Why I ride motorcycles: It’s not something I think about much, it’s just something I do…as often as I can. When I ride, I am in total control. I am solely accountable for every input, for every split second decision. I lust for the feeling of absolute control in a world that feels out of control. Motorcycling provides that. I will ride in adverse weather and cold temperatures without batting an eyelash. I will gladly wear whatever gear it takes to keep me rolling on 2 wheels. The FEELING I get while riding overrides any desire to maintain an image. My motorcycle is not a fashion accessory, it’s a vital organ. Every time I fire up that motor, I know I might not survive the ride. One wrong move, one indecisive moment, one distracted driver, one deer jumping in my path…and my Son will be collecting his inheritance. Most sane people wouldn’t intentionally put themselves in danger…but for me, that potential threat of death makes be feel fully alive. My bout with breast cancer made me realize that death is inevitable, so I want to LIVE while I still have a chance. This is why I ride.
One week post-op. I’m feeling pretty good in general. My body is sore, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Both my spirits and my energy level are high. I’ve spent this first week crocheting while going down streaming rabbit holes, searching for obscure movies and TV shows. One of my favorites being “Nightbitch”, based on a novel by Rachel Yoder, starring Amy Adams. I’d put it in the category of relatable Black Comedy with a horror vibe. In a nutshell, it’s about an installation Artist who gives up her career just as it’s gaining momentum in order to be a stay-at-home Mom. The story illustrates her feelings of lost identity & wasted talent, her pursuit of new meaning & purpose. There is much more to this story, but I’ll shut my trap to avoid being a spoiler. You’ll just have to watch it…you won’t regret it! I’m wearing compression garments 24/7 (chest and abdominal)…only to be removed while showering. Showering allows me to check the state of my bruising, which is still gnarly. It is the worst bruising I’ve seen in my lifetime. Even my lady parts are deep purple, due to blood pooling. But, I’m told this is very normal, and to be expected. I keep this in mind upon noticing that the bruising on my reconstructed breast (the mastectomy side) is starting to appear darker, while the bruising on my augmented breast (the healthy breast) is fading. I’m sure this is all part of the healing phase, no need to worry. 11 days post OP, and I’m feeling like my recovery is reverting, I’m going backwards. I feel like total shit, and I can’t seem to get comfortable no matter what position I’m in. The pain is deep and all encompassing. I can’t muster the energy to do anything other than breath. I can’t even stand to look at my iPhone, the light from the screen hurts my eyes…reading nauseates me. The bruising on my reconstructed breast looks far worse now than it did a few days ago. Once again, I convince myself that it’s normal and carry on. As evening falls, the urge to vomit becomes harder to suppress, so Brian gives me an anti-nausea pill that the surgeon sent me home with. The pill was useless. I hurled my guts out like Regan MacNeil in the Exorcist….multiple times throughout the night. Early the next morning, Brian calls my Surgeon in Rochester to report what was happening, and to seek her guidance. She tells Brian to get me to the Emergency Room in Red Wing immediately. We arrive to the ER, and to our surprise, they wheel me back to an exam room before we even had a chance to sit in the waiting room. Red Wing Mayo ER is notorious for making patients wait multiple hours before being seen. I have a hunch Rochester may have called Red Wing to tell them I was in-route, why else would they act as if the were prepared for my arrival? The first order of business is an IV to pump fluids back into me. They also give me an intravenous antiemetic (anti-vomiting agent), and an intravenous painkiller. I don’t know what painkiller they are giving me, I’m too sick to retain all they are telling me. I just trust they know what they are doing. Well, whatever they gave me worked, because I’m feeling like a normal human again at a pretty fast clip. The nurses and attending physician run through a barrage of questions, and test me for a multitude of infections and viruses. The testing came back negative for all suspected causes. I was clean as a whistle. They do have one theory, though. Just a couple of days prior, Brian was hit by a stomach bug that gave him the old Hershey Squirts. It was suspected that I may have caught that same bug, except the evacuation came from the other end. The attending physician took off my abdominal compression garment to check my healing progress. He makes note of the dramatic bruising, but says it’s normal. He opts out of examining my breasts, assuming they were healing at the same rate. Once I’m stabilized, I am sent home with no aftercare instructions other that to stay hydrated and take it easy. 14 days post op: Off to Rochester Mayo I go for my first post-op follow