Shock

He missed the tumor.

I’m headed back to surgery on Monday.

I can’t believe this is happening.

I was thrilled to get the drains out yesterday. Finally, I felt almost-human again. Reflexively, my hand went to where the tumor had been. Of my body’s typography, this is a location I know intimately. Which is why I was disturbed to feel a lump. Albeit, a smaller lump (more of a button than a broach) but still very much a lump. I pointed this out to the surgeon. He said it was probably “fatty tissue.” I made him feel it. “Nothing to worry about,” he assured me. I assured him–I’m a worrier. I need to know what this thing is. He tsk-tsk’ed and sent me downstairs for an ultrasound. His nurse smiled brightly.

Slowly, things began to unravel. The ultrasound confirmed the lump was solid–a huge calcification at its core. But was it a new lump or the same lump? A biopsy was ordered. But before they could plunge a needle into my aching chest, Mary remembered the lump was tagged. During my biopsy in January, the radiologist inserted a tiny metal tag next to the mass. She explained that it acts like a beacon shining brightly on future mammograms to help techs sort new lumps from old. At the time, I felt like an animal tagged and released back into the wild, but yesterday that tag made all the difference.

Alerted to the tag, the radiologist switched course and ordered a mammogram (yup, a mammogram. don’t ask). Afterward she and I stared at the display in disbelief. There was my tumor in black-and-white. Metal tag still firmly in place. Shining brightly. Illuminating the spot where–without a shadow of a doubt–the cancer still lies.  

So many questions.

So much sorrow.

So much disbelief.

So much anger. 

Forgive me if I don’t post for awhile, but I don’t have words to describe how I’m feeling.

Embracing Convalescence

My new favorite word is convalesce; it has a certain Victorian-era ring don’t you think? When I imagine what it means to convalesce my brain immediately conjures up Helena Bonham Carter. In my mind’s eye, she’s artfully  arranged on a fainting couch. The room is filled with overstuffed furniture and complexion-flattering sunlight. Behind her, sheer curtains billow softly in the breeze. Ah, to be Helena…

Okay, I’m not exactly Helena (and whether or not I’d really like to be is a bit of a digression) but I am intrigued by the idea of exploring convalescence, maybe doing some Gonzo-style journalism looking into what it feels like to be a convalescent. Being self-employed adds a scary twist to the “convalescent challenge.” The longer I do nothing, the longer my bank account starves. But money shmoney. With any luck, my trip to the world of convalescence will be brief, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

Since “blog time” runs a bit behind “real time” (for me at least), I admit I’ve already started my undercover investigation and, so far, I’m more than a little disappointed. I think the problem is that convalescence doesn’t look that different from my everyday life. Thus far, there’s been much napping, ignoring of the phone, and letting email languish in my in-box. Obviously, I’m not trying hard enough.  

In an effort to get my game face on, I took my dog for a long walk in the woods this afternoon. Walking in the woods seems like an appropriate Helena-like activity.  Of course, I often hike with my dog when I’m not convalescing–remember, I am a lesbian–so I had to take great pains to make this particular outing stand out in a meaningful (aka more sickly) way.

To that end, I walked more slowly, more thoughtfully, more like I thought a convalescent might. I even stopped for a few minutes to sit on a rotting log and soak in the view of a distant lake. I was pleasantly surprised to find that hiking like a convalescent was easier than I thought. Namely because my chest hurt like hell and the sutures securing the plastic tubing to my body (uncomfortable on so many levels) kept pinching and pulling my skin in ways that make me gasp and clutch at my sides. So, yes, I’d say today’s journey into convalescent-hood was a rip-roaring success. Tomorrow, I’m golden because I’m seeing my surgeon, a convalescent-worthy errand if ever there was one.

In the meantime, I’ve gotta talk with Mary about the possibility of a fainting couch…

Post-Mastectomy Blues

I’ve got the post-mastectomy blues, and they’re bumming me out. 

Here’s what I want: I want to be relieved the surgery is over. I want to be elated that my “cancer broach” is no more. Basically, I want to be more like my neighbor. (Since my neighbor hasn’t exactly agreed to be in my blog, let’s call her Ruth.)

Ruth is in her 50s. Her family history is sprinkled with breast cancer the way some people’s families are peppered with red hair or blue eyes. She’s one of four generations of women with doomed breasts. I think it’s safe to say that Ruth felt stalked by breast cancer most of her life. Last summer, when the diagnosis finally came, she jumped at the chance for a double mastectomy–no reconstruction, no regrets. Her attitude? Good riddance. On her first day home from the hospital, Ruth bounced over to show us her scars. Beaming, she was all praise for the surgeon, for her decision, for her choice to go without reconstruction.

Flash forward to a couple of days ago. I’m on my first tentative walk. Cradling my stunned chest. My 68-year-old Mother is awkwardly steering our 75-pound dog. Suffice it to say, I’m praying for anonymity. Ruth drives by. Sees us. Slows down. Flashes a huge grin. Tells me I look great (I don’t). Then, unexpectedly, tosses her head back and, with a raucous laugh, says, “you’re one of us now, we flat-chested chicks gotta stick together!” Then she rolls up her window and drives off. Pink-ribbon decal flashing. Here’s what I want–I want to rock my flat chest like Ruth, but I’m not even close.

