Oh man, I am so exhausted from my errands!
At the end of my day, Dr. Oncologist tacked on a brief appointment with her. She said she couldn't go without seeing me. It was great to touch base with her, in person, for the first time since receiving the preliminary pathological results last night.
The bonus was that she had the results of some of my scans: there does not appear to be any cancer in my bones (huzzah!) and my brain is also "unremarkable" (I beg to differ, but huzzah for no cancer!). There are more data to come, regarding whether cancer cells are in my blood and whether cancer cells have taken up shop in my internal organs. A blood test and a PET scan, respectively, will provide those data. I gave the blood sample today, and the PET scan will be on Monday at 8 am.
Intriguingly, she has not yet concluded that the cancer is inflammatory breast cancer (IBC; what I had before), either new or recurrent. Clearly we need to wait for the breast biopsy results to make any conclusions, but I had already been assuming that it is IBC. That is because the current lump feels EXACTLY like the beginning of my previous bout with IBC. I am very interested in the notion that it could be something different, perhaps even a "normal" cancer that is not as bad as IBC.
I am trying not to get my hopes up for a different cancer, but it is hard because it feels so good to end the day with hope. Also, I don't even know what I'm hoping for. Mastectomy before chemo instead of after? Different chemo that turns my hair curly instead of straight? Once daily radiation for 5 weeks instead of twice daily for 3? I lack information to make clear hopes, but I know that I don't want IBC, and I don't know of the worse things that I should be hoping against.
In summary, the cancer is not in my bones. It's not in my brains. And I will use my healthy-brain mind powers to quarantine the cancer until Western medicine has caught up to me.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Avalanche
The mountain was shaken. Here comes the avalanche.
I'm on my way to the clinic here in town for a blood draw, bone scan, brain MRI, and heart echo. All today, starting as soon as I put my shoes on. PET scan on Monday at 8am. The purpose of these tests is to discover whether or not the cancer has spread to other locations in my body. I will get the results of these scans on Monday afternoon.
No updates on the breast pathology yet.
Haven't told the kids yet. We're billing it as a fun family day at home, and mommy has a couple of errands to run.
Errands.
I'm on my way to the clinic here in town for a blood draw, bone scan, brain MRI, and heart echo. All today, starting as soon as I put my shoes on. PET scan on Monday at 8am. The purpose of these tests is to discover whether or not the cancer has spread to other locations in my body. I will get the results of these scans on Monday afternoon.
No updates on the breast pathology yet.
Haven't told the kids yet. We're billing it as a fun family day at home, and mommy has a couple of errands to run.
Errands.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Cancer, details unknown
New hardest thing I've ever had to do: have a normal evening with my darling daughters after Dr. Surgical Oncologist calls with a preliminary diagnosis.
6:04 pm Normal life
6:05 pm Cancer life
6:10 pm Pretend it's still 6:04
The only result she has so far is of the lymph node aspiration, and that was indicative of cancer. It strongly suggests that the lump they biopsied will be cancer. The lump biopsy results will likely be delayed until next week now that we know it is cancer, because they will run extra tests (is it estrogen-receptor positive, for example) to determine all of the markers.
Dr. Surgical Oncologist said the first thing I will have to do is meet with one of her colleagues, a medical oncologist, to discuss the risks of repeated chemotherapy treatments.
Because we will once again start with chemotherapy.
Dr. Surgical Oncologist offered to call Dr. Oncologist tomorrow and discuss my case. I said please and thank you.
I apologize that you are reading this here, because you deserve a phone call, but I lacked the strength. I broke the news to my daddy, then my mommy, and tried to call my other mommy (in law), and then took the easy way out on this here blog. It's too hard.
6:04 pm Normal life
6:05 pm Cancer life
6:10 pm Pretend it's still 6:04
The only result she has so far is of the lymph node aspiration, and that was indicative of cancer. It strongly suggests that the lump they biopsied will be cancer. The lump biopsy results will likely be delayed until next week now that we know it is cancer, because they will run extra tests (is it estrogen-receptor positive, for example) to determine all of the markers.
Dr. Surgical Oncologist said the first thing I will have to do is meet with one of her colleagues, a medical oncologist, to discuss the risks of repeated chemotherapy treatments.
Because we will once again start with chemotherapy.
Dr. Surgical Oncologist offered to call Dr. Oncologist tomorrow and discuss my case. I said please and thank you.
