Think I’m finally getting used to what’s considered my new normal: New body parts. New scars. Permanent numbness. Shitty side effects of Tamoxifen. Daily PT exercises. New boxes to check on forms at the non-cancer doctor doctor’s office.
And there are all kinds of positive indicators that I’m really leaving this crap-tastic year in the dust.
A few weeks ago, I saw my surgical oncologist, who’s beyond pleased with how everything has turned out. He’s prescribed an annual screening (not diagnostic!) mammogram moving forward. Also saw my kindly GP, who ran a ton of blood work which I’ve passed with flying red and white colors. The hysterectomy is well behind me—my abdomen only gets a little twinge-y if I do too much core workout stuff. Recently got on a plane and had not even a hint of lymphedema. I start in Northwestern’s “survivorship program” next month, which will manage my care over the next several years.
Sounds like this is all wrapping up, right?
But tomorrow I’m going in for another surgery. I’ve been a little evasive about this, but here’s the truth: My boobs don’t match. I want them to match. (They did before, dammit.)This last surgery is simply to swap the augmentation implant with one that will provide symmetry against the reconstruction side of affairs. Same excellent plastic surgeon, using the same scar location, general anesthesia but outpatient, and limited recovery time.
To be honest, I’ve been feeling really anxious about tomorrow. But I know this is what I want. Because it’s my choice and up until now, none of this has been.
Two post-op appointments later and the news for my parts is pretty good.
Gynecologist has cleared me for all activity (she means SWIMMING, people) and said to come back in a year. Plastic surgeon wants to do one more procedure, scheduled for just before Christmas.
As for my state of mind? I’m a literal hot mess of a headcase.
Think I’m finally starting to process everything that’s gone down this past year.
And the tamoxifen-induced hot flashes are no joke: From chilly in our late fall weather one minute to dripping with sweat the next.
Add insomnia, the ennui that visits this time of year like fucking clockwork, a feeling I should be doing more with my life after this wakeup call, the fact that we need a vacation…I seem to add up to a well-documented cliche.
While I clearly went back to work much too soon—holy mother of pearl, the late afternoon fatigue and pain were startling—am happy to report that news on my prognosis is nothing but very, very good.
Met with my oncologist last Monday for a 3-month checkup. All looks good. Come back next quarter for another look-see. No further tests or scans or blood draws recommended.
So….that’s it? Our relief was palpable.
And, honestly, a little unsettling: I was not prepared for the onslaught of emotion that came afterward. Is it over? Are they sure? (Of course they’re not: a daily dose of tamoxifen for 5 years says they are not sure.)
Why are the tears so quick now, unlike before?
Is it okay that I still think this whole thing is a raw deal, even though I know it could have been much, much worse? Like it was for friends and family who aren’t here anymore? And the dears who are here but are facing much worse?
Can’t even address the mind/body trick that is having a hysterectomy that was not of my choosing.
Apologies but I’m more than a little verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves.
Current situation: Feeling mostly better, but still pretty sore, trying not to be depressed, clinging to gratitude, going back to work on Monday.
On gratitude, here’s a list….because I am a list-lover and they help me:
- My steadfast husband, whose love, patience, and encouragement are getting me through this year.
- A breast cancer prognosis that’s beyond positive.
- Certainly not worried about uterine cancer anymore.
- Skilled doctors and caring, gentle nurses and technicians.
- A life that largely shields me from having to compromise on the care and procedures I need. I have good insurance. I can afford to take a cab if I need to.
- My friends have stepped up in ways that are truly humbling. My coworkers are genuinely supportive.
On feeling depressed, I’ve really been struggling. This round has felt like a big slide backwards on the physical progress I’d made up to September 19th.
Seriously: Fuck these limitations, side effects, stitches, scabs, swelling, and scar tissue. And walking slowly among people who don’t notice or care. And feeling like I can’t do anything especially well right now.
Well, that sure felt good.
Had my first post-op appointment with the plastic surgeon yesterday.
Bandages and plastic wrappings were gently removed, along with some stitches. My surgeon thought everything looked good and that someday soon, I’ll be done with this round-the-clock sports bra routine and won’t need a bra at all because “your breasts aren’t going anywhere.” Hell, yeah.
