Smile as you walk by

Last year on this day my life abruptly changed forever. I sat in the gynecologist office and only remember him saying, “It’s bad.” My boyfriend sat in my hatchback with me in the parking lot while I cried. My charmed life was over. I just got a lot more interesting. The transition was a lot like driving into a brick wall.

There was only one way to proceed: one foot in front of the other until the end, just like before, only a little harder.

As independent as I like to believe I am, I knew I couldn’t do this alone. I called the person I knew could handle a crisis of this magnitude and she dropped everything for the next 6 months to help me.

The single most important piece of advice I can give to the women who come after me is to surround yourself with capable people before you need them. Cultivate meaningful friendships, especially with other women. You never know when you’ll need to call in your troops. Make sure you have them. I simply could not have done this without her.

As this day approached, I anticipated cringing at the date May 17. Terrible, no good day! This day caused me and many others so much pain. I wanted to skip this day. This day…I can’t even.

My boyfriend wisely reminded me that tough girls would take their day back. It doesn’t have to be a reminder of the pain but instead a reminder that I’m still here, a day to celebrate all that we did. So, I’m taking it back. My mom, so charmingly, said it is my day to say, “I won!” and then make lots of noise.

Okay, then. Noise starts now! Loud.

♫  Your life will be just fine and troubles do not stay. They get replaced with good times. Now you got a great life! Smile as you walk by. Thinking about the Day.  ♫

Fear is Relative

I put on the suit and harness, walked out to the plane, and watched the ground disappear as the plane rose. I hadn’t wanted to. I’m not a thrill seeker. We were celebrating the very special woman who orchestrated my cancer survival so I did what I was told.

20170516_121508
White knuckles anyone?

They opened the door and I took deep breaths of the fresh air. I felt tears. This, my mind’s voice reassured, was not nearly as scary as the last 12 months. But, the sensation felt familiar.

The feeling of powerlessness and anxious anticipation, not knowing what will happen but doing it anyway, is commonplace to me now. This isn’t like the old me. I used to be in control and preferred it that way. I’ve changed.

Fear is apparently relative. I’ve already done something incredibly scary, perhaps the most scary thing I’ll ever do. Nothing can scare me more. Not standing in front of an audience with no pants, not spiders or sharks, not even skydiving.

The night before wasn’t sleepless. I felt oddly calm before and during my jump, even during the free fall. I didn’t scream or close my eyes. I’m so glad I didn’t let the fear ruin it for me. I looked around and it was beautiful. I let go and it felt okay. It is a good lesson for all of us.

And at the end I hugged my people. Will Smith was right…the best things in life come after the maximum fear.

You know? You know.

Nearly everything I own fits far differently or not at all. My friends are having fun shopping in my closet. I’ve given away many of my tiny sundresses, bathing suits, and even my pretty lingerie. My bra drawer took the hardest hit. I’ve got nothing but a sports bra that was too big before my mastectomy.

This week, after I got the A-OK from my plastic surgeon that surgeries are finished and this is the size I can expect to stay, I went bra shopping. Petticoat Fair is known across the country as one of the leading bra fitters so I couldn’t wait to support my local bra slinger in person. They were charming when I went in pre-mastectomy to get info on therapeutic bras. They even work with insurance! These ladies are simply the best around.

My patient and gentle fitter asked a lot of questions so that I got not only what I wanted but also what was allowed per my surgeon’s instruction at this stage of my healing. She measured me and brought in a ton to try on. She stayed to adjust straps and check fit, making sure that every detail was supportive, comfortable, long-lasting, and pretty. I was glad she expected my new bra to be ALL those things equally.

I ended up with an every-day molded cup wireless bra that would be smooth even under tight, thin knit. It doesn’t press anywhere on my breasts or incisions so it won’t be painful or affect healing. I could have probably gotten one in every color since they are so versatile. I also got a sexy, black French lace bralette from the sale bin. These things can be expensive, especially those with fancy lace or trendy design. I was glad I was able to get one fun thing at a discount. (Heads up…French lingerie is still expensive even when it is on sale. Those curves though!)

They keep everything on file, including my wishlist with exact sizes. (Just in case my beau needs gift specifics…)

One of the best moments was when my fitter told me she was herself a 20 year cancer survivor. We shared a little about our experiences and she finished by saying, “you know,” not as a question but as a statement. It felt strange to “know” just what she meant, having just met her. It also felt good. It felt reassuring. She’s still here. I will be too.

Thank you, Cinco, for my Petticoat gift certificate! And, thank you Petticoat for making the downs an up, in all the ways.

Blonde Ambitions

As I near the first anniversary of my diagnosis, I find myself comparing life now to how it was before. Quite literally, time is now noted BC (before cancer). Everything that happened and will happen will always have the distinction of being before or after that moment. I see photos from last year from this time and think, “That was before. Look how happy and unaware I am of how absolutely, devastatingly your life is about to change.”

Fear and celebration are dovetailing right now. I’m approaching the painful memory of specific dates from 2016 while trying to stay focused on the happiness of reaching the same date in 2017.

