In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness month, I’ve decided to repost a … Read the rest →]]> I’m in the war of my life, at the door of my life, got no choice but to fight til it’s done.
War of My Life, John Mayer

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness month, I’ve decided to repost a series of blogs I wrote last year (2013) about my breast cancer journey. Writing about the process helped me cope with the feelings I had before, during and especially after my surgeries, and I received several emails from women going through the same or similar experience.

My hope in reposting these blogs is that more women whose lives have been impacted by breast cancer will know that they are not alone. And so, without further ado, here is the start of of my journey:

I love John Mayer. More correctly, I love John Mayer’s music. I mean, he’s not hard on the eyes but he is commitment phobic and, well, I’m a happily married woman. But his music is bluesy and soulful and it speaks to me.

Last Monday, as I drove the 55 miles from home to work, I heard the song War of My Life, and while I’ve probably heard the song a hundred times, this time, it spoke to me. And I realized that, since I received the results of my breast biopsy on April 30^th (see I’m a Noble Warrior, I’ve Got This), I’ve been engaged in the war of my own life.

Here’s how it started. On Monday evening, April 29^th, I picked up a voicemail from my doctor. “Great news on the biopsy, Suzanne. No cancer. I’ll call you tomorrow to check in.” I heaved a small sigh of relief (I didn’t really expect it to be otherwise) and went to bed.

The next morning as I’m driving to work, the phone rings. I answer it (using my built-in, hands-free setup), and it’s my doctor. “Hi Dr. McClure,” I said, “thanks for the great news on my biopsy.” “Yeah, about the biopsy,” she begins, “it’s true that you don’t have a cancer, but they did find something called Atypical Lobular Hyperplasia.”

“Atypical what?” Turns out that Atypical Lobular Hyperplasia (ALH) is a pre-cancerous condition (in the milk lobes) which may or may not become cancer. “So that means there is surgery in your future. An excisional biopsy (lumpectomy) at a minimum. Unless you decide to do something prophylactically.”

“Wait, what?” I said. “Prophylactically? As in, mastectomy?” By the time I pulled into the parking garage at work I felt like I was living in a parallel universe. And then, when I’d gathered my wits about me, I set out to learn more about my condition. And when I’d gathered all the facts, I made the decision to have a bilateral mastectomy. Here’s why:

1. A person with no risk factors for breast cancer has a 10% chance of getting breast cancer in their lifetime. People with ALH have a 4-5 time greater risk of getting breast cancer. So instead of 10%, my risk is now 40-50%.

2. Women between the ages of 45-55 (I’m 52) with ALH have the highest future risk of developing breast cancer, making my risk higher than 40-50%.

3. Women with a strong family history of breast cancer have an even higher future risk of developing breast cancer.

I have a strong family history of breast cancer.

In 2007, at the age of 51, my sister Diane was diagnosed with ALH. Before undergoing a lumpectomy to remove more tissue, she had a breast MRI which revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The lumpectomy revealed that she had cancer, and that they did not get clear margins (meaning there was cancer in the perimeter of the sample).

After undergoing another MRI, the radiologist saw something in the other breast that looked like it could maybe be something suspicious after all. A second lumpectomy was performed on the other breast which also revealed cancer with no clear margins.

It became clear that my sister’s best option was bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction (also known as radical mastectomy). The pathology of the tissue removed revealed hundreds of tiny tumors in both breasts that were not seen on imaging.

Three months later, at the age of 49, my sister Pamela found a lump. A mammogram revealed nothing unusual. An MRI revealed a tumor. Deciding on the more conservative lumpectomy, the pathology revealed two tumors, side by side: one tumor was cancer, the other was ALH.

Though both of my sisters tested negative for the breast cancer gene (BRCA 1 and BRCA2), a woman who has more than one immediately family member (mother, sister, daughter) who has had breast cancer but tested negative on the BRCA 1 and 2 test, has about a 40% chance of developing breast cancer in her life.

