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.
Tag: health
Chapter 26: Pain is a Master
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.
Chapter 20: Follow Ups – and Downs
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!
Chapter 13: Dichotomy of Fortunes
Welcome to 2024! It’s been nearly 2 months since my invasive breast cancer diagnosis, and I’m still in the consultation faze, waiting for treatment to begin. Patience has never been a virtue I possess. I am a very impatient patient, so to speak. If I were to write the script, I would ride my Harley-Davidson right through the emergency room doors and demand an immediate mastectomy…by way of brute force and intimidation. Although an epic scenario, that’s not the way this works. Be patient, trust the process.
My best course of action now is to focus on things within my control and be grateful for the good fortune I do have.
During this time, my mind weaves through my dichotomy of fortunes. The unfortunate state of my internal health, intermingled with the fortunate circumstances of my external world.
The full extent of my cancer is still unknown. I may need additional surgeries, I may need chemotherapy. This will be determined after my initial mastectomy, once a full pathology is conducted on my tumor. This situation is out of my realm of control. I will attempt to put it out of my mind and cross these bridges if/when they present themselves.
What I do know: I will be out of commission for an extended time after my mastectomy, so I am relishing my able-bodiedness while I still have the luxury. Simple things like washing my own hair has now become a ritual I savor, because I will not be able to lift my arms above my head during my recovery. Thankfully, I have a loving husband who is willing to take over such tasks. But hey, on the plus side: I’ll still be able to wipe my own ass! The last time I was this excited about the ability to wipe my own ass, I was about 2 years old.
Among my fortunes, I have a devoted husband who is my comrade in arms, battling along side me in all aspects of adversity and crisis. My husband, along with my adult Son, my Dad, my Aunt Marie, my extended family, my In-Laws, my close friends, my work friends…they are my shield wall, they fortify me. My people are my strength. I am not alone.
I work for a great company that allows me the flexibility to work from home anytime it’s necessary, and gives me the time off needed to attend to my health. They provide excellent health insurance coverage, which grants me access the best cancer care available.
My care has been turned over to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN., which is the top ranked hospital in the world based on multiple surveys. There are people who travel as far as half-way around the world to receive care at Rochester Mayo, while I am a mere 40 minute drive away. The best cancer treatment I could possibly receive is in my metaphorical back yard. I won the Lottery of Proximity.
Another fortune I do not take for granted is my material prosperity. My husband and I earn a comfortable income, and have managed to squirrel away a decent nest egg. Because of this, we are prepared for the financial set-backs my cancer may cause us. We have a safe, well-maintained home. We have a pantry full of food. We have dependable vehicles. We have a garage filled with Harley-Davidson motorcycles waiting for me to commandeer once my cancer is killed.
Mentally, I’m tough as nails. You would never guess I was sick unless I told you. I do not wallow, I do not pout. I carry on as if I’m healthy. For example, I never call-out sick from work. The only time off I take is scheduled in advance: doctor’s appointments & vacation. The world doesn’t pause for me, so I must keep up. Sink or swim. I do not slow down unless I’m forced to. So, when it comes time for me to go under the knife (or undergo chemo if needed), it’s not going to take me long to get back in the saddle.
In a strange way, I am probably the best person to end up with cancer, as I have the all the ingredients to slay this shit!
Sour Tits 