up with Plastics. My reconstructed side looks like a blackened chicken breast with a single pepperoni slice in the center (nipple joke..I’m hilarious!). The healthy augmented breast look perfect. I cross my fingers that the surgical assistant will tell me it looks normal, but my instinct screams otherwise. My instinct proves to be right. The surgical assistant’s face drops and she audibly gasps as she examines me. It’s a hematoma…and a bad one. It could very well require another surgery to correct. She grills me about my physical activity, assuming I deviated from my physical restrictions. I tell her the only thing I’ve been doing is crocheting and watching Netflix. She tells me that crochet is absolutely off limits, as it is far too much repetitive motion for my upper body. The surgical assistant left the exam room to talk directly to my Plastic Surgeon, Dr. V, to determine the next steps. I forgot to tell her about my Exorcist-level vomit marathon, shit! As soon as the assistant reenters the room, I fill her in on the vomiting episode from a few days prior, and she responds: “Yes, Dr. V told me she instructed you to go the ER in Red Wing for a vomiting spell. She believes this is what caused your hematoma: the pressure from the violent vomiting burst your freshly cauterized veins.” The plan of attack: HEAVY compression on my reconstructed breast and ZERO physical activity for the next 2 weeks. No crochet, no typing, no writing…and of course, no housework or exercise. I cannot let my blood pressure exceed 100 bpm (which is tricky considering my resting heart rate is right around 90 bpm). My surgical assistant tells me I can read books and watch TV…and that’s about it. I’m instructed to come back in 2 weeks for another follow-up. If the hematoma does not show signs of resolving itself, I will need another surgery to scrape out the old lingering blood, and swap out the existing implant for a new one. She went on to explain that I may develop a capsular contracture (scar tissue) in the reconstructed breast, so she prescribed a medication proven to prevent it in some patients. I’m sent home feeling defeated and imprisoned by the severity of my physical restrictions. What the fuck!How the hell and I supposed to entertain my brain for the next 2 weeks? I can’t just sit and do NOTHING!!! I manage to develop a routine of Do-Nothingness during this time. I power through a bunch of books which had been collecting dust for the past few years. The books I buy, but never get a chance to read…well, they finally get their time in the spotlight! It’s nice having an excuse to actually READ my books, rather than relinquish them to the Dust Bunnies. These two weeks are turning into a fun cognitive adventure.
Two days post-op. My surgeon was right: the post-surgical pain from the liposuction will be worse than the breast surgery itself. As stated in Chapter 25: my surgeon harvested fat from my abdomen to use as a contouring agent for my new breasts. My abdomen hurts significantly worse than my breasts at the moment. It’s extremely difficult to move from a seated to a standing position and vice versa. The simple act of changing positions in my sleep takes my breath away. The pain is reminiscent of the vertical c-section I had when Ethan was born. It’s strange to me that the pain would be so great considering the procedure was surface level. My abdominal muscles were not cut open like they were with my c-section, so why is this so freaking painful? It makes me wonder if elective/cosmetic liposuction has the same pain in recovery. If so, I can’t imagine signing up for this torture willingly. I think I’d rather burn the fat off with exercise now that I’m feeling the aftermath of lipo. Mayo sent me home with a bottle of Oxycodone for the pain, but I’m hard pressed to start taking that shit. Addiction runs rampid in my family, so I try avoid substances with highly addictive properties. I’ve seen/heard enough stories of people getting hooked on painkillers, and blowing up their lives as a result. Side Note: If you haven’t seen the Netflix series Painkiller (2023) with Matthew Broderick, I HIGHLY recommend it. It gives some raw insight to the opioid epidemic. Now, back to my slabbering! If my pain gets to the point where I can’t sleep, then I might take an Oxycodone before bed. That’s actually what I did while recovering from my mastectomy. There were a couple of nights that I took Oxycodone in order to sleep comfortably. I’m sure I mentioned my thoughts on pain in earlier chapters, but for the sake of this discussion, I’ll mention it again. My take on pain: it’s our bodies signal to the brain that something is wrong. If a person continuously masks pain, they will inevitably do worse damage to themselves because they deactivated their brains alarm system. Pain hurts, but it’s also our friend. Much like the strict disciplinarian parent we grew up resenting. But, once we became adults, we realize they were strict for our own good. Those strict rules prepared us for the real world. Pain is like that…it hurts for your own good. It forces you slow your roll, so you can heal properly.