So, what does all that mean for me? In terms of risk, I’m not sure. It isn’t as simple as adding the risk of having ALH to the risk of having strong family history together. The truth lies somewhere in between and every medical professional I’ve spoken to, from surgeons to oncologists to genetic counselors, seems to have a different answer.

But the bottom line for me was this. Whatever the actual risk percentage is, it is too high for me.

And so, after carefully considering all options—weighing the pros and cons of each—I have decided that, rather than playing Russian Roulette with my life and opt for the most minimally invasive option (lumpectomy), I’ve decided to eliminate my lifetime risk (as well as a lifetime of fear) by having a bilateral mastectomy (I prefer even numbers and don’t wish to be known as the Uniboober).

But I didn’t come by this decision quickly or easily or without a lot of struggle (I’ve swung to both sides of the pendulum so many times it’s made me dizzy), and until last week, I wasn’t 100% certain I’d made the right decision. And then, last week, events unfolded that crystallized my decision. Here’s what happened:

Last Monday, while discussing my situation with a coworker/friend, she said, “You know, Suzanne, it seems to me that you’ve been given a warning sign. Maybe your mother is trying to tell you that she couldn’t stand to see another one of her babies suffer the way your other two sisters did.”

That night, I broke down and cried for the first time since this began (which is shocking for me, I’m a crier). Big gulping sobs that shook my whole body. As I crawled into bed that night I snuggled the teddy bear that my mom had crocheted for me when I was eight twenty-eight and when I held him, I felt her love. And then I talked to her. “Mom, I need for you to tell me what to do. And you need to pretty much hit me over the head with the answer.”

Tuesday I saw the breast surgeon who told me that ALH is tricky because, when it becomes invasive cancer, it isn’t normally seen on imaging (as in both my sisters cases).

Wednesday night my sister Pamela called. I hadn’t spoken to her since the day of my diagnosis and I didn’t know which way on the pendulum she would swing. When I finished telling her of my struggle to make a decision she said, “Well Suz, it’s a no brainer. Have the surgery. All of us Whitfield girl’s should have it. I wish I’d done it myself.”

And in her words I heard my mother’s voice, as clearly as if she’d been standing in front of me (hands on hips and wagging a finger at me). And so my decision was made.

On Thursday I woke up feeling lighter than I had in a long time.

On Friday I spent the morning communing with butterflies (I simply adore them) at the Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. That afternoon I met with the plastic surgeon who will be doing my reconstruction, and he was funny and kind (seriously, his name is actually Dr. Kind) and it further cemented my decision.

And finally, as I sat in rush hour traffic on the freeway heading home, I kid you not, a white butterfly flittered in front of my window, pausing for several seconds before taking off.

In that moment, I knew my mother was speaking to me. Good job, Suz. You made the right choice.

And so, sometime soon (I’m trying to plan around the John Mayer concert on July 23^rd) I will be having a bilateral, nipple sparing mastectomy with reconstruction.

What about you? What “war” have you had to fight, and how did you go about making your decision? I want to know.

The call came on a Tuesday. The call I’d been expecting. The call that would deliver the results of my breast biopsy. I wasn’t worried. Despite the fact that two of my sisters had previously been diagnosed with breast cancer. … Read the rest →]]>

The call came on a Tuesday. The call I’d been expecting. The call that would deliver the results of my breast biopsy. I wasn’t worried. Despite the fact that two of my sisters had previously been diagnosed with breast cancer. For some reason, I didn’t feel it was in the cards for me.

“What will you do if the results come back positive?” my husband asked over breakfast the previous Friday, just after the biopsy.

I shrugged. “That’s a no brainer. I’ll tell them to take ‘em both.”

I’d just pulled into the parking lot at work when my doctor called with the results. “No cancer,” she said.

“Great,” I replied, not surprised by the results.

“However, they did find some atypical cells. I’m afraid you have another surgery in your future. A lumpectomy, at a minimum. Unless you choose to have a mastectomy.”

My heart leapt into my throat. “Whoa, wait a minute. Mastectomy? Just what exactly are you saying?”