I apologize that you are reading this here, because you deserve a phone call, but I lacked the strength. I broke the news to my daddy, then my mommy, and tried to call my other mommy (in law), and then took the easy way out on this here blog. It's too hard.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
No fear
Today I went the distance to get a second opinion from Dr. Surgical Oncologist regarding my lumpish thing that's going on. To recap, Dr. Radiologist in my town said not to worry, it's just a mildly inflamed lymph node, but Dr. Oncologist wasn't satisfied that evaluation and suggested I give my rockstar Dr. Surgical Oncologist a chance to check it out.
The clinic was unusually quiet today. I barely had my coat off when I was called back into a room. I handed over the disks of my recent scans, then I played on my new smart phone while waiting for the doctor. She came in and rather quickly made the same evaluation as Dr. Oncologist and me: there is definitely something new and unusual going on in there. She said that she'd like to have another ultrasound, perhaps one where they did not focus exclusively on the lymph nodes. Fortunately they could fit me in later in the day. Pending the ultrasounds results, she presented three plans: A) perhaps the radiologists would like to use the ultrasound to guide a biopsy, B) if not, she would like me to come back to her clinic where she would perform a biopsy, and C) perhaps we'll just perform a lumpectomy on a later date, regardless of A or B.
I said that all sounded fabulous because of things: 1) biopsies are the best ways to get answers, even when they are inconclusive; and 2) I love her anti-wait-and-see strategy. I've already waited, and I've already seen. Given my previous bout with IBC, further waiting does seem to be nonsensical.
I had just over two hours to wait until my ultrasound appointment. I decided to visit the hospital library. On my way there I walked through an atrium that was resonating with some delicious music. It was coming from somewhere below me, but mirrors and windows prevented me from seeing the source. I changed course to better enjoy the music and was delighted to find a string quartet playing Beethoven. They were brilliant. It was unclear how often they performed in the hospital, but it's possible that it was a rare bit of marketing because at the end of their performance they invited everyone to attend their recital on Friday. It was a lovely interlude in my day.
The ultrasound technician was friendly, talented, and quick. Within minutes she had the pictures she wanted and was out the door to consult with Dr. Radiologist. The technician returned to my side with both Dr. Radiologist and Dr. Department Head Radiologist, who all took turns exploring the live images. They concluded that in addition to the lymph nodes identified by the previous scans, I had an additionally enlarged lymph node in my arm pit. Only slightly enlarged, but noticeable. Regarding the lumpish firmness that started me on this path, they determined that it is irregular and a shade darker than the neighboring tissue (by ultrasound), but that is all. There is nothing really to see or say about it.
Just after 3pm they agreed that a biopsy would be a good thing to do, and yes they would go ahead and do it then and there. They decided to perform a needle aspiration of the largest lymph node (armpit) and to perform a needle biopsy of the firmness. I said yes to all of it. Everyone left the room. Then the parade began.
The technician came back and started prepping things for minor surgery.
Dr. Radiologist reentered and asked if I'd be part of a research study.
Dr. Research Study arrived and invited me to participate in a research study on whether or not the DNA and RNA of breast cancer are the same as in adjacent armpit lymph nodes. Even if my results are benign/negative, I would be part of the normal (control) group of participants. Naturally, I agreed to be a part of the study.
Dr. Department Head Radiologist entered and exited numerous times, apparently waiting to witness one particular aspect of the procedures.
Three pathologists arrived and set up a microscope just outside the room to analyze certain samples instantly. This does not mean that I have results for you; this means that they needed to ensure that they had enough of my cells to perform their tests. Here's how it worked: Dr. Radiologist numbed up the area, then used the ultrasound wand to guide where she inserted the needle. Once satisfied with the location, she sucked up a tiny amount of cells from the fluid part of my lymph node. Then she sent the needle-full of my lymph node cells out to the pathologists. She did this repeatedly until they said that they had a sufficient amount of my cells. It took 5 needle samples.
Then Dr. Radiologist took a bonus sample of lymph node (the size of pencil lead is what they told me, but that's a touch ambiguous) and gave it to Dr. Research Study.
The pathologists left, then Dr. Department Head Radiologist came in and stayed for the lump biopsy. Dr. Radiologist once again used the ultrasound wand to tell her where to stick her instruments. Using a noisy little needle-punch contraption she took out 5 samples, all approved and indeed coached by Dr. Department Head. Then she took one bonus sample for Dr. Research Study. At some point during this phase of sampling, Dr. Surgical Oncologist stopped by to see how things looked.
I have nothing to fear as long as these women are on my team.