December 25, 2024. 8:05 pm. Incoming text from Mayo Clinic: “Erin, go to Eisenberg Admissions (Charlton Building entry) @ 07:30 AM tomorrow.” The time has come for my reconstruction. Just like with my mastectomy, I didn’t receive my check-in time until the night before. That’s just how Mayo works with major surgerys. They like to keep you on the edge of your seat. I can’t help but be annoyed by this practice, as I’m a planner, I like to know my schedule far in advance. I even plan our motorcycle trips a year in advance. But, hey, Mayo has a method to their madness, so I adapt. It’s been about 10 months since my mastectomy. I’ve been roaming around with a tissue expander in place of where my boob used to be. It feels like a boulder: hard, heavy & unyielding. I’m excited to finally get it taken out and swapped out with an implant, to feel like a real girl again. I’m actually getting both tits operated on: a full sized implant on the mastectomy side, and a smaller implant on the healthy side for symmetry. At my pre-op appointment a week earlier, my surgeon told me she would also be harvesting fat from other parts of my body to do fat grafting on my breasts along with the implants. She uses the fat for contouring, to make the breasts look more natural. Sounds good to me! I like the idea of my fat migrating to fun places! With that, Brian and I crack open a bottle of our favorite Mead which we keep on reserve: Dansk Mjød, Odin’s Skull. We toast to my cancer journey approaching the finish line. We toast to my ability to live a full & productive life this past year, in spite cancer. We toast to only living 40 minutes away from the #1 top-rated medical facility in the world. We toast in favor of another successful surgery. We toast to life. We toast to us. My alarm chirps at 5:00 am. My optimism from the night before has morphed into nervous dread. I think back to the past decade of health related bullshit. My Crohn’s Disease diagnosis 8 years prior was a life altering event that I’ll be dealing with until the day I die. No cure for Crohn’s. Hell, I could write another blog dedicated solely to Crohn’s…which I just might do once I close the book on cancer. Anyway, I digress. As I’m readying myself for the trip to Rochester, my mind swirls around the amount of time I have spent at hospitals over the last decade. The slicing & dicing, poking & proding, the intrusiveness. I am so sick of this shit! I’m only 47 years old (turning 48 in a few days). Is this going to be my life now? I might as well buy a permanent room at Mayo for all the time I spend there. I can Airbnb it to out other patients when I’m not there. With on-site maintenance and housekeeping, it seems like the perfect hassle-free passive income! Umm, maybe I should call my Realtor and see if he can make this happen! Ha! I’m not as much nervous about the surgery itself as I am of the anesthesia. I realize this is irrational, considering I’ve never had issues with anesthesia in the past. The thing is, I’ve never been comfortable with the prospect of being unconscious, at the mercy of others. The physical vulnerability makes me uneasy. What if there’s a freak incident, and I never wake up again? I don’t want my last moments on earth to be that of a sterile room surrounded by strangers in matching gowns & masks. I might as well be abducted by space aliens. Pull yourself together! I collect my bearings and head downstairs where Brian is waiting for me with the car running. I’m still on the verge of tears after letting my irrational worry overtake me. I become a bit frantic as I gather my things, trying to chase away my unease with hustle & bustle. Brian notices, and tries to calm me down. As soon as we hit the highway, I quit fighting myself and unloaded my worry, all teary eyed and snot nosed. Brian, being the ever patient and calming force he is, let me cry it out and told me that I had every right to feel this way. After my emotional purge was over, I was able to snap back into TCB mode (Taking Care of Business). LET’S DO THIS! We arrive at Mayo and check in at Eisenberg. I’m called back relatively quickly. The pre-op nurse instructs me to get naked and put on a robe that is WAY too large for me. I can’t even get the gown to stay on my shoulders, it kept slipping down, bearing my weird titties. I ask for a smaller gown, but I’m told extra large is the only size they have in that area. Even the hospital socks are extra large. I assume they don’t get very many fun-size humans coming through here. Oh well, I can deal. Brian and I sat in my pre-op room for a good couple of hours. Several people come by to brief both of us on what to expect. I’m finally IV’ed up, and rolled out to surgery. As soon as the OR doors swing open, I scan the room for Dr. V (my Plastic Surgeon). With masks and full gear on, it’s hard to determine who’s who. Back when I had my mastectomy, my Surgeon, Dr. Piltin, was right there. She made her presence known as soon as I was wheeled in. Knowing she was there put me at immediate ease, a familiar face, the person in charge. This time around, my Surgeon is nowhere in my line of sight. I’m getting anxious, and I think the staff can sense it. One of the nurses comes around to me and asks about my personal life. She tells me she already did some web sleuthing, and found out that I’m an Artist and Motorcyclist. The rest of the team pipes up and asks about my work, and what kind of motorcycles I ride. They assure me that they will take good care of me, that I’ll be working and back on 2 wheels in no time. They put the oxygen on my face and I start tensing up, it’s hard to breathe, tears begin to well up. The Anesthesiologist keeps to telling me to breath. Why am I so fucking scared? This isn’t my first rodeo. The sleuthy nurse grabs my hand and tells me she’s not going anywhere, and to squeeze her hand as hard as I need. I squeeze so hard, I feel like I may hurt her, so I release her hand…but she insists that I squeeze with all my might. And, I slowly drift away. I wake up back in my Post-Op room. According to the nurse