“You have a condition called Atypical Lobular Hyperplasia…”

ALH is a pre-cancerous condition in the milk lobes of the breast which may, or may not, become cancerous. The more risk factors you have, the greater your chances that it will develop into cancer. My doctor pointed out that with two direct relatives who have had breast cancer, along with several other factors, my odds of getting breast cancer were pretty high.

Suddenly, my mind was a whirl of choices, none of which seemed like the right choice. Still in a daze from the news but determined to gather as much information as possible before I made my decision, I went to see a series of doctors.

The Decision:

The first stop was a breast surgeon. I thought I was going to discuss all of my options, but as it turned out, I was there to discuss a lumpectomy (the removal of the tissue surrounding the affected area—which had been marked with a dot during biopsy).

Pros: A lumpectomy might remove all the affected cells.

Cons: It might not remove all the affected cells, which would require further surgery.

My second visit was to an oncologist, where we discussed the use of Tamoxifen (an oral chemo drug) to stop the spread of the ALH.

Pros: It is a non-surgical (non-invasive) way to treat the condition.

Cons: Tamoxifen has many unwanted side-effects, not the least of which is instant menopause (may be temporary or permanent).

My third stop was to another breast surgeon to discuss preventive mastectomy. Dr. Nima Grissom explained to me that, because ALH is contained within the lobes (or the ducts in the case of atypical ductal hyperplasia) it is difficult to detect because it doesn’t show up on imaging until it has progressed to invasive cancer. Mine was detected because they were testing a suspicious calcification (which was fine) and just happened to capture some atypical cells surrounding it. Which is why doing nothing was not an option for me.

Pros: It would provide a total cure (assuming they didn’t find any actual cancer in the pathology).

Cons: It’s major surgery.

My final stop was to a genetic counselor to discuss my family history and to better quantify my chances of someday getting breast cancer. The genetic counselor took a detailed family history and explained that, even though my sisters both tested negative on the genetic testing, it was very possible that their cancer was in fact genetic, that geneticists can only test the genes that they know today are linked to breast cancer (and that there are very likely many more yet to be discovered).

The bottom line from the genetic counselor: my chances of getting breast cancer at some point in my life were very high, likely greater than 60%.

This begged the question: If I knew that the plane I was boarding had a 60% chance of crashing, would I get on it?

Answer? No. I chose bilateral mastectomy.

What to Expect After Mastectomy:

Mastectomy is not for everyone. One of my sisters chose it, the other did not. It’s a very personal decision that should not be made lightly. Even given my odds, it was not a no-brainer. And even after I made it, I wondered if it was the right one.

What if, I asked myself, the pathology report came back and the only thing they found was that tiny bit of ALH from the original biopsy? It’s not that I wanted them to find something more, but could I justify removing both of my breasts for such a minute amount of pre-cancer?

Answer? Yes, because I did not want to live with the fear of wondering if that tiny little spot would turn into something more. I also knew that there was a distinct possibility that it might’ve already turned into something more.

And so, one year ago today, I underwent a bilateral nipple-sparing mastectomy. A few days later, the pathology revealed extensive amounts of bilateral carcinoma in-situ. Cancer that is contained within the ducts or lobes. That tiny spot had indeed grown into something more.

Things the Doctors Don’t Tell you about Mastectomy:

The Pain:
It hurts. Like hell. But I have a high tolerance for pain and this didn’t bother me. Too much.

The Numbness:
After a mastectomy, you lose all sensation in your breasts. Getting used to the numbness takes time.

The Complications:
My friend Susie Lindau (to read her Boob Report, click here) underwent a bilateral mastectomy five weeks before I did. She sailed through with only one minor complication.

Five weeks after my mastectomy, I had a second surgery to remove a patch of skin that died. The surgery itself was easy (compared to the first one), but because of this condition, I had to take antibiotics for six weeks, which made me pretty sick.

And now, six months after my reconstructive surgery, I’ll have a fourth surgery to remove a capsular contracture.

