Cancer Journey

Note: if you ever wanted a breast reduction and have just been diagnosed with breast cancer, please do yourself a favor and read this piece in its entirety. I wrote this especially for you.

Ever since my teens, I have had big breasts. No, not "big breasts," but very big breasts. At age 17, my breasts were not even finished developing and I was a size 34DD. All grown-up and at my best weight and state of physical fitness, my cup-size was an FF... if I ordered from a certain company in England where their sizing ran larger. For at least ten years, I've hovered between a G-cup and an H-cup, all depending on the brand.

Some women might envy this, but please, don't. Having breasts this size has brought me no end of physical and emotional pain. My life has been affected by the size of my breasts in ways I can't count. I know plenty of uber-busty babes are reading this and nodding: you know it isn't fun.

In my case, I've dealt with chronic back, neck, and shoulder pain since I was 16 years old. By chronic I mean that I hurt every single day, and sometimes the pain makes me cry. I've tried to find ways to treat the symptoms, but chiropractic work, massage therapy, and Western medicine have never been able to reduce the pain. Weight lifting helps a little bit. Acupuncture helps a lot more. But nothing can "fix" the pain as long as my breasts work against me.  Read more »

As predicted, my update on my visit to the surgeon is anti-climactic (and Lisa, you're right - that's ideal for doctor's appointments and air travel). Hysterical amnesia it is! That is to say, my surgeon isn't worried about the lump on my right breast and thinks it is scar tissue. I figure, she's been doing this longer than me, so I will trust her on that.

My left breast, of course, is just plain acting out. She said that on large-breasted women, radiation sometimes makes the breast tissue reluctant to heal, and that seems to be what's going on. Her advice was to put a lot of antibiotic ointment on it, bandage it, and wait for it to close up again. (I did not ask if it might re-open again, because...well...I want to assume the answer is no and never think about this again.)

"We should probably do a round of antibiotics just to be safe," she added, before wrapping up.

So, as expected, I'm back to taking Keflex, the antibiotic that smells like poop. I wonder if I'll catch Lola trying to bury the bottle again? I wouldn't blame her if she tried!

Oh, and...I didn't get a mammogram; I'll do that in a month, when I see the surgeon for a re-check and get my follow-up with the medical oncologist. Until then, I appear to be clear! Except, of course, for my left breast, which it appears I can't take anywhere.

Thank you to everyone who sent me good wishes. That means a lot to me.

(Note: parts of this are not for the squeamish)

Last Tuesday, after I left a message my surgeon's office about the new lump I found in my breast, I got the best customer service ever from UCSF. I know I bitch about their horrid customer service all the time, but this time was different. My surgeon's nurse called me back within 30 minutes of my message, and within 10 more minutes, she called me back with an appointment for the following Monday (today). That's lightning fast compared to anything I've experienced before.

However, by Tuesday night, I decided that I had made a big deal about nothing. The lump, which is not on the breast that had cancer, is close enough to the site of a surgical biopsy to be scar tissue. I have no idea how I never noticed this scar tissue before, because I certainly noticed the scar tissue on the other breast. But, you know, I bet that's what it is and I'm just suffering from hysterical amnesia.

As soon as I figured this out, I thought, oh, gee, this is going to be so embarrassing. I am going to waste my surgeon's precious time, having her check out a non-suspicious lump that I magically never noticed in the two years I must have had it. I am insane!  Read more »

Saturday morning, out of the blue, I started thinking that I might get cancer again. Actually, I was convinced of it and in no time my thoughts became a runaway train, rocketing down a track that quickly wound from my diagnosis to my sad, eventual death.

Those of you who know me well also know that this is very unlike me. When going through cancer treatment, I never once thought I was going to die. Not even when first diagnosed. I rolled my eyes at anyone who suggested such a thing. But this Saturday? That clock was ticking!

My rational mind tried to get a word in edgewise and point out that perhaps PTSD might be influencing my thoughts. Perhaps I might want to take some anti-anxiety medication. But I ignored rational thought, instead making notes on where I might want to have my ashes scattered and thinking, wow, I better start cleaning house. (Because in my mind, whether you are going on a short vacation or going on the Big One, that's what you do first: clean house.) I better leave instructions. I better do some repairs around the house. And what about all those boxes in the garage? I can't leave Kathy to have to sort through those! Maybe I should just dump them all. What to do, what to do....