in charge of my after care, I had actually been awake for quite while. I woke up in the operating room with the ventilation tube still down my throat. I was lucid, chatty, and cracking jokes (after the tube was pulled out, of course). I have zero memory of this, but according to the nurse, I was very entertaining. Glad I could be of service! I feel like a total space cadet, as if I can’t even string a coherent sentence together. I apologize to the nurse for being so discombobulated. She replies: “The fact that you are saying words like ‘discombobulated’ proves that you are more lucid that you think. You are a lot more lucid than most patients at this stage.” That makes me feel better. My brain isn’t broken after all! Brian shows up as soon as he gets the text informing him that I’m out of surgery. The nurse briefs us on how the procedure went, and gave Brian after-care instructions. The nurse tells me I’m free to go. Just like my mastectomy, I get to go home same-day. Brian helps me into a wheelchair, and we attend to my first order of business: COFFEE! I had skipped my morning coffee due to pre-op fluid restrictions. I was Jonesin’ so hard! Ummm…this is one of the best coffee’s I ever had! Second order of business: pharmacy pick-up. And, with that, we head back to the car and get our asses home. I’m feeling very little pain on the drive home, as the hospital pumped me full of some hardcore drugs. Once we arrive home, I unsnapped my top to see what I looked like. I’m not allowed to remove my compression garments or shower for the first 48 hours, so I’m not able to see their handywork. The compression bra is nothing new. I had to wear one after my mastectomy. The compression band around my abdomen is new for me, and it’s a total boner-killer. It’s white and very thick with padding. I look like the Michelin Man. My chest starts to hurt as the evening progresses. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. Sitting makes it worse…but, I must sit per doctor’s orders, so I use the bed wedges Brian bought for my mastectomy to set up a comfortable perch to sit at. Sleeping really sucks. By this point, any move I make hurts, so getting comfortable enough to fall asleep is a challenge. I do manage to get about 4 hours in. I can’t complain, considering I got ZERO hours of sleep the night of my mastectomy. I manage to roll out of bed at about 6:30am the next morning. Holy shit, this is rough! I can feel everything now. I steadily make my way to the bathroom: piss, brush my teeth, brush my hair, give myself a whores bath (baby wipes on the stinky parts). Did I mention that I can’t shower for the first 48 hours? GROSS! I then head down stairs to slam my water and brew my coffee, just like any other morning. I take my meds, pour a cup of Joe, grab my MacBook, and write my ramblings for your reading pleasure! Writing is as physical as I’m allowed to be at this point.
November 20th, 2024: it is exactly 1 year to the day since I received the call that changed everything. Ironically, I am sitting at Mayo Clinic (Rochester) as I write this entry, waiting to see my Oncologist. My day started out with a Mammogram for breakfast, and a bone density screening for lunch. Now I’m working up an appetite for dinner with Oncology. I have about 3 hours to kill before my next appointment. I’m temped to go to the gift shop and browse for a 1 year Cancer-versary gift for my Oncologist. Seems like good etiquette, right? The wait in between appointments stinks, but at least Mayo Clinic is essentially a small city within itself, making it easy to find somewhere to go & something to do. The pedestrian subway system connects Mayo to downtown without ever having to go outside (which comes in handy during winter). Within the subway matrix, there’s a decent selection of boutique retail shops, restaurants & coffee shops to choose from. My favorite restaurant accessible via the subway is Victoria’s, an authentic Italian sit-down joint with gorgeous trompe l’oeil murals on the walls. Anytime Brian comes with me to my appointments, Victoria’s is a must-stop for us. One year. It’s been exactly one year since I received my diagnosis. Oh, how things have changed. This day last year, there were so many unknowns, so much fear. I literally had no idea what my prospective mortality was. My blog chapter Hell Week illustrates the mental turmoil of that day. Fast forward to today: I have beat the shit out of my cancer. I am on an upward trajectory of healing and restoration. I have continued to live my life nearly uninterrupted this past year. My only hiccup was the 6 week recovery period after my mastectomy, but I was a quick healer…getting back on my motorcycle just 4 weeks after surgery. I went back to work full-time, resumed my motorcycle trips, got back into the swing of drawing portraits and making chainmail. Other than my post-mastectomy recovery, I never skipped a beat! It helps that didn’t require chemotherapy or radiation. The only post-surgical cancer treatment I’m undergoing is endocrine therapy to keep my cancer from returning. Long story short: my cancer feeds off estrogen and progesterone. I receive a Goserelin implant in my abdomen every 12 weeks, which shuts down my ovarian function…in other-words: medically induced menopause. I also take Tamoxifen daily (oral pill) which blocks any rogue estrogens bouncing around my body. I tolerate endocrine therapy quite well. I experience typical menopause symptoms, primarily hot flashes. But, that is something all women go through as a natural byproduct of aging. My next step is breast reconstruction, which is scheduled for December 26th (just over a month away). I will be out of work for 4 weeks afterwards, but I’ll be healed up before motorcycle season comes back around…so, it’s actually timing out quite nicely! All this taken into account: I am quite fortunate as far as cancer goes. Hopefully my Oncologist gives me an “all clear” when I go in for my appointment later today…but, I have a good feeling things are on the up & up. I will keep you posted. Stay tuned!