The penultimate task was to insert a little token into the lump. They placed a sterile titanium clip to mark the area that they biopsied (this should tell you how difficult it is to visualize this lumpish thing--they had to permanently mark it with a metal shard).
Then the final step was a mammogram, to be sure that the clip is in there, and in the right place. But putting a freshly biopsied breast in a mammogram compression is likely going to be bad for bleeding, you might say. Ah, they have thought of that! Before the mammogram they bandaged me up and used compression for 15 minutes to inhibit the bleeding. They achieved this with a sandbag. Yep. Just like the ones my mom puts in the back of her pick-up truck in the icy winter months. I laid there on the table with an enormous towel-wrapped sandbag over my chest for a quarter of an hour. The sandbag was unexpected and completely disarming, and it was a relief to laugh out loud after the seriousness of the previous hour.
The lidocaine prevented me from having too much discomfort during the mammogram. It was quick and no problem. The clip is pretty cute in there.
We'll have the results on Thursday or Friday. They said that Friday is more likely, and that if I haven't heard by 2pm then I should give them a call.
I want to thank everyone for their support today (and always). It was so awesome to use modern technology to receive all of your well-wishes all day long.
I'm hoping for the best, but I'm not fearing the results. I've got this, no matter what it is. I've fought the good fight once and I can do it again. No worries, everyone. No worries.
The clinic was unusually quiet today. I barely had my coat off when I was called back into a room. I handed over the disks of my recent scans, then I played on my new smart phone while waiting for the doctor. She came in and rather quickly made the same evaluation as Dr. Oncologist and me: there is definitely something new and unusual going on in there. She said that she'd like to have another ultrasound, perhaps one where they did not focus exclusively on the lymph nodes. Fortunately they could fit me in later in the day. Pending the ultrasounds results, she presented three plans: A) perhaps the radiologists would like to use the ultrasound to guide a biopsy, B) if not, she would like me to come back to her clinic where she would perform a biopsy, and C) perhaps we'll just perform a lumpectomy on a later date, regardless of A or B.
I said that all sounded fabulous because of things: 1) biopsies are the best ways to get answers, even when they are inconclusive; and 2) I love her anti-wait-and-see strategy. I've already waited, and I've already seen. Given my previous bout with IBC, further waiting does seem to be nonsensical.
I had just over two hours to wait until my ultrasound appointment. I decided to visit the hospital library. On my way there I walked through an atrium that was resonating with some delicious music. It was coming from somewhere below me, but mirrors and windows prevented me from seeing the source. I changed course to better enjoy the music and was delighted to find a string quartet playing Beethoven. They were brilliant. It was unclear how often they performed in the hospital, but it's possible that it was a rare bit of marketing because at the end of their performance they invited everyone to attend their recital on Friday. It was a lovely interlude in my day.
The ultrasound technician was friendly, talented, and quick. Within minutes she had the pictures she wanted and was out the door to consult with Dr. Radiologist. The technician returned to my side with both Dr. Radiologist and Dr. Department Head Radiologist, who all took turns exploring the live images. They concluded that in addition to the lymph nodes identified by the previous scans, I had an additionally enlarged lymph node in my arm pit. Only slightly enlarged, but noticeable. Regarding the lumpish firmness that started me on this path, they determined that it is irregular and a shade darker than the neighboring tissue (by ultrasound), but that is all. There is nothing really to see or say about it.
Just after 3pm they agreed that a biopsy would be a good thing to do, and yes they would go ahead and do it then and there. They decided to perform a needle aspiration of the largest lymph node (armpit) and to perform a needle biopsy of the firmness. I said yes to all of it. Everyone left the room. Then the parade began.
The technician came back and started prepping things for minor surgery.
Dr. Radiologist reentered and asked if I'd be part of a research study.
Dr. Research Study arrived and invited me to participate in a research study on whether or not the DNA and RNA of breast cancer are the same as in adjacent armpit lymph nodes. Even if my results are benign/negative, I would be part of the normal (control) group of participants. Naturally, I agreed to be a part of the study.
Dr. Department Head Radiologist entered and exited numerous times, apparently waiting to witness one particular aspect of the procedures.
Three pathologists arrived and set up a microscope just outside the room to analyze certain samples instantly. This does not mean that I have results for you; this means that they needed to ensure that they had enough of my cells to perform their tests. Here's how it worked: Dr. Radiologist numbed up the area, then used the ultrasound wand to guide where she inserted the needle. Once satisfied with the location, she sucked up a tiny amount of cells from the fluid part of my lymph node. Then she sent the needle-full of my lymph node cells out to the pathologists. She did this repeatedly until they said that they had a sufficient amount of my cells. It took 5 needle samples.