The Emotional Toll:
This by far has been the hardest part for me. A few weeks after the mastectomy I began crying for no discernable reason. And I couldn’t stop. Medication helped, but for a long time, no matter how hard I tried, I could not summon the joy I used to feel every day of my life. But time heals all. A year later I’m finally beginning to feel like myself again.

Someone asked me recently if, knowing everything I know today, I would still make the same decision.

Answer? Yes. I have no regrets. It’s been a long journey—and it’s not over yet—but I’ve learned a lot about myself this past year. I’ve learned that I am stronger than I thought I was (my surgeon, Dr. Gabriel Kind, calls me “one tough Chicago chick”), and that it’s okay to vulnerable (and to ask for help).

Oh, and because getting pissed off is sometimes the only thing that feels good, I’ve learned to embrace my inner bitch.

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Twelve days ago I said goodbye to my bionic boobs and hello to a perfectly matched, shiny new pair. And I couldn’t be happier with them. And something else amazing happened, too.

The day after surgery, my sister Pamela came … Read the rest →]]>  

Twelve days ago I said goodbye to my bionic boobs and hello to a perfectly matched, shiny new pair. And I couldn’t be happier with them. And something else amazing happened, too.

The day after surgery, my sister Pamela came to visit. And she brought me a present. She brought me back my Mojo.

She claims that she accidentally took it with her last summer when visiting just after my mastectomy. An honest mistake, she says. And I believe her. Because we are practically twins, after all (separated by only 2 years and 4 months). And because she’s a nurse and has a house filled with puppies. And I mean, anyone who loves puppies couldn’t possibly be evil enough to steal someone’s Mojo. Right? I mean, right?

And so, I placed the little package of Mojo under my pillow and waited for it to take effect. And then, a few days later, I woke up and the fog I’d lived in for far too long was gone. And so was the inability to feel anything except indifference. My mind was no longer numb.

Last week I felt things I hadn’t felt in so long they almost felt foreign. Things like, the simple joy of a morning walk, gut-wrenching laughter that brought tears coursing down my cheeks, joy so deep it nearly strangled my heart, profound gratitude for my life and the people in it, especially my husband, who takes such wonderful care of me when I’m sick. He has surely gotten his money’s worth on the for better or worse part of our marriage vows.

And then on Saturday I woke up with tears streaming down my face. And that day, all I wanted to do was cry. And I feared that I had somehow fallen into the dark abyss again, and that soon even the sadness would be gone, replaced once again by the numbness.

But then Sunday dawned and I was no longer sad and I wanted to go outside and dance in the rain. And I probably would have, except it was Sunday and my husband was home and I worried that he might fear that I’d lost my marbles because I’ve never done anything more publicly embarrassing (for him) than skip through the parking lot at Target. Well, except once, but that time was far too embarrassing (for me) to mention here.

And here it is Monday, and I’m writing this and the sun is shining and I’m smiling from the inside out. And I’m happy, so happy that my sister Pamela found my Mojo because life without it is a very sad life.

What about you? Have you ever lost your Mojo and then found it (or had it returned by a seemingly innocent relative)? When you did, did it give you a new lease on life?

Repost from February 4, 2014

Diane is a very no nonsense kind of gal, so when she received her diagnosis she asked what she … Read the rest →]]>

In the fall of 2007, my sister Diane was diagnosed with breast cancer by Conners Clinic.

Diane is a very no nonsense kind of gal, so when she received her diagnosis she asked what she needed to do. And then she soldiered through it. Among the things she was told to do, her doctor told her about somenthing to help her with the pains she might start to have.She was told that it could help her with anxiety or depression while trying to cope with her cancer. We found the best one to be at Minneapolis CBD oil since it was recommend by our friends. If you are looking for a more discrete alternative product  a great company to consider opening your own business with as well.

The doctors recommended vaping it because it was the safest form for the cancer she had. Vaping was a safer alternative because the traditional smoke filled up her lungs too fast with the toxic after effects. Our doctor prescribed the vape tool from  FRANCHISEVAPE.COM  since they are partners with many hospitals for exactly these reasons.

I never saw my sister cry.