He cautioned that I should keep wearing compression something something on my abdomen and legs to ward off swelling. As I’m ready to burn the itchy, stained abdominal binder I’ve been sporting 24/7 for the past week, I was a little disappointed.
“Do you know Spanx?” he asked.
Dude, please. Every woman in America knows Spanx. Say what you will about capitalizing on the DIY behavior many of us had been doing for years: snaps to Sara Blakely for her tenacity. And of course I have some Spanx shorts things in a drawer somewhere.
But now that it’s really, truly fall I think what I need are leggings. Only…high-waisted ones that would cover my incisions. Is that a thing? I don’t really do leggings. But I was already that lady wearing sweatpants in public. And had 2 hours before my next doc appointment. And Nordstrom is a half mile from Northwestern.
So I nervously crept through crowds of clueless shoppers who DNGAF about the less-mobile among them (high sign to all the elders creeping along, too—nice work with that cane-slash-weapon, ma’am) until I reached leggings nirvana on the 3rd floor.
So I bought some. And am wearing some now. But not as pants. Never would I ever.
Been a rough week. Lots of napping and wincing and gimping around.
I no longer require Mike’s assistance to get up, but every sneeze, cough, and laugh issues a cruel stab of reality.
Have also developed a serious love/hate with the freaky-deaky world of compression garments.
Squeezing in a quick post before the norco kicks in to report that everything went as planned, I’m home again, in hella pain, and Mike is the dearest man in the land.
Also, I’m stuffed into compression garments and wraps from sternum to kneecap. Feel like a tied pork loin. Sexy!
Can’t sleep, which for once works in my favor: no liquids allowed after 4 a.m. Until then it’s clear liquids only, including coffee if you take it straight up. Which I do.
Might stay overnight at the hospital. Might not. Slipped a toothbrush and the extra-long iPhone cord given to me by a thoughtful coworker into my tote just in case.
Check in is at 5:45. Need to chug some water. But first, I’m finishing my coffee.
Just because I haven’t posted recently doesn’t mean things haven’t been simmering. Trying to maintain normalcy (exercise, work, dates with husband and friends)—but feeling pretty far from normal, to be honest.
Surgery is scheduled for September 19th. While I do love the thrill of anticipation, am not exactly checking the countdown clock for this one. Breast reconstruction and hysterectomy go together like nuts and gum in my book.
On the one hand, I’m ready to say goodbye to this bulky, pokey, very uncomfortable tissue expander and start on the road to a newish body.
On the other, I’m feeling pretty anxious about having a hysterectomy. Lots of parts up in that there region and the list of “what-ifs” from my gynecological surgeon was long.
Just learned of a side effect of Tamoxifen from the pre-op physician: A reduction in the ability to store iron in the blood. This in turn lowers one’s hemoglobin to suboptimal levels, which increases complications during surgery and often requires a blood transfusion. (And I thought hot flashes, insomnia, hair loss, joint pain, and fatigue were causes for concern.) All of you blood donors out there: thank you, thank you, thank you.
After some initial healing, I’ll be back onboard the PT train. Hoping to continue the rapid progress I’ve made with arm function. Also praying there’s minimal need for pelvic floor physical therapy. Yes, that is a thing (gulp, also for men!) and it can be life-changing but that stuff is no joke.
So, Mike and I have been stocking up on household items, loading the freezer, and going out to dinner before a couple of weeks of forced hibernation.
Went back to work this week. It was…scary and wonderful. Apologies to my kind-hearted colleagues for cringing at every “Welcome back!” hug. Accolades to those who brought in doughnuts, offered to carry my laptop, and understood when I needed to work from home.
Reconstruction surgery has been scheduled for mid September.
With Mike as my witness, the plastic surgeon told me not to lose any weight until then. He wants as much blubber as possible for “fat harvesting” during his rebuilding effort. Pretty sure he’ll have plenty to work with. My early morning exercise routine shall not cease.
Bonus: Hysterectomy will happen during the same surgery! I do love a bargain.