Then Dr. Radiologist took a bonus sample of lymph node (the size of pencil lead is what they told me, but that's a touch ambiguous) and gave it to Dr. Research Study.
The pathologists left, then Dr. Department Head Radiologist came in and stayed for the lump biopsy. Dr. Radiologist once again used the ultrasound wand to tell her where to stick her instruments. Using a noisy little needle-punch contraption she took out 5 samples, all approved and indeed coached by Dr. Department Head. Then she took one bonus sample for Dr. Research Study. At some point during this phase of sampling, Dr. Surgical Oncologist stopped by to see how things looked.
I have nothing to fear as long as these women are on my team.
The penultimate task was to insert a little token into the lump. They placed a sterile titanium clip to mark the area that they biopsied (this should tell you how difficult it is to visualize this lumpish thing--they had to permanently mark it with a metal shard).
Then the final step was a mammogram, to be sure that the clip is in there, and in the right place. But putting a freshly biopsied breast in a mammogram compression is likely going to be bad for bleeding, you might say. Ah, they have thought of that! Before the mammogram they bandaged me up and used compression for 15 minutes to inhibit the bleeding. They achieved this with a sandbag. Yep. Just like the ones my mom puts in the back of her pick-up truck in the icy winter months. I laid there on the table with an enormous towel-wrapped sandbag over my chest for a quarter of an hour. The sandbag was unexpected and completely disarming, and it was a relief to laugh out loud after the seriousness of the previous hour.
The lidocaine prevented me from having too much discomfort during the mammogram. It was quick and no problem. The clip is pretty cute in there.
We'll have the results on Thursday or Friday. They said that Friday is more likely, and that if I haven't heard by 2pm then I should give them a call.
I want to thank everyone for their support today (and always). It was so awesome to use modern technology to receive all of your well-wishes all day long.
I'm hoping for the best, but I'm not fearing the results. I've got this, no matter what it is. I've fought the good fight once and I can do it again. No worries, everyone. No worries.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
This is how it works when you used to have cancer
It's all relative. All of it. I jammed my toe on the bedpost tonight, which for a second was the worst pain of the day but then subsided faster than the rest of my bodily discomforts. But if you tell someone that jamming your toe is more painful than, say, having contrast dye injected into your bloodstream while laying face-down on a hard plastic plank, they are not likely to believe you. People also have trouble believing that you are going to report to your job for a few hours between your breast MRI and ultrasound appointments. Might seem ridiculous to the layperson, but hey, when you've had cancer this is just the way it goes.
Let me explain.
For the past week or so I have noticed a tingling firmness in my right breast. It's more lump-like than the inflammatory breast cancer ever was, but it's not distinctly lumpy like a pea or other round object. My quarterly appointment with Dr. Oncologist is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so I thought I'd be proactive and report this new development to her via electronic correspondence (MyChart is awesome for those of us with health issues!). I figured she could either wait to check out my lump on Friday, or order some exploratory tests prior to our meeting. No harm either way. In true Dr. O fashion, she took my words at face-value and ordered some tests.
This by itself was refreshing, because I sometimes wonder how well I walk the line between being a hypochondriac and too complacent. As a cancer survivor who is still in the high-risk-of-recurrence zone, I worry that I could be overly sensitive to every little bodily change. I don't want to turn into the girl-who-cried-wolf when it comes to a potential recurrence. On the other hand, I want to be diligent and not miss something if it does pop up. No one knows my body better than I do, so if something truly alarming happens I want to sound the alarm. Instantly.
At any rate, Tuesday evening, I sounded the alarm. Dr. O had a sample of my blood before noon on Wednesday, and she had me scheduled for a mammogram and breast MRI scan on Thursday morning. At the mammogram appointment the radiologist briefly viewed my pictures and requested an ultrasound of the breast, too. That appointment was made for Thursday afternoon.
You see, it all sounds awful when it's typed up like this, but I promise you it was no big deal. These are just the things you have to do when you've had cancer before. I wasn't even stressed about it. I'm still not stressed about it. I'm a bit sore and stiff from spending 3 hours being smashed (mammo) or contorted (MRI) or both (ultrasound). But mentally I'm bringing my A game because I'm not sick. I'm WELL. And if a lump disagrees with this assessment of myself, then we'll cut it out. And if the lump decides to go viral before we get it cut out, then we'll kill it with chemicals. And after the lump and its cancerous offspring are out we'll irradiate the premises to make sure it's gone for good.