Even after the surgery to remove both of her breasts. But she did. Months later when it was all behind her. She just didn’t know how to reach out and share what she was feeling.

It breaks my heart to think of how she lived with all that fear by herself.

I wish we’d known. I wish I’d understood then, as I do now, how scary it was for her. But Diane, like our mother, has always been so strong and brave, and private.

Three months after Diane’s diagnosis, my sister Pamela called. Being the nurse in the family, Pam had become the official family bearer of bad news, and I could hear in her voice that this was one of those calls.

It turned out that Pamela, too, had breast cancer.

Oh God, please, no more, I cried.  Please let this phone call simply be a Nyquil-induced hallucination or a really bad nightmare.  But it was not to be so.

Pamela’s diagnosis hit her hard. It was excruciating watching her suffer as much as she did. Pam is the next youngest to me and we have always shared a very close relationship.

I’d held my mother while she died, sat by my father’s bedside during his final moments, and did what little I could to comfort my sister Diane after her surgery, but watching Pam suffer through her illness was almost more than I could bear. I prayed (begged and pleaded) so much that I was sure God was getting tired of hearing from me.  What I wouldn’t have given to trade places with her, for at least some of the time.

If only we could share her disease, like we’d shared so many other things our entire lives.

But as it turned out, the only thing we could share was her suffering.  And so we did.

And while I was grateful that our mother didn’t have to watch two of her babies go thru their horrible ordeals, I also wished that my sisters had been able to feel the comfort of her loving arms around them.

After surgery, because of two affected lymph nodes, Pam went through six months of chemotherapy and radiation.

And now, five years later, both of my sisters are still cancer free.

Pam and I have become closer than ever since her diagnosis. We have become advocates for breast cancer, and participate annually in some breast cancer event together. Most recent was the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in which we walked 39.3 miles (26.2 miles on day 1, followed by 13.1 on day 2).

The walk was physically grueling and more rewarding than I can say. It was such an honor to walk beside my sister. Her courage and her strength never cease to motivate and inspire me. Next year we plan to rollerblade a marathon.

Yes, standing on the sidelines of cancer sucks. Big time. It makes you feel helpless, powerless, and it rips your heart right out of your chest. And it changes you. Forever. You feel humbled and honored to know these brave warriors and to have been even a small part of their heroic journey. And at the same time that you pray you never receive such a horrible diagnosis you ask yourself, could I be so brave?

Everyone’s life has been affected in some way by cancer. How has it affected your life? Do you draw inspiration from the courage and bravery of friends or family members who have battled cancer?

Repost from October 8, 2013

Yes, cancer sucks.

Okay, that’s an obvious understatement, but it’s about the most descriptive adjective I can use in print without resorting to words I promised by 14 year old daughter I wouldn’t use. It definitely sucks most for … Read the rest →]]>

Yes, cancer sucks.

Okay, that’s an obvious understatement, but it’s about the most descriptive adjective I can use in print without resorting to words I promised by 14 year old daughter I wouldn’t use. It definitely sucks most for the person who has cancer, but it is not easy being a bystander to cancer either.

It’s pretty amazing to think that I didn’t actually know anyone with cancer until sometime in my thirties. It was then that my friend Kristy was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time at the age of 30. Her first battle with the dreaded disease was when she was 25. The first time, she opted for a lumpectomy, but the second time she went for the bilateral mastectomy (removal of both breasts) with reconstructive surgery.

I remember visiting Kristy in the hospital a couple of days after her surgery. She was alone in the room when I entered, and she was crying because the pain was so intense. When she saw me, she immediately wiped her eyes and apologized to me. She apologized to me for crying. For being so weak.

In that moment, she became my hero. Not because she was so strong, but because she was so brave.

The covers of blissful ignorance were ripped viciously from my eyes that day, and the realization that bad things happen to good people struck me full force. I’d known this all along, of course, but now I was witnessing it first-hand. Kristy was one of the kindest people I knew. And if cancer could strike someone like her, it could happen to me, too.

I never looked at my life in quite the same way after that.