For example, I had my hair colored the day of the terrifying biopsy last year. Hair styling very shortly after became an event so luxurious and precarious that combing took infinite care and usually resulted in uncontrollable tears. Never has there been such a focus on the top of my head. Never has so much money, time, effort, and emotional bandwidth gone into this forgettable tangle of highlights.

I had my hair colored again for the first time in almost a year. I have hair to color! It was blissful.

Savoring those beautiful moments will be what gets me through the next few months. Dates like May 17 (diagnosis) and June 15 (first chemo) are forever burned into my memory like a poorly planned tattoo, regrettably, even disgustingly, irreversible.

But, things certainly are looking up. The final treatments are scheduled. Surgeries are all healed. The new gummy bears are looking pretty darn good. My strength is returning and life is getting back to normal. And, blonde. BLONDE!

 

New is nice

Today I am having the second and (hopefully final) phase of my breast reconstruction. They’ll be removing the tissue expanders, which I’ve affectionately named the “Iron Maidens,” and replacing them with soft, squishy, much more natural looking cohesive silicone implants over the pectoral muscle. I’ve got to say, I’m ready.

I went to my plastic surgeon yesterday to be marked. I look like a gradient elevation map. In addition to the boob swap, he’ll also be harvesting fat from my legs, hips, and flanks to nestle around the new implants so they look natural (without wrinkles or dents). They call that fat grafting. The liposuction may be the hardest part tomorrow.

Many people have asked me what size I’ll be after tomorrow. It is not something I can answer I’m afraid. That’s the thing about reconstruction vs. augmentation. I don’t get to choose. The existing space only accommodates a small range of sizes. Also, my doctor is hyper-vigilant about this looking good at the end. (So am I!) He’s measured every contour and will determine tomorrow in surgery exactly what looks symmetrical and attractive on my body shape and size.

He doesn’t speak in cup sizes. He measures in liquid CCs which is really tricky to convert to a bra size. Since I can’t get a straight answer on what I’ll look like and because it honestly doesn’t matter as long as it works out and I don’t have to do it again, who gives a shit?! The new ones won’t try to kill me!

I saw the “before” pictures today as well. Those boring old sociopaths weren’t worth all this trouble! I thought I would mourn them. I thought I loved them. But, like other times in my life, I’ve moved on. I don’t even miss them. I’m better off.

So, old boobs, I don’t much care about you. I don’t even think about you much anymore. I’ve got a new thing going. And my new boobs are going to treat me better. Settle on in to those corners of my mind with things I used to adore. Befriend those comfy platform shoes and sweet, hopeless boyfriends. Or just fuck off like those terrible clogs and mean jerks that made me cry. Either way, you’re being replaced and I’m glad.

One step closer…

Uphill From Here

The lowest lows must exist. I get that. And for the first time in a while, my highs are amplified by those lows. I got great news today. The blood clot I developed from the portacath is nearly resolved!

A few days after my portacath placement in early June, my arm turned purple and swelled. They discovered a clot that extended into my armpit from my chest. I went on Xarelto, a blood thinner, and have been on it since ever since. The medication doesn’t have side effects other than easy bruising and one should avoid cuts at all cost. As someone who is poked with needles almost weekly and anticipated several major surgeries, the blood clot and associated blood thinners were a huge concern.

It is the painful and ugly relief map of veins in my sundresses. It is the thing that pulled me down from the silks. It is the ongoing, nagging, threatening thing that made chemo and surgery far more scary than need be. I hate that blood clot. I really do.

Before my last surgery, I had to do what is called a Lovenox Bridge which is another type of short-term blood thinner that must be injected (by me) into the chubbiest part of my belly twice daily. Like so many of the trials of the last year, this task was a low low. It hurt. I looked like I had been run over.

My next (and hopefully final) reconstruction surgery is scheduled for February 9 so if the clot had still not resolved, I would have to do another round of tummy shots for 10 days. I don’t think I have to now! This also means that the risks associated with my upcoming surgery are far less. This is a high high.

Also, as fast as it started, my hair stopped falling out about 5 days ago. I don’t want to get too excited because, well…who knows? But, a do feel that a huge weight has been lifted from me. I’m that much closer to being a normal person again, whatever that means.

Could there be an end in sight? As long as there is an end, I don’t mind it being uphill.

 

Humpty Dumpty

5c8206c8f7793ae56c1a84dfbc0deda0I’m at the chemo room preparing for Herceptin #? I don’t keep track of Herceptin treatments. I just know they will end in June. Yet another countdown is on.

I don’t leave the house much anymore. I just don’t feel like it. I’m down. I don’t sleep well. My doctors think I have anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder. It is possible. I’m definitely not myself. But, who could be after all this? Who crawls out from under a life-crushing avalanche and walks away whistling like everything is okay? Everything is very much not okay.

My time and nervous energy are not wasted though. I’ve devoted every free moment of time to a condo renovation. More on that later but it is my only solace. I can crowbar, smash, or break things. Or I can gently resurface a wall with joint compound. I can patch holes and clean up and correct imperfections. I can sand things until they are smooth while the dust rises up all around me. It settles on me in a fine layer so that I look like a ghost. Sometimes I just sit in the dust and think. It is all very therapeutic and a bit metaphorical. Right now I’m putting “Humpty” back together again, in more ways than one.