Oh no, stress isn't getting to me. I am cool as a cucumber. Yep.  Read more »

Warning: This post contains mild gynecological talk of the hand-waving variety, accompanied by impassioned medical system rants. Reader discretion advised.

For most of my adult life, I've taken gynecology appointments as a fact of modern womanly existence. As much as I've always wanted to be somewhere other than "stirrups-up" in the OB/GYN office, obsessing about whether I remembered to shave my legs that day, I made my annual visits a priority. I figured that this is just what you do. And being a complicated woman-type with all those fancy internal parts, there were plenty of opportunities, outside of annuals, to count the indentations in the ceiling tiles while having my U-joints and gaskets re-checked. Or to blush coyly while asking if this or that is supposed to happen when...well, somebody did that other thing. A-hem.

The joys of being a girl are endless.

While I had great compassion for my friends who found OB/GYN appointments stressful or even terror-inducing, personally, I didn't have that much anxiety associated with these visits. True, I kind of wish they would at least buy me a drink before taking such liberties with my vital controls, and I kind of wanted a shower afterward, but...whatever. You do what you have to do.  Read more »

If you were to meet me during cancer treatment, you might be misled about my approach to cancer. Given the flamboyant wigs I wore, the way I'd cheer up other patients and entertain the medical staff, you might think I was one of those folks who believed the great cancer myth of positive thinking. You know, the one that says,"You have to keep a positive attitude if you want to survive this disease. Attitude is everything."

I'm here to tell you attitude is not everything. It is so not. I'm just naturally perky, with cancer or without. And this has nothing to do with my status of being cancer free.

But the Positive Thinking Brigade would like to congratulate me, nonetheless. They like to point out that I am a sterling example of how with love, gratitude, and giggles, one can overcome even the dark specter of cancer and go on to live the good life. I am an inspiration.

Oh, please. I'm not that stupid. If having a positive attitude led to overcoming cancer, a whole bunch of lovely, upbeat people would not have died from the disease. Mean, bitter people would not have lived. Yet they have!  Read more »

When I had my frozen shoulder, and then shortly after that when I went through cancer treatment, medical professionals seemed to always be asking me about my level of pain. They'd say, "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"

This question always made me crazy because it sent me into a tailspin. I'd never say ten because, well, it could always get worse, right? I mean, someone could shoot me in the gut at close range and I could be bleeding to death slowly while trying to tuck my insides in, and that would probably hurt worse, right?

Just as the meaning of "ten" eluded me, I never got the "one" right, either. Kathy was with me when a nurse asked me to rate my pain during an allergic reaction and I weakly murmured, "I don't know...six?" Kathy heard to the reedy sound in my voice, looked at the way my hands were clenched on the arms of the chair and my eyebrows knit together while the sweat broke out on my brow, and she rolled her eyes. Once the nurse was gone, she talked to me about my rating and pointed out that "one" didn't mean "I'm hurting but I think I can cover it up okay." One meant I'm okie-dokie. And thinking I might scream the next moment? That was pretty high up there. Maybe even higher than six.  Read more »

For the past few days my left pectoral muscle has been super-sore. While it could be caused by that 200-lb, one-armed bench press session I did on Friday (ha!), I can't help but wonder if it's more about last week's mammogram. It's the only imitation I've done of a contortionist of late...at least, that I can recall.

I showed up at the diagnostic imaging department early, before they had re-opened after lunch. While I was the first one in and finished my questionnaire at breakneck speed (do I really need to repeat my breast history to them every six months? Don't they keep any records?) I wasn't called until a half hour after my appointment time. That meant that I got to wait in the antechamber for another twenty minutes, clutching a too-big gown around me.  Read more »

A year and a day ago I wrote, "Cancer Made Me a Cold-Blooded Killer," exploring my most bizarre chemo side effect: losing my life-long bug phobia and becoming a shrewd-eyed bug killer. Overnight. Probably not a chemo side effect, sure, but that's the only thing I could attribute it to, given my sudden transformation from holding my skirt up while I shrieked from atop a chair to pummeling a wasp to death with a light-weight fly swatter.  Read more »

You may know that once you have had cancer, even when you are declared cancer-free, it is not over. There is often ongoing treatment to help prevent you from getting cancer again, as well as regular follow-ups with an oncologist to screen for recurrence. Just when you want most to stop thinking about cancer, it seems you have to go see someone and talk about it some more.  Read more »