Cancer didn’t touch my life again until six years later when, fresh from my honeymoon where my new husband and I were living once again in ignorant bliss, I receive a phone call from my father telling me he had esophageal cancer. My mother had passed away only 11 months before and suddenly my entire world started spinning out of control.

Oh God, please let my father live. I had never really needed him before, but I sure needed him now.

My father and I loved each other dearly, but we’d also had a somewhat contentious relationship. He would say something hurtful, I would get defensive, and he would yell at me, tell me I was being too defensive. And so it went. I cursed the fates that took my beloved mother before my father, but I would soon come to understand why it was so.

Several months after my mother’s passing (and before my father’s diagnosis), my father and I had a huge fight on the phone. He once again said something hurtful (this time it involved my mother), I once again got defensive and so on. I slammed the phone down and vowed I would never speak to him again. And then I had an idea. I would write him a letter.

In my letter I told him that the reason I was always so defensive was because he was always attacking me. That nothing I ever did was good enough for him (I was a college graduate and a CPA for crying out loud), and that I felt as though he couldn’t love me unless I was living my life according to the Book of Dad. I mailed the letter (he’s was an old fashioned kind of guy) and I waited. And waited. And then, about 3 weeks later, I got a letter back from him.

In his letter he told me that I was absolutely right, and that he could never see how hard he was being on me. That of his 8 daughters (yes, I’m the youngest of 8), I was the most like him, and he had his own vision of how my career should go.

He validated all the pain and all the insecurities that I’d felt my entire life. And in that single act of reading his letter, I forgave him. He asked me for a second chance (while stating that he did not deserve one), which of course I gave him, and in that moment, I knew why my mother left before he did.

I will be forever grateful that we mended our relationship before cancer because I knew it was from his heart, and not borne out of his need to make things right before dying.

And so the cancer journey began for us. I took my dad to endless doctor, radiation and chemo appointments because I was the most geographically located to do so. And as we would sit in the waiting rooms together, he would ask me which of his possessions I wanted, tell me what his desires were regarding his “girlfriend” (don’t ask), and how, as the executor of his estate, he wanted everything settled (including the disposition of the home he and my mother had shared for twenty years).

It was heartbreaking to watch a man who had once been larger than life fade away before my very eyes, but I was grateful that we were, at last, becoming friends.

After dropping my father off at home and tucking him into bed before heading back to work, I would sit in my car and cry. I’d cry for my father, and for myself, and for the family Christmases that would be no more. And then I’d go back to my job. At least until they fired me for missing so much work.

My father put up a valiant fight, and just as he had been at the age of 14 when he stole his brother’s birth certificate, joined the Army, and fought valiantly in World War 2, he was a true soldier to the end. A noble warrior.

And when he died, I became an orphan.

Everyone’s life has been affected in some way by cancer. How has it affected your life? Do you draw inspiration from the courage and bravery of friends or family members who have battled cancer?

Repost from October 1, 2013

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been feeling blue. Tears seem to come from nowhere at random times with no understanding of their purpose. I mean, sure, I had a bilateral mastectomy six weeks … Read the rest →]]> Photo Courtesy of Google Images

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been feeling blue. Tears seem to come from nowhere at random times with no understanding of their purpose. I mean, sure, I had a bilateral mastectomy six weeks ago, but I’m through the worst now.

So what the hell is going on?

And then yesterday, my sister Pamela called when I was feeling particularly blue. She asked what was wrong and I told her I didn’t know. I just seem to cry with no particular reason in mind. The conversation went like this:

Her: “You have a right to feel blue, or any other color you feel like being. Hell, you have the right to be angry, pissed off even, at the hand fate has dealt you. Nobody should have to be faced with a choice between losing their breasts and all the other stuff that goes along with it (like skin necrosis, fevers, intestinal issues, pulled ribs, pulled muscles, the pain of the drains, and just lots of pain in general), or risk losing their life. You had breast cancer, Sister. You’re a Survivor now.”

Me: “I don’t feel like a Survivor. I feel like a fraud. I mean, I didn’t even have ‘real’ cancer. I didn’t earn the right to call myself a Survivor.”