See? I'm a professional. This is no big deal.
Also, I got a preview of the results. Wanna hear? Dr. Radiologist thinks that 1-2 lymph nodes are the culprit(s). The one that I can feel is a tiny bit enlarged. A neighboring lymph node is both a tiny bit enlarged and has slightly increased metabolic activity. However, he reminded me that lymph nodes commonly get enlarged when they are busy fighting an infection. I don't feel sick, but I have been exposed to illnesses so perhaps my lymph nodes are busy. His recommendation is to have another breast ultrasound in 2 months. I'm not holding my breath on that because I think it's entirely possible that Dr. O will want a biopsy tomorrow, but that's okay. Biopsies are the best way to learn what's going on!
I'll end with the good omen that was Dr. Radiologist. It was the same radiologist who performed my spine biopsy, and he is the best radiologist in town. I told him that I was thrilled that he was on my case (the way my clinic works, it's a lottery which of the 8 or so radiologists assess your pictures). After describing the cause of my lump(s) to me, he launched into the usual doctor spiel about how we don't really want to do a biopsy unless it was absolutely necessary...I cut him off and said that I am perfectly willing to call up Dr. Surgeon and have a biopsy right that second. I am not afraid of using biopsies to get answers; in fact, biopsies have been the only way I have gotten most answers. Dr. Radiologist replied with, oh, well, then I'll talk with Dr. Firstname Surgeon about it. In fact, he was going to see him tonight and converse casually about my case.
Brilliant! One point for having a team of talented medical professionals working together to work for me, and two points for living in a small town.
Everything's fine. Time to watch some Olympics!
Let me explain.
For the past week or so I have noticed a tingling firmness in my right breast. It's more lump-like than the inflammatory breast cancer ever was, but it's not distinctly lumpy like a pea or other round object. My quarterly appointment with Dr. Oncologist is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so I thought I'd be proactive and report this new development to her via electronic correspondence (MyChart is awesome for those of us with health issues!). I figured she could either wait to check out my lump on Friday, or order some exploratory tests prior to our meeting. No harm either way. In true Dr. O fashion, she took my words at face-value and ordered some tests.
This by itself was refreshing, because I sometimes wonder how well I walk the line between being a hypochondriac and too complacent. As a cancer survivor who is still in the high-risk-of-recurrence zone, I worry that I could be overly sensitive to every little bodily change. I don't want to turn into the girl-who-cried-wolf when it comes to a potential recurrence. On the other hand, I want to be diligent and not miss something if it does pop up. No one knows my body better than I do, so if something truly alarming happens I want to sound the alarm. Instantly.
At any rate, Tuesday evening, I sounded the alarm. Dr. O had a sample of my blood before noon on Wednesday, and she had me scheduled for a mammogram and breast MRI scan on Thursday morning. At the mammogram appointment the radiologist briefly viewed my pictures and requested an ultrasound of the breast, too. That appointment was made for Thursday afternoon.
You see, it all sounds awful when it's typed up like this, but I promise you it was no big deal. These are just the things you have to do when you've had cancer before. I wasn't even stressed about it. I'm still not stressed about it. I'm a bit sore and stiff from spending 3 hours being smashed (mammo) or contorted (MRI) or both (ultrasound). But mentally I'm bringing my A game because I'm not sick. I'm WELL. And if a lump disagrees with this assessment of myself, then we'll cut it out. And if the lump decides to go viral before we get it cut out, then we'll kill it with chemicals. And after the lump and its cancerous offspring are out we'll irradiate the premises to make sure it's gone for good.
See? I'm a professional. This is no big deal.
Also, I got a preview of the results. Wanna hear? Dr. Radiologist thinks that 1-2 lymph nodes are the culprit(s). The one that I can feel is a tiny bit enlarged. A neighboring lymph node is both a tiny bit enlarged and has slightly increased metabolic activity. However, he reminded me that lymph nodes commonly get enlarged when they are busy fighting an infection. I don't feel sick, but I have been exposed to illnesses so perhaps my lymph nodes are busy. His recommendation is to have another breast ultrasound in 2 months. I'm not holding my breath on that because I think it's entirely possible that Dr. O will want a biopsy tomorrow, but that's okay. Biopsies are the best way to learn what's going on!