UPDATE: Todays mammogram results came back: negative! No signs of malignancy detected. WHEW!
It has been a LONG time since I’ve put my thoughts into words. Partially due to minimal updates on the cancer front, and partially due to motorcycle season going into full-swing. When I’m not working, I’m riding. Work hard – play hard…no rest for the wicked. Well, now motorcycle hibernation season is upon us, and I finally have some cancer-related news worth sharing! Mayo contacted me this morning with a surgical date for my breast reconstruction. I will be going back under the knife on 12/26/24. This comes about 10 months after my mastectomy, which was on 02/29/24. Just writing this brings up a lot of emotion for me. I’m quite literally catching tears with my sleeve as I type this. So much time has passed, I started to feel as if this whole ordeal was behind me…all while knowing full well it wasn’t over. Here’s my reality check! I grew accustomed to life post-mastectomy. I was back on my motorcycle just 4 weeks after surgery. I went back to work after the mandatory 6 week recovery period. I could have physically returned to work earlier due to my speedy healing, but legally I couldn’t return to work without medical clearance…so, I bummed around the house per doctor’s orders. Life pretty much returned to normal since my recovery. I jumped right back to work without missing a beat. Brian and I took quite a few motorcycle trips, the big one being a loop around Lake Michigan in July. Oh, what an epic trip it was! The only thing I had to contend with was (is) my freak boobs, but I found a work-around for that. Let me explain the freak boobs. During my mastectomy, a tissue expander was placed in the area where my breast had been removed. Every couple of weeks, I would go into the doctor’s office to have my expander inflated until I was satisfied with the size. It took a few months, but I finally got to a size I like….which is quite a bit larger than my original size. Keep in mind, I only had one tit cut off, so my other breast is still intact. My healthy breast doesn’t require a tissue expander, because it already contains enough breast tissue and malleable skin to accommodate an implant. At the point of reconstructive surgery, the surgeon will place implants of appropriate sizes in both breasts to make them symmetrical. But, for the time being, I have one tiny tit, and one huge tit….and it’s EXTREMELY noticeable. In spite of my best efforts to not give a fuck, I grew insecure about the size difference. To combat my insecurity, I decided to purchase a couple of bras large enough to fit my giant boob…and I cut out the push-up padding from a few of my old bras to fill the empty void on my tiny tit side. It’s not perfect, but it’s passable! I’m able to walk TALL with my shoulders back, rather than being hunched over trying to hide my chest. But hey, come Dec. 26th, I won’t have to stuff the tiny side of my bra anymore! So, here we go…about to embark on the next chapter of my cancer journey. Keep it metal! 🤘😎🤘
4 weeks post-op, and my driving restrictions have been lifted! IT’S MOTORCYCLE TIME, BABY!!! The mastectomy couldn’t have been timed out better, being recovered by the time riding season came back around. Being March 28th, it’s still a bit chilly here in Minnesota…but under my full-face helmet and cold weather gear, I manage just fine. I actually prefer riding in crisp, cool weather. I’ve always thrived in the cold…likely a carry-over from my Scandinavian ancestral roots. Minnesota winters don’t faze me a bit, aside from the fact that my motorcycles go into hibernation. I’m always running hot, and with endocrine therapy in full swing, I’m running like a locomotive full steam ahead: Choo Choo, muthafukas! The cold air is a nice antidote to my smoking hot body temperature. It’s been over a month since I last rode. My husband and I managed to get the bikes out for a pre-surgery ride 2 days before my mastectomy. Which in itself was amazing considering it was February 27. An unseasonably mild winter. I dust off my helmet & bust out my gear, and give my Road King a pre-ride check. All geared up, I fire up my trusty steed. That big thumpy Milwaukee Eight motor growls at me as if to say: “Where you been, Bitch? Let’s fuckin’ GO!”. I peel off on my Road King like an escaped convict down the highway. It feels like nothing else, to be on two wheels. I am in total control. the master of my own universe. No one is bothering me, no one is barking orders at me, no one is hounding me for favors, no one is begging for my attention. I am FREE. Yet, at the same time, I am alone. Even with my husband riding along side me, I am alone on my bike: solely accountable for every move I make. Motorcycling is inherently a solo sport (unless you ride with a passenger). There is no room for error. I must be decisive and quick to action. There is no time to second guess myself. One wrong move, and I am road kill. This may sound unappealing to some, but to me it’s an excersize in self-sufficiency….and it reminds me that I’m ALIVE. And baby, after cancer, I need to feel alive more than ever! And, that’s what makes this maiden post-mastectomy ride so sweet!