Her: “You had the same kind of cancer as Diane (our other sister). Carcinoma in Situ is cancer contained in the lobe or duct. It’s Non-Invasive breast cancer but it is cancer, and you ARE a Survivor. With the amount of cancer you had, you for sure saved your life by having this surgery. You need to allow yourself to grieve for what you’ve lost and what you’ve been through. Don’t try to busy the feelings away. Let them heal you.”

And so I cry, and still, I can’t help it, the feeling that I have no right to these feelings comes creeping back. And then the realization strikes like midnight. You see, a few weeks ago I learned that one of my sisters, due to complications from spinal surgery, will spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair, has a pacemaker to control her heartbeat, and will likely never hear the sound of her own voice again (commences crying). Her situation is permanent. Mine will be over in a few months when I have my final surgery.

And then I repeat Pamela’s words back to myself and I realize that, even though I am devastated and broken-hearted for my sister, I have the right to feel whatever I need to feel about my own situation. And so this time when I cry, I no longer feel like a fraud. I feel like a woman who has been through a long, hard journey but has found the courage to get through it (with the ever-present support of my husband, my sisters and my friends). I feel like a Survivor.

The very next day I went to Physical Therapy for the first time. In filling out the questionnaire, I was asked if I’ve ever had cancer and I checked the box with a Yes (and wrote “breast” next to it). When speaking to my therapist she asked what Stage my cancer was. I blinked a couple of times and said, “Zero. You see I had the kind of cancer that is considered non-invasive, so they call it Stage Zero.”  The therapist smiles at me and says, “My mother had Stage Zero breast cancer a few years ago and she had a bilateral mastectomy, too. What a brave decision you made.”

And she’s right. It was brave, and I am strong, and I will honor my feelings and then I’ll let them go because I am a Survivor.

Repost from September 17, 2013.

Last night I was scrolling through the pictures on my phone and came upon this one of my sister Pamela and I outside the front of my house in our bathrobes. I wracked my still anesthesia-fogged brain trying … Read the rest →]]> Flashbacks

Last night I was scrolling through the pictures on my phone and came upon this one of my sister Pamela and I outside the front of my house in our bathrobes. I wracked my still anesthesia-fogged brain trying to remember when this photo was taken and only by looking at the sequence of photos taken before and after this one did a vague recollection dawn.

It was my first full day home from the hospital (three days post-op) and we actually walked around the block (or probably just to the corner and back). In our pajamas. And our bathrobes. I can’t even begin to imagine what the neighbors thought. Well, at least we looked cute.

Dr. Evil Returns

On day 6 post-surgery, I was awakened by the barking of my neighbor’s dog at around 8:00 in the morning. Not a big deal except that the dog would not stop barking. It barked and barked and barked, and by 3:00 in the afternoon I could stand it no more.

Exhausted and weary from the frayed nerves (did I mention that the neighbor’s dog barking made my own two dogs bark non-stop?) I stomped out of bed, jotted a quick and not so nice note threatening to report the dog to animal control if they couldn’t control it’s barking, and marched myself over there (wearing god only knows what). When nobody answered I slapped the note (with tape I had already applied) on the door and strode home, collapsing back into bed.

The next morning, completely devoid of any memory from the previous day’s escapade, my husband strolls into the bedroom and hands me a piece of paper. I eyed him suspiciously and slowly opened the note. It began like this:

Dear Neighbor:

First, let me wish you a speedy and healthy recovery from your surgery (apparently I mentioned this in my note). Second, I understand how difficult it can be to rest with a barking dog nearby. Please do not call animal control. We want to work to resolve this. I will keep Brodie in his crate inside all day today so he will not disturb you. Here is my phone number if Brodie’s barking ever becomes a problem.

Signed,
Ridiculously Nice Neighbor

When I finished reading it, a crushing blow of guilt and remorse struck me in the solar plexis. The first thing I did was to send off a quick email to my friend Susie Lindau who had her mastectomy a couple of months before me, and asked her how long I could blame my bad behavior on the narcotics and anesthesia. She quickly replied, “At least three weeks–and milk it, honey.”