I'll end with the good omen that was Dr. Radiologist. It was the same radiologist who performed my spine biopsy, and he is the best radiologist in town. I told him that I was thrilled that he was on my case (the way my clinic works, it's a lottery which of the 8 or so radiologists assess your pictures). After describing the cause of my lump(s) to me, he launched into the usual doctor spiel about how we don't really want to do a biopsy unless it was absolutely necessary...I cut him off and said that I am perfectly willing to call up Dr. Surgeon and have a biopsy right that second. I am not afraid of using biopsies to get answers; in fact, biopsies have been the only way I have gotten most answers. Dr. Radiologist replied with, oh, well, then I'll talk with Dr. Firstname Surgeon about it. In fact, he was going to see him tonight and converse casually about my case.
Brilliant! One point for having a team of talented medical professionals working together to work for me, and two points for living in a small town.
Everything's fine. Time to watch some Olympics!
Friday, October 25, 2013
Repost: Evolution of a scar
I've done several posts on reconstruction and body image, and this is one of my favorites because it touches on almost all of the variables that I have thought about at some point. I still have no desire whatsoever to reconstruct my missing breast. My scar still changes, but like my emotional recovery from cancer it is no longer acute.
I've been doing some reading lately about breast reconstruction. Not about the gross science-y stuff about reconstruction, but the social and psychological stuff. I'm not at all considering reconstruction, but now that I'm not in the thick of cancer treatment I've found myself curious about why women get reconstruction. Yea yea, isn't it obvious that the appearance of two breasts is better than one or no breasts? This is probably what I would have thought, if I had thought about it Before. But now that I've journeyed through the cancer treatment gauntlet, I'm not so sure.
First of all, surgeries are both painful and a pain in the a$$. Everything hurts, and continues to hurt long after the hurt is supposed to be gone. Electing for surgeries that are not a necessary part of cancer treatment is currently beyond my capacity.
Secondly, if I was uncomfortable with artificial body parts before, why should I suddenly be more comfortable now? Especially with a relatively expendable body part?
We all know, or at least have learned by now, that I am a practical person. The above viewpoints should therefore come as no surprise. However, I am in full support of other women choosing reconstruction. I am therefore trying to learn why they make this choice. My purpose is not to see if I'm right or wrong, but to learn about these other viewpoints.
In my small, non-scientific survey, I have found that the perception of others is the primary reason that women choose to reconstruct. I have determined this by reading dozens of anecdotes in numerous books. Most women want to look good (normal?) in clothes, and they want to be sexually attractive. What I find interesting about this is that it seems to me that retaining attractiveness is at their own expense, both in terms of potential medical problems with the reconstruction and the fact that the reconstructed breast often has no feeling. Did you know that latter fact, about the loss of feeling? It seems obvious, but I never thought about it before and I didn't know that. It seems to me that if I had no feeling in my reconstructed breast that that would be a constant reminder that it was for someone else and not me. Call me selfish, but I would hate that.
The other way of thinking about "wanting to look good in clothes" is a positive self-image. Many women state that they just don't feel like women without the appearance of two breasts. This underscores the importance of continued improvements in reconstruction technology and healthcare support. Also, mastectomy is not the only condition that might lead someone to opt for breast work. Reconstruction is a good choice for women who may psychologically struggle otherwise.
I'm sure there are others, but I've only read about one woman thus far with an attitude similar to mine. She thinks of herself as an Amazon, a strong and active woman who can now execute her life with improved physical prowess in the absence of a breast. I don't yet see myself as an Amazon, but I can relate to the improved functionality of my new physique.
Also, I'm learning to see the beauty in my asymmetry. I hold my head high and walk around with confidence. My spouse constantly affirms my beauty. I have bought a few new shirts that are asymmetric and complimentary. I can now see asymmetry everywhere in the world, and it has unusual beauty. I truly do not feel that I need a reconstructed breast.
My scar itself is also remarkable. It keeps changing. Will it ever stop? It started pink, then turned to white (perhaps because of radiation?), then pink with white in the middle, then red with white in the middle, and now a deep red. It's slightly raised in some places, yet exceedingly smooth in others. It itches sometimes. The evolution of my scar is symbolic of the psychological journey about breasts, sexuality, and beauty that I am on. Always interesting and never done changing.
I've been doing some reading lately about breast reconstruction. Not about the gross science-y stuff about reconstruction, but the social and psychological stuff. I'm not at all considering reconstruction, but now that I'm not in the thick of cancer treatment I've found myself curious about why women get reconstruction. Yea yea, isn't it obvious that the appearance of two breasts is better than one or no breasts? This is probably what I would have thought, if I had thought about it Before. But now that I've journeyed through the cancer treatment gauntlet, I'm not so sure.