I have to give a SHOUT OUT to my work family! I work for a small, family owned company in Cannon Falls, MN called Gemini. We manufacture corporate signage, plaques & memorials. I’ve been with Gemini going on 10 years now, working as a 3D Sculptor. My job is pretty freaking awesome. I get to create custom sculpts and draw portraits all day, which is pretty much the ideal job for an art freak like me. The only thing that would be better is self-employment, but as far as day jobs go, Gemini is about perfect. I am forever grateful for their top-notch medical coverage. I have zero medical debt thanks to the medical insurance I have through Gemini. Management is fair and accommodating, always giving me the flexibility to attend my appointments without any hassle. And, my colleagues are some of the best folks I’ve ever worked alongside! Gemini truly takes care of their people, and we all look out for each other. During my medical leave, I’d receive regular texts from my Supervisor and a handful of coworkers, checking on me, and giving me office drama updates. About half way through my medical leave, my Supervisor texted, letting me know that the team was planning to pool money together to treat Brian & I to dinner from whichever restaurant we please, and a bottle/case of whatever we pleased from the liquor store…and that he’d personally deliver. How cool is that! So, we worked out the details, and I ordered up the cheapest items on the menu as to not set my coworker back too much. My Supervisor said: “Are you sure about that? You can order anything you want. Don’t worry about the cost.” But, I insisted on not taking advantage of their generosity. Well, this is where it gets interesting! My supervisor shows up to the house, special delivery in hand. Not only does he have our food & booze order, but he also has two gift certificates to two of our favorite restaurants totaling over $100, an envelope full of cash, and a kick ass card signed by everyone in my department! Apparently, the team pooled together more money than my Supervisor knew what to do with. I seriously cried…I was deeply touched by the gesture and the sentiment! The Gemini Fam is the real deal!!!
Two weeks post-op, and I head back to Rochester go for a few days of fun filled follow-up visits. I’m still under restrictions, so I cannot drive myself there. Both Brian and my Mother-In-Law tag team chauffeur duties. The first appointment is with my Surgical team to check my post-op progress. The second is with my Oncology team to discuss my pathology report and further treatment. The third is with Radiology to discuss potential radiation. The forth is with Plastic Surgery to go over my Reconstructive options. The fifth is back to the Surgical team to remove my drain. And the sixth is back to Plastic Surgery to begin the first stage of the reconstruction process. During the follow-up with surgical team, they toss me the standard line of questioning regarding my physical condition, and examines my surgical sight. I am healing like a champ, no signs of infection or distress. They are satisfied with the results of the robotic mastectomy. I am a Blue Ribbon, text book case study for the robotic clinical trial. They are content with handing me over to Plastics to handle my “body work”. I am cleared to proceed with reconstructive surgery…YES! Next is a visit with Oncology to go over Lumpty Dumpty’s full pathology report. A barrage of fancy terminology and numbers: Word Salad with a splash of Math Vinaigrette. To put it simply, my numbers are good. So good in fact, that there is no benefit to chemotherapy. My tumor, although the invasive type, had only spread to 1 auxiliary lymph node which was also removed during surgery. There is no cancer left over for Chemotherapy to kill-off, rendering it unnecessary. I can undergo chemo as an extra precaution if I choose so, but it won’t affect my odds much. My rate of recurrence WITH chemotherapy is 3%. My rate of recurrence WITHOUT chemotherapy is 4%. That 1% difference is not enough for me to justify putting my body through that shit. I witnessed what chemotherapy did to my Mother. Her body wasted away, she lost her hair, she lost her strength, she lost her quality of life, and the cancer still killed her. Knowing the hell my Mom endured, I am elated to discover that chemotherapy is not in my cards. The Oncology team informs me that I may need radiation to kill off any remaining cancer cells that may be lingering in my artpit area. Radiology would need to run my numbers to determine this. Oncology informs me that endocrine therapy is the next logical step, considering my Cancer is receptive to estrogen. They explain that my cancer feeds off estrogen, so they want to stop my estrogen production