ADDING BY SUBTRACTION

no, not about math, relax...

Hello and welcome.  Addition by subtraction?  It's not exactly math but some subtraction in my life is about to take place and in a few months, some addition... I don't want to be vague. Here goes. I have cancer.

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     One in Eight women will develop breast cancer over their lifetime. Those are the odds. They increase if there is a genetic factor. Every year, it’s like playing Russian Roulette when we go for our screenings. We sit in the waiting rooms of imaging places and look around. Is it me or is it someone else sitting here? This year, it was me. I took a hit. There’s no other women in my family with breast cancer or who has had it. You’re welcome ladies, I took one for the familial team.

 You have Breast Cancer. Four words that made me stop dead in my tracks and sent a complete panic over me. What does this now mean? Am I going to survive? Will my life ever be the same? How? I eat clean, exercise and don’t have any vices aside from booze. I felt no lump and had no symptoms either. Let’s look at that pesky statistic again…one in eight. I’m one. I don’t like those odds.

 So how did I find out that something evil grows within? Six month diagnostic  Ultra Sound screening along with mammogram. I get both because my breasts are extremely dense. Like me, haha!!  My primary care physician called me later that day to tell me that I need to go for a biopsy (definitely a level of hell, from my own experience). Ultra Sound Assisted Biopsy.  Well, how bad could that be? It was ugly.

 The ultra sound is used to find the area in question and then a sample (or more) is taken. It’s a fast procedure that feels like a life time. Here’s what really goes down. The ultra sound is used to find it. They press hard. Really really hard. There’s more. Once they find it, they mark the spot. Then they numb you…needles. The first needle was no big deal, the second one was awful as it went waaaaaaay deeper. Once I was good and numb, and wiped away a tear, an incision was made and the contraption they use came out. It’s placed on/in the incision and sounds and feels like a pneumatic nailer. Did I mention you have to stay still and not hold your breath? Several rounds of that and I’m done. Not so fast…they put a titanium marker in me. I was highly disappointed in that I can’t set off any metal detectors. I am titanium, take that, Sia!!! Anyway, not quite done with the biopsy and marker placement.  They need to know that the marker is where it has to be. Mammogram time. I wish I was kidding.  Manhandled, stabbed, jabbed, poked, prodded and shot and now you want to squish it? Let’s just say potholes were my nemesis on the ride home.

A few days later, Frankboob has emerged, a little early for Halloween, boob. Green/purple/yellow and holy painful. The bruising subsided after a few weeks although a fair amount is still there after three weeks. I was one of the few people that develops a hematoma from all of the boob action of biopsy. Go Me!

Wanna know why women refer to their breasts as “the girls?” It’s because once in a while, those bitches will turn on you in the most evil of ways. Mine did. The left one must hate me. I’ve named her Felicia, “Bye Felicia, you trifling and has got to go.”

Cancer…six letters from hell.  Cancer hurts, not a physical pain for me but one that has definitely wounded my soul in the most profound way. It’s a nightmarish word that means so many different things, depending on the person. That adds to the confusion.  There are many forms and combinations of breast cancer. All of a sudden, it’s a shit-storm of words and letters and positive and negative signs.  All of the different combinations respond differently to treatments and have different surgical options. So, now, my vocabulary (and confusion) has grown. I don’t like these new vocabulary words at all.

In my particular case, I’ve decided on a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. Drastic? Nope. I don’t need two weeks of every year wondering if this crap has returned. Get it out, all of it, leave no boob unturned. I thought this would be easy. Cut me open, take out the bad stuff (or the evil that lurks within), put in some perky implants and close me up.  Haha, nope, not so fast!  The first part is correct, get it all out. I’m small to begin with so there’s not a lot of skin. That means, I don’t have enough skin to cover an implant. It’s not like I was looking to be Dolly Parton! I just wanted a little something more than I had! Solution? Expanders. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Little pockets that get slipped over the muscle before closing me up on the operating table. After I heal, I get regular saline fills on a schedule until my skin has expanded and adjusted enough and then back for another operation to swap out the expanders and replace with implants. It’s not like the Nike pump sneakers, although that would be fun! Adjustable boobs!!  Inflate or deflate according to your needs and outfits!  Now in vibrant hues as well as lights for jogging at night. Gives new meaning to the word headlights!!!  No, this is saline. Every few weeks, I’ll see the plastic surgeon who will use a magnet on my foobs (faux boobs, if you please) to find the port and fill me up. No joke!

