy attitude, and ignorance represented everything I have tried to avoid since my diagnosis.  Add to that my lack of control — hell, of course I’d love to take my stupid sweatshirt off like any normal human being — and what you get is a bawling wreck.

Thankfully, my friends were very supportive for the remainder of our trip, and it was amazing to see all my friends for Halloween.  Though the trip started off on a very bad foot, it ended on an uplifting one.  Receiving even more support from my extended family was the best thing for my recovery.  I do recognize though, that moments like that with the TSA lady may continue to pop up here and there and that I need to own them as they come along.  My journey is not over yet and there will be many more obstacles along the way.  I just hope I’m more prepared in the future than I was with the TSA lady.