Here’s where I am: I’ve been crying more than I’d like to admit. I cry mostly for my breasts, for the loss of something uniquely mine, for the violence done to my body in service to “health.” I cry for the lack of words I have to describe how horrifying it is to see dark red gashes carved across my chest where my breasts used to be. For how, in the absence of breasts, my rib cage looks bizarrely shaped and bony. For how, without breasts to balance it out, my stomach looks strange and distended. When I look down I only see what is missing. A voice in my head keeps asking me: why? Like an inconsolable child asking why something dear is no more. The voice isn’t soothed by the grown-up rationale behind the double mastectomy. 

I want to be happy-go-lucky. I want to be the “good” breast cancer patient. The chin-up, move-on, get-over-it person. Like Ruth, I want to throw my head back, laugh raucously at my crazy-flat chest, make jokes about having the perfect breasts at home nestled in their drawer, like a favorite outfit, waiting for just the right occasion.

But I know that’s not me. I’ve never been what you’d call a sunny or even an optimistic person. I’m okay with that. I like to set my expectations low and be pleasantly surprised when things aren’t a complete disaster. Deep down, I know this will be okay. Someday. But, in the meantime, I’m glad there are people, like Ruth, to show me what is possible. To forge ahead and send up a flare. Just in case I should ever want to join in the fun.

And They’re Off

Well, I’m back home, sans boobs. And while my two nurses–Mary and my Mom–are out seeing Maya Angelou at the IU auditorium tonight, I’m sneaking onto the computer. Shhhh! Mary is quite the taskmaster regarding how much I’m supposed to be resting, using my arms, doing my exercises, etc…so this post will be short and sweet.

As many of you know (thanks to Mary’s email update), the surgery went well. The surgeon removed six lymph nodes and the pathologist deemed all cancer-free. (Yes, I know, six sounds like a lot; the surgeon assured Mary they were very small nodes, but I’ve yet to get the full story on that.) Although neither Mary nor I were dwelling on the possibility of metastasis, hearing that the lymph nodes were negative was a relief that defies description. 

I can’t say enough good things about the hospital. Everyone was professional, courteous, and kind. Best of all, no one blinked at Mary and I’s relationship. And, yes, the fact that we were worried about homophobia at a time like this is sad but true. And, no, we weren’t just being paranoid. My surgeon operates once a week in a town between Bloomington and Indy. The location was more convenient for us, but his nurse didn’t feel comfortable scheduling my surgery there because she feared how the staff might treat us. So, we went to the “big city” and everyone was very politically correct, except for one brazen nurse who made Mary blush, but I’ll let her tell you that story herself.

Now, I’m at home, therapy kitty in my lap, painkillers in my system, and, honestly, your kindness and generosity has put me at a loss for words. I want so badly to write something funny or profound, but the only thing I can think of to say is thank you. Thank you to all of you who’ve sent flowers, cards, and well wishes. Thank you to those who’ve left delicious food on our doorstep. Thank you to those who’ve taught Mary’s classes. Thank you to those who’ve kept us in your thoughts and prayers. To feel nurtured on every level–physical, emotional, and spiritual–by such a loving group of people is an amazing thing.

I will never be someone who says “cancer is a gift” because (to quote Kris Carr of Crazy, Sexy Cancer fame) “I would never give it to you,” but I can say that feeling this loved and supported by so many beautiful people is the most life-affirming gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.

Goodbye Girls

 

Dear Girls, 

I feel like I hardly know you. Sure we’ve been together a long time, but, like a lot of long-term couples, our relationship has evolved, deepened and matured. 

In those early days of teenage angst, when we were first introduced, I hope you didn’t pick up on my disappointment. No, it wasn’t anything you did, per se; it was just, well, honestly, you were a little smaller than I’d anticipated. While the other seventh-grade girls celebrated their new breasts with elaborate fittings at the local department store, my Mother marched me unceremoniously into JC Penny’s and handed me a bra in a box. My friends came back to school in a happy whirl of lace and underwire. I was still assembling the box’s contents—a tumble of rubber bands and cotton triangles. When I finally got the contraption on, I was horrified to see that you both barely filled out the cups, causing material to bunch at each tip like two, tiny deflated balloons. 

Okay, maybe that was a rough patch, but you and I soon settled into an easy camaraderie. Of course, no one saw much of you during the ‘80s, including myself. I was too busy dressing in elephantine sweaters to look like Jennifer Beals. But, under all those yards of material, I knew you were there. So did the boyfriends and, later, the girlfriends. Yep, you’ve seen it all. You stood by while I figured out my sexual orientation, then waited patiently as I thumbed my nose at my childbearing years, even though it meant you’d never get to nurse a baby.

Ironically, I only started fully appreciating you when I hit my mid-30s. Something shifted and I re-discovered these cool things I have called breasts. I splurged on form-fitting shirts and sweaters. And, with Mary’s encouragement, even bought a semi-sexy, halter-style yoga top last summer. When I wore that top for the first time, I noticed your graceful curves and understated femininity. For the first time in my life, I took joy in you.

Discovering a long-neglected part of your body at this age is akin to driving a late-model car and suddenly remembering it has a sunroof. One small spark of newness is all it takes to infuse every ride with a little more oomph. That’s how I’ve felt this past year with you, my breasts–a little more oomph. I’m sad to be losing you, but I’m happy that I enjoyed the ride, even if it was a short one.

Love,

Catherine