as a preventative measure. The easiest way to do this, is to stop my ovarian function. I undergo a blood test to determine my estrogen levels and my menopausal stage. My bloodwork reveals that I’m pumping out copious amounts of Estrogen. I essentially have the ovaries of a 20 year old…which seems odd considering I’m 47. As a result, I am prescribed a drug called Goserelin: an implant placed in my abdomen every 12 weeks which shuts down my ovaries. With the Goserelin, I’m literally being put into a state of medically induced menopause…hot flashing my pant off. I’m also prescribed a daily oral pill called Tamoxifen, an estrogen blocker, which I am to take for the next 10 years. My Oncology team explains that my body will be entering into a menopausal state very fast, and that my symptoms will be hard & fast compared to that of a woman entering natural menopause. On my behalf, they schedule an appointment with the Women’s Clinic at Mayo, explaining that they will be able to help me through the process. I do not qualify for hormone replacement for obvious reasons, but there are other treatments to ease my symptoms if they become problematic. Hearing this freaks me out a bit, until I consider the alternative: chemotherapy. The way I see it, menopause is a natural part of a woman’s life cycle. I will hit that biological milestone at some point regardless, so I might as well get it over with early. I’d much rather deal with an inevitable process like menopause than rot away on chemotherapy. Next up is a visit to Radiology. They throw a bunch of calculations at me, which sound very similar to Oncologies Math Salad. Their numbers add up to me NOT needing radiation…hell yeah! Much like the chemotherapy determination, the benefit of Radiation is so minuscule, that it’s not even worth putting my body through it. I immediately recognize my good fortune amidst this gutter of bad luck: no chemo, no radiation, low chance of recurrence, and a high survival rate. I’m not taking it for granted. A few days later I meet with my Plastic Surgery team. I only want to be restored to my original size, to look like cancer never even happened. The Plastic Surgeon informed that she would have a hard time making my new breast match my existing breast due to my small size. The simplest route would be to add a small implant in my existing breast to make it symmetrical with my future new breast, so I would be a larger size regardless. I can go as large as I please, as large as I’m comfortable with. I don’t need to settle on a size yet, as I still need to go through the expansion process. To explain the expansion process, I need to backtrack a bit. During my mastectomy, after my breast tissue was removed, a tissue expander was placed where my breast used to be. This expander is inflated with saline in stages to slowly stretch the skin to make room for the final implant. I return to Mayo every 2-3 weeks to get my expander inflated until I’m satisfied with the size. Learning that I can pick my new breast size rocks my world a bit. I’ve always been content with my tiny boobs. So small, they don’t even fill an A cup…if they were to be graded, they’d get an A minus. My tiny boobs never got in the way. I didn’t need to wear a bra. The only reason I wore a bra at all was to keep my nipples from being noticeable through my shirt when I was cold. I never considered anything different…until now. After a discussion with my husband, I decide that the prospect of a new set of big, beautiful breasts is a consolation prize for cancer taking away what I once had, my silver lining. Go Large or Go Home! A few days later I return to meet with the surgical team to have my drain removed, followed by another appointment with Plastic Surgery for my first expander inflation. My Mother-In-Law, Janet, did the driving this particular day, which was very sweet of her considering she hates driving in cities as large as Rochester. While sitting in the waiting room, we joked around about my last moments with my Love Sack. I asked Janet if she wanted to give my Love Sack a farewell squeeze, which she did…and, of course, I had to take a photo of! Unfortunately, Janet was having issues with her leg, rendering her nearly unable to walk after while..and there is a lot of walking to be had at Mayo Clinic. I found a wheelchair for her. We laughed at the irony: I’m the patient, yet she’s the one in the wheelchair. After finishing up with my appointments, I treated my Mother-in-Law to Victoria’s Italian Restaurant to show my appreciation for driving me around and keeping my company. We had such a good time hanging out, in spite of the circumstances. I’m lucky to have her! Love you, Ma!
My Mother-In-Law giving my Love Sack a farewell squeeze!