Once that is done, months after everything heals, I get tattoos! Two of them. Nothing exciting, just fipples (faux nipples). Lovely. My first tattoos and it has to be those? My husband pointed out it starts with just a tattoo and then I’ll want a whole sleeve of them. No thank you, I don’t need a whole arm full of nipples!  I will get a tattoo of some sort, aside from the perky pair for my surgery. I am in the process of finding the exact word I need. It will go on the side of the boob that went rogue and wanted to kill me.

Along with getting all of the girls out (those bitches), they need to remove my sentinel nodes and check for evidence of cancer there. If nothing shows, good to go. If something shows, axcillary nodes are next. That will mean chemo too.  Once the girls are out, they’re sent to the lab for an oncotype, that number determines chemo as well. SO, here I sit, knowing my boobs go bye bye and will probably be on Herceptin, which doesn’t interfere with reconstruction. Chemo would. It’s all up in the air. As Captain Ron would say, “If anything is going to happen, it’s going to happen out there…” Good thing he’s not one of my surgeons.

Wouldn’t it be neat if implants had the option to have a squeaky mechanism, like a squeaky toy or a bicycle horn? That would be fun, right? Inflatable/adjustable boobs, built in headlight and now sounds! I’m telling you, there’s a whole untapped market here!! Shark tank, here I come!

Paralyzed. That’s how all of this makes me feel at random times. Paralyzed. I don’t want to leave the house. Why? Spontaneous crying and some fierce anxiety that pops up when it’s most inconvenient!  There’s a logical approach to cancer and it’s all neat and tidy and makes sense and should be calming. Then there’s fear. Buckle up buttercup, it’s an emotional rollercoaster ride from hell with Satan himself controlling the ride.

Paper work. I’ve got sheets of paper from all over the place. Medical reports and EOB’s by the dozen.  I made a big mistake last week. I read the biopsy report along with the MRI…then I googled. That was bad. Really bad. Panic set in and I called the PA at my surgeon’s office who calmly talked me off of the ledge and got me out of my proverbial casket. Note to self, Google is off limits and don’t read anymore sheets of paper. I need my sanity for now.

Logic. It’s gone. Logic escaped me like air leaving a balloon.  I used to run and work out like a fiend. I don’t now. At first, it was from the agony of the biopsy. Now, I’m terrified that any jiggling, pounding or vibrations will set the evil nugget on a journey of destruction and doom. Sounds ridiculous, right? I know that in my head, that cannot happen.  I had a mild flip out (ok not so mild, full blown panic) after the biopsy too. What if a few cells made a break for it and wreaked havoc elsewhere? If this were even remotely possible, biopsies would not be done that way.  So, logic has taken a temporary sabbatical since my diagnosis. Perhaps a lobotomy is in order while in the operating room?

Hiding. Some days, that’s all I want to do. I drive my kids to school and back but that’s it. What am I hiding from? Good question.  Maybe I’m hiding from people. I’m not a people person usually so that’s not farfetched. I hide for the fear of germs. I can’t get sick before this operation. I need this operation, like last week already. As a result, I stay away from shopping and socializing and literally have to muster courage and strength to venture out some days. On the same topic of people, am I hiding from having to explain why I’m not as visible? That’s a part of it. Saying I have cancer out loud scares me. It becomes too real. How am I supposed to tell anyone when I have difficulty admitting it to myself? What happens after people know? Do they stick around and lift me up? Some have and I love you all for it. I’m afraid of the look of pity. Don’t want it. Don’t need it. I don’t think I’ve gotten that, yet.  I’m quite capable of my own pity parties. I’ve had several. Okay, I’ve had more than several. Maybe I should have cocktails at my pity parties. No, you’re not invited. 

People. People will surprise you with their reactions.  It turns out I have the loveliest tribe of women supporting me. Whether it be the daily phone calls, hilarious memes and funny texts, flowers, a bracelet, a shawl to take to the hospital with me, all of these things have made me feel less alone and less scared. Because I am scared.  Some people have dropped out completely. That’s ok. I get it. I wanted to drop out completely myself, but I can’t. It’s taken me a while to come to terms with this and accept that I currently have cancer. Currently. I intend to change that.  Sometimes I am in denial but good old Frankenboob likes to not so gently remind me. That bitch!

Pink. I have a love/hate relationship with pink.  It’s pretty and flattering on every woman but it’s always been too girlie for me. Cancer isn’t. Cancer is everything dark and putrid and stealing of light and hope. Pink is everything but those things. Pink represents breast cancer. I think I finally get it. Breast cancer can make you feel defeated, rob you of dignity and take away symbols of femininity. A vibrant pink makes me smile. It’s pretty. Ok cancer, you can take my boobs, but you can’t change me. This is gonna suck for a while. I’m going to kick your ass, while wearing pink. And I’m going to smile.

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