I thanked her profusely, but strangely I didn’t feel the relief I expected to because the note was something that the Real Me would never do. It was then that I realized that, despite the fact that I had just slayed the Zombie’s that had invaded my dreams since surgery, the Evil Me (See Who Are You and What Have You Done with the Real Me) had returned.

Determined to not let Dr. Evil stake his claim on me, I sent off an email to my neighbor (she left her email address in her note) and explained to her that I had been momentarily possessed by an evil force and begged for her forgiveness.

I waited on pins and needles for two days for her reply and was pleased when the first line read that I had nothing to apologize for. I can’t remember what she said after that, but I made my husband promise not to let me stomp out of the house in anger ever again.

Back in the Saddle O.R. Again

In my last Post-Mastectomy blog (click here), I reported that Dr. Kind discovered a patch of skin that looked as though it might be dying. Despite our best efforts to encourage it to live, it did in fact die, and now it has to be removed. This Thursday I will return to the operating room to have the offensive tissue excised. Unfortunately, this will set my reconstruction back a couple of months, but Dr. Kind still promises me a pair of perfectly matched sisters when it’s all said and done.

What about you? What helps you through the challenges in your life?

Repost from August 27, 2013

The Diagnosis

Back in April I was diagnosed with a pre-cancer condition called Atypical Lobular Hyperplasia (see Russian Roulette or Mastectomy) and, because of a strong family history of breast cancer, decided to have a preventive bilateral mastectomy.

The decision was … Read the rest →]]>

The Diagnosis

Back in April I was diagnosed with a pre-cancer condition called Atypical Lobular Hyperplasia (see Russian Roulette or Mastectomy) and, because of a strong family history of breast cancer, decided to have a preventive bilateral mastectomy.

The decision was a difficult one, in part because I wondered how I would feel if the post-surgery pathology report came back showing no further instances of this pre-cancer condition. Would I feel as though I’d made the wrong decision? I mean, it is a pretty very extreme surgery and the pre-cancer I had might never turn into cancer.

In the end my two sisters who are survivors convinced me that, regardless of the outcome, I was making the right decision. By having a mastectomy, I would be eliminating my lifetime risk of getting breast cancer. No more six-month mammograms. No more breast MRI’s.

No more worrying.

And then last Monday my breast surgeon called me with the results of the pathology. I held my breath and awaited the verdict, determined that I would be fine with whatever the results were. “We found several more instances of the atypical lobular hyperplasia,” she said, “and extensive amount of ductal carcinoma in situ in both breasts. The good news is that because the cancer was contained inside the milk ducts (has not yet penetrated the breast tissue or lymph nodes), your surgery would be considered a total cure.”

Diagnosis and cure all at once. Cancer and the cure. I had breast cancer but now I’m cured.

I had breast cancer.

Surprisingly, that news threw me for a loop, and I’m still trying to process it. The scariest part?

Why wasn’t it seen on imaging?

Necrosis

Meanwhile, as I continue to absorb my diagnosis, I have a new complication to deal with. A visit to my reconstructive surgeon last week revealed a good-sized section of skin on my left breast that appears to be dying. Apparently this happens when the surgeon cuts too close to the skin and leaves it too thin to survive.

But for now it’s a wait-and-see game. This week I will apply an antibiotic ointment used on 3^rd degree burn victims to the area and when my doctor returns from vacation next week, we’ll decide if another surgery is in order to remove the affected area.

There WILL be Unicorns

The good news is that I have received not one but two unicorns to help me heal, and since I already have two fluffy kittens, I think I’m all set. Now it’s time to just lie back, watch some Downtown Abbey and try to stay away from all the baked goods my sister left behind from her stay while my body continues to heal.

Thank you to all of you who have left encouraging messages over the past couple of weeks. I can’t begin to tell you how much they’ve meant.  I’m hoping in the next week or so I’ll feel up to responding to your comments once again.

Reposted from August 13, 2013.