It’s been a week since my mastectomy, and I feel like a I’m on some sort of medically prescribed house arrest. Technically, I can leave my house, but my physical restrictions make general mobilization difficult. I’m able to walk and move about, but doing so is discouraged. I’m supposed to keep my right arm as stationary as possible, I can move my arm at the elbow, but my shoulder needs to stay put. For the time being, I identify as a T-Rex with this little gimp arm of mine. Fucking RAWR! I am to remain as sedentary as possible to allow my body to heal. Too much physical activity triggers the immune system to produce excess fluid to my surgical sight, which is bad news…even with the presence of surgical drains. Speaking of surgical drains: what a royal pain in the ass! They are gross and cumbersome. Thankfully, I only have 1 drain to contend with (because I only had 1 boob cut off). The ball that collects the fluid hangs from a lanyard around my neck, and when I sit down, it rests between my legs like a plastic scrotum. So, of course I give it a nick name: Love Sack. Thankfully, Brian is a wonderful caretaker and helps me drain my Love Sack, keeping a record of the fluid volume on a logbook provided by the hospital. Being the mature adult I am, scrotum jokes are commonplace anytime Brian is handling my drain. Sleeping is a challenge, as I’m required to sleep on my back in an upright position. If I had a recliner (think Lazy Boy), this would be easy…but, I do not own a recliner, nor do I have room in my house to bring one in. So, I purchased a set of bed wedges off of Amazon, which work fairly well to prop me up. The pain is more tolerable than I expected. It’s painful, don’t get me wrong…but, not to the point of requiring the prescription pain killers they gave me. Over-the-counter ibuprofen and acetaminophen does the trick just fine. Admittedly, I seem to have a high tolerance for pain, which I’m sure helps. I’ve always been the type to power through misery. For example: in all of the years I’ve been dealing with Crohn’s Disease, it had never hindered my way of life. Crohn’s can be kicking my ass, but you’d never know it unless I were to tell you. I still show up, I still go to work, I still attend family events, I still ride my motorcycle. Power though…that’s the name of the game. One of the greatest challenges I face at this time is the mental aspect of remaining inactive. I like to be on the go. I like to stay busy, whether it be working, riding motorcycle, or emerging myself in creative projects. This sedentary business is not my speed. If I don’t find something to occupy my time, I will lose my fucking mind! So, my mind cranks on things I can do within my restrictions. I soon remember that my son Ethan & his girlfriend Kat gave me a Lego set for Christmas, a floral bouquet from Lego’s Botanical collection. It remained unopened, so I decided this was the perfect opportunity to build it…I have plenty of time on my hands, after all. Putting that thing together brought me back to my childhood, as well as Ethan’s childhood. I quickly realized that I could assemble Lego sets without extending my arm past the elbow, and a T-Rex arm friendly past-time was born! It sparked a bit of an obsession, causing me to go down internet rabbit holes looking for the coolest sets! I put a few sets together, a couple more from the Botanical collection, and a really cool Viking Village that Brian bought for me. I could foresee this new Lego obsession becoming an expensive hobby, especially considering how fast I was powering through them, and the amount of time I had to fill. I needed something else, something of a larger scale, something that would eat up some time. Then it hits me: I am a Portrait Artist, I should incorporate Legos with portraiture! I did some Googling and discovered that Lego Mosaics are a thing. I found websites that specialize in creating custom Lego Mosaic sets based upon customer supplied photos. It’s a very cool concept, exactly what I had in mind. The issues: these websites don’t provide large scale options, and their pricing is bonkers. My vision was large & in-charge, a statement art installation. So, I did some brainstorming and plotted out my idea: A 40”h x 30”w tile mosaic portrait of my son, Ethan. This would be a creation inspired by my greatest creation! I decided on monochromatic greyscale color scheme for simplicity and to keep costs down. Being a Graphic Artist by trade, I used some Photoshop magic to create a tile map. I took a photo of Ethan, scaled it accordingly, adjusted the pixel size to match the size of the Lego tiles, and posterized to 5 levels to match the gradient scale of the tiles I was using. I used this same tile map to calculate how many tiles I would need to complete the project. The whole piece consisting of 12 flat 10”x10” base plates and 10,800 flat 1×1 tiles. Once the mosaic was complete, I mounted each individual backer plate to a 42”x 32” hardwood panel, which I painted black. I also constructed a bracer system to the back of the hardwood panel to prevent bowing and to reinforce the panel for the overall weight of the finished piece. Once the mounting was complete, I installed LED lighting to the back of the hardwood panel to create backlighting, illuminating the stand-off space between the hardwood panel and the wall. Admittedly, the mounting process caused me to deviate from my T-Rex restrictions…BUT, by the time I got to that point, I was on the tail end of my medical leave, so I was already well on the mend. All in all, the project turned out to SUPER COOL! I like to quip that it’s my greatest “cancerpiece” (play on masterpiece)…because it’s the one thing I managed to create while battling cancer. It’s currently on my wall, and will stay there until I die. It’s a personal reminder that I can still do cool shit, even when my body is trying to kill me.
Sour Tits 