First of all, surgeries are both painful and a pain in the a$$. Everything hurts, and continues to hurt long after the hurt is supposed to be gone. Electing for surgeries that are not a necessary part of cancer treatment is currently beyond my capacity.
Secondly, if I was uncomfortable with artificial body parts before, why should I suddenly be more comfortable now? Especially with a relatively expendable body part?
We all know, or at least have learned by now, that I am a practical person. The above viewpoints should therefore come as no surprise. However, I am in full support of other women choosing reconstruction. I am therefore trying to learn why they make this choice. My purpose is not to see if I'm right or wrong, but to learn about these other viewpoints.
In my small, non-scientific survey, I have found that the perception of others is the primary reason that women choose to reconstruct. I have determined this by reading dozens of anecdotes in numerous books. Most women want to look good (normal?) in clothes, and they want to be sexually attractive. What I find interesting about this is that it seems to me that retaining attractiveness is at their own expense, both in terms of potential medical problems with the reconstruction and the fact that the reconstructed breast often has no feeling. Did you know that latter fact, about the loss of feeling? It seems obvious, but I never thought about it before and I didn't know that. It seems to me that if I had no feeling in my reconstructed breast that that would be a constant reminder that it was for someone else and not me. Call me selfish, but I would hate that.
The other way of thinking about "wanting to look good in clothes" is a positive self-image. Many women state that they just don't feel like women without the appearance of two breasts. This underscores the importance of continued improvements in reconstruction technology and healthcare support. Also, mastectomy is not the only condition that might lead someone to opt for breast work. Reconstruction is a good choice for women who may psychologically struggle otherwise.
I'm sure there are others, but I've only read about one woman thus far with an attitude similar to mine. She thinks of herself as an Amazon, a strong and active woman who can now execute her life with improved physical prowess in the absence of a breast. I don't yet see myself as an Amazon, but I can relate to the improved functionality of my new physique.
Also, I'm learning to see the beauty in my asymmetry. I hold my head high and walk around with confidence. My spouse constantly affirms my beauty. I have bought a few new shirts that are asymmetric and complimentary. I can now see asymmetry everywhere in the world, and it has unusual beauty. I truly do not feel that I need a reconstructed breast.
My scar itself is also remarkable. It keeps changing. Will it ever stop? It started pink, then turned to white (perhaps because of radiation?), then pink with white in the middle, then red with white in the middle, and now a deep red. It's slightly raised in some places, yet exceedingly smooth in others. It itches sometimes. The evolution of my scar is symbolic of the psychological journey about breasts, sexuality, and beauty that I am on. Always interesting and never done changing.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Repost: Believe in things you don't understand
I originally wrote this post during radiation therapy. I chose to repost it because it's upbeat and informative. It was tough to chose between this one and the one where the owl omen appeared in my backyard, but see how I managed to sneak in a link so that you can find it own your own. Speaking of sneaking stuff in, happy 33rd birthday to me today!
As I was hoping last week, I have indeed adjusted to this crazy radiation schedule. It is not nearly as exhausting as it was last week, although I find it hard to believe that it's only been one week. The electron doses started on Monday and just take an extra few minutes. Well, the electron dose itself takes only ~20 seconds, but it takes a minute or two for the technicians to get things set up. My skin is starting to turn a little bit pink, as predicted. Still not red. Still not sore. Huzzah!
In other health-related news, I have 100% range of motion in my left arm. It is not pain-free, in neither the nerves nor the muscles, so I will continue physical therapy for a bit. I do my exercises every day, and I can feel improvement every day. I've started to forget that I used to bump into a breast when I reached across my body. I've even grown accustomed to the burning nerve pain in my arm. It's sensitive, but not crippling. Again, huzzah!
While I was getting zapped today, I was thinking about all of the particles that were poking through my skin. I couldn't feel these particles, but I nonetheless thought of my poke tally. Was there a way to calculate how many particles (photons or electrons) were "poking" me in a single dose of radiation? So that I could start a particle poke tally? I asked this question of one of the fabulous technicians, and she introduced me to the physicist. He seemed delighted to talk shop with someone and explained that the radiation machine is calibrated by measuring how it ionizes a known amount of air. This is then converted mathematically into the ionization of an amount of liquid, liquid being of interest because a human body is ~60% liquid (today mine is ~70% liquid due to the incredible amount of snot I'm producing; thank you sweet Eleanor for giving me your cold). This is further converted to the unit Joules per gram, and he said from here we could calculate exactly how many Joules-per-gram of radiation I am receiving in a single dose. It sounded like it would take a fair bit of effort on his part, and because this is an unnecessary exercise I said no thank you. He further explained that the machine is tested every morning to see that it functions within good parameters, and if it ever falls out of those parameters he re-calibrates it with the air ionization thing. He also said that he belongs to some Houston-based national radiation calibration organization and follows their calibration protocol annually. I came away from the discussion with something much better than a particle poke tally: confidence in the machine and the people running it. But part of me still wants to know something quantitative about this radiation rather than the empirical "20 seconds of photons here, 10 seconds of photons there, and 20 seconds of electrons there." It's a little hard for me to grasp, but I guess I'm just biased towards whole atoms.
