Just Keeping Abreast of Things

I’m almost hesitant to put it into the universe, but I think I’m almost out of the woods.

My lumpectomy was a success–they removed the tumor along with four lymph nodes. The margins were clear, and there were five total cancer cells in one node, which they consider a negative. I guess after I complete radiation, those five cells will be goners.

It feels anticlimactic…I am fortunate enough that the breast surgeon was able to remove everything from the plastic surgeon’s incision made on the line of the areola. That means with the exception of my lymphectomy scar, I am fortunate enough that in a year or so, it won’t even look like I’ve undergone surgery at all.

And don’t get me wrong. I am SO grateful. But even though the scars will be minimal, and I am very lucky, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is that really it? It’s been such a chaotic and surreal chain of events that it is hard to believe it’s almost done before I’ve wrapped my head completely around it.

I have gone through my post-op appointments and the surgeons are pleased. My oncologist tells me that my oncotype score (which determines my likelihood of recurrence) is super low, so I do not have to undergo chemo. I do, however, have to complete twenty rounds of radiation. I will find out this Monday when that will start. I am apprehensive about that, but it honestly just isn’t real to me yet.

What I’m most apprehensive about, though, is endocrine therapy after radiation. Since my type of cancer if hormone fed, I have to go on a hormone blocker. I’m not thrilled at the prospect, but I’m hopeful that I will have minimal side effects. I’ve had great luck so far, so maybe it will hold. I’m currently researching the many things my friends have mentioned regarding the radiation, hormone blockers, and changes in diet that will help me maintain the best health I can moving forward. Big changes are not easy, but I’m doing my best to take them in stride and manage the things that are actually within my control.

And yet I pray I will not be surprised by anything later on down the road. I have feelings of dread and resignation when I think about the preventative screenings I still need to take care of once I complete my radiation, as well as the biannual mammograms I will have to do for the rest of my life. I wonder if the other breast will turn on me in a year or two and it will not be so “easy.” I wonder if those five measly cells they excised have more friends lying in wait.

Only time will tell, but the part where I get needles stuck into my body like a voodoo doll is over for now, and that is a huge relief.

Thank you to all of my friends and family. I have an amazing support system that was ready to spring into action, and they are still doing so with meals, calls, cards, and prayers. I will continue to accept those blessings as I go through radiation.

Love to all.

When I opened this up and saw that the last post was a month ago, I was honestly shocked. Where has the time gone? It’s been a crazy month and a half for sure. So, to fill in the gaps…Just a warning–this update isn’t very entertaining. I’m not feeling very amusing or inspired today.

On March 31, I had to go back in for a third biopsy on a section about an inch over from the tumor. That biopsy was brutal. They took twelve samples from the site via laser and vacuum and I was left with a completely purple breast weeks. The samples were not cancer, thankfully, but were diagnosed as lobular carcinoma in situ, which is apparently “suspicious” and could be “pre-cancerous.” Even though the doctors decided that both the tumor and the LCIS needed to go, it didn’t change the plan we settled on–the lumpectomy/lymphectomy and reconstruction for Monday, April 10th.

On April 5th, I met with the plastic surgeon who would work alongside my breast surgeon. He explained the procedure and how he and the breast surgeon would work alternately to do their jobs and help me achieve the results I am hoping for both health-wise and aesthetically.

On Friday, April 7th, I walked into the hospital with a still-sore, half-healed, bruised right breast. I first got COVID-tested, and then I moved to the 5th floor to see my surgeon, who explained the procedure again, physical limitations after surgery, and had me sign my consent forms. One of the things my husband and I were warned about was that, in rare instances, the blue dye used during the procedure could turn me a sickly cartoonish shade of green, but that would be temporary if that were to happen. The minute she left, Joe grinned from ear to ear. “Oh, I really hope you turn green,” he said.

Then we went to nuclear medicine where I had dye injected into the tumor to see which lymph nodes it drained to. “Don’t worry,” said the nurse. “This one feels like a bee sting. It’s over fast.” They then had me walk around for an hour before having me go into imaging to see if the dye distributed.

Finally, three magnetic seeds were implanted in the surgical site to help guide the surgeon’s procedure. They were guided into position with long needles. It’s at this point I was just really tired of feeling like a pincushion. Yes, they give you local numbing to assist, and yes, it is tolerable. Barely. There’s only so much poking and prodding, pricking and mashing that you can tolerate. And just when you think you cannot tolerate anymore, you have to. If you want to free your body (hopefully) from cancer, you do what you have to do.

But it doesn’t feel brave. I wish I felt like some bad-ass, baring my wounds and stoically bearing the procedures, telling them to bring it on. Instead, I found myself taking a deep breath before disrobing in front of the newest stranger in charge of me, turning my face away from what they were doing, and squeezing my eyes as tightly as could until it was over. Sometimes the nurse or tech would rub my shoulders and tell me it was almost done, that I was doing so well. I didn’t cry or whimper, so I guess that’s a win.

On Monday, April 10th, I had the procedure done. I’m sore and ouchy in the places you’d expect, but my pain is well-managed and I’m getting up and walking around and doing my exercises. I have about a week to wait on pathology to see if we got clear margins or if there’s any cancer in the lymph nodes. I feel optimistic, but I don’t know why. I just do. Oh, and I did not (to Joe’s disappointment) turn temporarily green.

So now the waiting game continues…

February 2023

The whole month of February is a blur. You call the imaging place where the mammogram screening is scheduled and ask to come in sooner. Your husband agrees with you that something is definitely there. They are not in a rush to see you. They block out more time and shift your appointment from the preventative screening (free with insurance) to diagnostic with ultrasound ($). The tech says you’ll need a biopsy. You feel mildly apprehensive.

Biopsy day is ten days later. Three days after that, you have the results.

Malignant.

Invasive ductal carcinoma.

You feel fine. You’re healthy. Aren’t you?

You start Googling, and then you quickly realize you should stop Googling. Google is not your friend right now.

You think you should keep it to yourself, and quickly realize you are not that person. The need to tell others boils over. It isn’t real until you speak of it, and you need to take this seriously and be proactive. Speaking on it helps you accept the reality of it. You’re torn between your need to tell everyone–scream the unfairness of it from the rooftops–and the need to keep this close to your breast, locked up like a criminal. You decide to be transparent with your friends, with your coworkers, with your family. (You will not, however, tell your young son until you know the plan.)

You and your lunch bunch name it The Beezleboob–little devil that it is. The Beezleboob must be destroyed and then saved. And, lets’ face it, you love a good pun and you’re go-to defense is humor. You decide you’ll start blogging again. After all, you need the cathartic release of writing, and maybe someone else needs to read it. Maybe this could serve to remind them to check themselves, remind the women they love to be vigilant, or just need to know they are not struggling with their sense of mortality alone.

My instinct is to diminish my cancer diagnosis–to treat it like a cold I’m soldiering through. The knee-jerk reaction is to say “it’s nothing,” to not take up space with it, to not make a big deal of myself in the presence of others. But I am a big deal. My life is valuable, as is every other person’s.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s December 2022…

You feel something. It’s there, but maybe not there. A firm something about the size of a fingerprint, just to the right of where you used to nurse your son–just where his tiny fingers would have grasped you. It’s a ghost of a feeling. There, not there. Is there something there? You convince yourself it’s not, but each sleepy morning you get up to walk to the sink, and it’s your touchstone. It embodies the uncertainty you feel during an uncertain season. Your body acts and looks differently these days…the rules have been changing for last few years, haven’t they? How do you even know what normal is anymore, let alone abnormal? You schedule a physical. It’s been awhile. It never occurs to you that it could actually be something until it is.