It has been a cold, rainy, sleety day here today. To combat the cooped-up feeling, the girls and I had a disco dance party this evening. Cinderella even made an appearance:
Pandora radio was our DJ, and one of the songs that popped up was Stevie Wonder's Superstition. I know I've already posted a Stevie Wonder song, but this one really resonated with my thoughts after the discussion with the physicist today. Radiation at times feels like it could be superstitious: I lay there with my arms above my head while a machine waves an over-sized magic wand above my former cancer. Bibbity bobbity ZAP! and the cancer is gone. I know it's not superstition, however, and that's why I've found another connection between this song and radiation. The clavinet riff, which is the song's trademark, sounds like the buzzing noise made by the radiation machine when it is zapping me. I wish radiation were as funky as Stevie. Below is the jam-session version of Superstition, performed on Sesame Street. Smile.
As I was hoping last week, I have indeed adjusted to this crazy radiation schedule. It is not nearly as exhausting as it was last week, although I find it hard to believe that it's only been one week. The electron doses started on Monday and just take an extra few minutes. Well, the electron dose itself takes only ~20 seconds, but it takes a minute or two for the technicians to get things set up. My skin is starting to turn a little bit pink, as predicted. Still not red. Still not sore. Huzzah!
In other health-related news, I have 100% range of motion in my left arm. It is not pain-free, in neither the nerves nor the muscles, so I will continue physical therapy for a bit. I do my exercises every day, and I can feel improvement every day. I've started to forget that I used to bump into a breast when I reached across my body. I've even grown accustomed to the burning nerve pain in my arm. It's sensitive, but not crippling. Again, huzzah!
While I was getting zapped today, I was thinking about all of the particles that were poking through my skin. I couldn't feel these particles, but I nonetheless thought of my poke tally. Was there a way to calculate how many particles (photons or electrons) were "poking" me in a single dose of radiation? So that I could start a particle poke tally? I asked this question of one of the fabulous technicians, and she introduced me to the physicist. He seemed delighted to talk shop with someone and explained that the radiation machine is calibrated by measuring how it ionizes a known amount of air. This is then converted mathematically into the ionization of an amount of liquid, liquid being of interest because a human body is ~60% liquid (today mine is ~70% liquid due to the incredible amount of snot I'm producing; thank you sweet Eleanor for giving me your cold). This is further converted to the unit Joules per gram, and he said from here we could calculate exactly how many Joules-per-gram of radiation I am receiving in a single dose. It sounded like it would take a fair bit of effort on his part, and because this is an unnecessary exercise I said no thank you. He further explained that the machine is tested every morning to see that it functions within good parameters, and if it ever falls out of those parameters he re-calibrates it with the air ionization thing. He also said that he belongs to some Houston-based national radiation calibration organization and follows their calibration protocol annually. I came away from the discussion with something much better than a particle poke tally: confidence in the machine and the people running it. But part of me still wants to know something quantitative about this radiation rather than the empirical "20 seconds of photons here, 10 seconds of photons there, and 20 seconds of electrons there." It's a little hard for me to grasp, but I guess I'm just biased towards whole atoms.
It has been a cold, rainy, sleety day here today. To combat the cooped-up feeling, the girls and I had a disco dance party this evening. Cinderella even made an appearance:
Pandora radio was our DJ, and one of the songs that popped up was Stevie Wonder's Superstition. I know I've already posted a Stevie Wonder song, but this one really resonated with my thoughts after the discussion with the physicist today. Radiation at times feels like it could be superstitious: I lay there with my arms above my head while a machine waves an over-sized magic wand above my former cancer. Bibbity bobbity ZAP! and the cancer is gone. I know it's not superstition, however, and that's why I've found another connection between this song and radiation. The clavinet riff, which is the song's trademark, sounds like the buzzing noise made by the radiation machine when it is zapping me. I wish radiation were as funky as Stevie. Below is the jam-session version of Superstition, performed on Sesame Street. Smile.
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