Here I Am
604 miles. (Have not tallied the extraordinary effort by all those who are "donating" their miles to me)
First
Thank you. Every note, every text, every phone call; every wish, every cheer, every virtual hug and kiss - whether I answered right away or not, there is no end to how much every single word has meant to me and has lifted me up and carried me through.
The Clinical Stuff
Surgery went well. I will take a minute here to catch up on all of the details, try to answer the questions that have been asked.
I am nine days out from the mastectomy and beginning of reconstruction. Pathology on the breast showed DCIS (non invasive ductal cancer - it's the good kind if you have to have this), with a microinvasion (1 mm) of invasive cancer. It is gone now. My lymph nodes were clear. My surgeon has advised that chemo and radiation will not be recommended. The hormone receptor status of the DCIS was good, progesterone and estrogen 100% positive, HER2 negative. These things mean that there are drugs to block the things that fuel my type of cancer. Receptor status on the microinvasion is pending.
After the mastectomy was performed, a tissue expander was placed under the muscle where my left breast was. It will be, over the course of a few months, filled with saline until I have a sort of a big, round, unfortunately far too firm for comfort, Baywatch looking boob. Several weeks after that, I will have another surgery to take the tissue expander out and replace it with an actual breast implant that will not, I have been promised, feel like (thank you here, NM for the very apt description) a sports bra that is three sizes too small and cannot be taken off.
I have a drain still inserted in a hole in on my side between my ribs (when I remarked to my friend Allison that this wound reminded me of the adding-insult-to-injury shiv that they used to see if Jesus was really dead, my drain was renamed The Jesus Drain). It is painful and itchy and annoying and I cannot shower until I do get it out, so careful shallow baths it is. Either way, I'm luckier than Jesus was and I never really thought that was a sentence I would ever type so there you have it, a silver lining.
The Silver Lining
I want to be careful here, because really, breast cancer sucks. All cancer sucks. It is ugly and terrifying and bloody and it takes beautiful bodies and decimates them. Good spin on cancer feels trite.
Still I am a lucky girl. My prognosis is excellent, I have brilliant doctors guiding the way. I have had the truest friends on earth walk this path with me. People have SHOWN UP. With notes of such encompassing affection and support that I am left wondering if it really ME they are all talking about. I have had offers to walk my dog, do my grocery shopping, clean my house, drive my kids, drive me, make my dinners, babysit, rub my back, read to me and run my miles! Nothing has been held back.
I cannot think of evidence that a life being more well lived than to have unspoken needs met and covered with no more than an loving admonishment to keep resting and healing.
Anesthesia Brain
Liz and Brooke spent a lot of time with me in the hospital and so were treated to the worst of anesthesia brain. I distinctly remember (which is ironic) the moments where, midsentence, I had no idea what I was saying/about to say. I started to just say "help me" and they would tell me what I was talking about so that I could try and finish the thought.
It was when I just surrendered to the reality that my mind would do this little party trick for a while that I relaxed into the fact that the people I loved were going to watch over me, that I finally relaxed. I could drift and not remember and simply say "help me" and, without exception, I was rescued.
Feeling Good
I do, mostly. Physically, I get tired quickly and there are a lot of limitations placed on how much I can lift, I need to work on my range of motion and have a strong innate tendency to sort of "protect" my left side with my left arm whenever I am walking. Full reconstruction will take about a year.
I will begin seeing an oncologist in a couple of weeks. That word, oncologist, is daunting. I've wondered, how do I say this? I had breast cancer, past tense, but it feels like I will be managing this cancer forever now. So not past tense. I have a slight fever tonight, it's managed, but there is new color to everything now, new depth to every click of change.
To Run
I am missing it badly. I have loved the notes on miles being run for me out there. I hope you all are loving every step, I'm gonna join you as soon as I can.
First
Thank you. Every note, every text, every phone call; every wish, every cheer, every virtual hug and kiss - whether I answered right away or not, there is no end to how much every single word has meant to me and has lifted me up and carried me through.
The Clinical Stuff
Surgery went well. I will take a minute here to catch up on all of the details, try to answer the questions that have been asked.
I am nine days out from the mastectomy and beginning of reconstruction. Pathology on the breast showed DCIS (non invasive ductal cancer - it's the good kind if you have to have this), with a microinvasion (1 mm) of invasive cancer. It is gone now. My lymph nodes were clear. My surgeon has advised that chemo and radiation will not be recommended. The hormone receptor status of the DCIS was good, progesterone and estrogen 100% positive, HER2 negative. These things mean that there are drugs to block the things that fuel my type of cancer. Receptor status on the microinvasion is pending.
After the mastectomy was performed, a tissue expander was placed under the muscle where my left breast was. It will be, over the course of a few months, filled with saline until I have a sort of a big, round, unfortunately far too firm for comfort, Baywatch looking boob. Several weeks after that, I will have another surgery to take the tissue expander out and replace it with an actual breast implant that will not, I have been promised, feel like (thank you here, NM for the very apt description) a sports bra that is three sizes too small and cannot be taken off.
I have a drain still inserted in a hole in on my side between my ribs (when I remarked to my friend Allison that this wound reminded me of the adding-insult-to-injury shiv that they used to see if Jesus was really dead, my drain was renamed The Jesus Drain). It is painful and itchy and annoying and I cannot shower until I do get it out, so careful shallow baths it is. Either way, I'm luckier than Jesus was and I never really thought that was a sentence I would ever type so there you have it, a silver lining.
The Silver Lining
I want to be careful here, because really, breast cancer sucks. All cancer sucks. It is ugly and terrifying and bloody and it takes beautiful bodies and decimates them. Good spin on cancer feels trite.
Still I am a lucky girl. My prognosis is excellent, I have brilliant doctors guiding the way. I have had the truest friends on earth walk this path with me. People have SHOWN UP. With notes of such encompassing affection and support that I am left wondering if it really ME they are all talking about. I have had offers to walk my dog, do my grocery shopping, clean my house, drive my kids, drive me, make my dinners, babysit, rub my back, read to me and run my miles! Nothing has been held back.
I cannot think of evidence that a life being more well lived than to have unspoken needs met and covered with no more than an loving admonishment to keep resting and healing.
Anesthesia Brain
Liz and Brooke spent a lot of time with me in the hospital and so were treated to the worst of anesthesia brain. I distinctly remember (which is ironic) the moments where, midsentence, I had no idea what I was saying/about to say. I started to just say "help me" and they would tell me what I was talking about so that I could try and finish the thought.
It was when I just surrendered to the reality that my mind would do this little party trick for a while that I relaxed into the fact that the people I loved were going to watch over me, that I finally relaxed. I could drift and not remember and simply say "help me" and, without exception, I was rescued.
Feeling Good
I do, mostly. Physically, I get tired quickly and there are a lot of limitations placed on how much I can lift, I need to work on my range of motion and have a strong innate tendency to sort of "protect" my left side with my left arm whenever I am walking. Full reconstruction will take about a year.
I will begin seeing an oncologist in a couple of weeks. That word, oncologist, is daunting. I've wondered, how do I say this? I had breast cancer, past tense, but it feels like I will be managing this cancer forever now. So not past tense. I have a slight fever tonight, it's managed, but there is new color to everything now, new depth to every click of change.
To Run
I am missing it badly. I have loved the notes on miles being run for me out there. I hope you all are loving every step, I'm gonna join you as soon as I can.
Wow! I had no idea any of this was going on with you, Jenny! I hear ya about saying "good" stuff about the experience. My mom would get so pissed when she was told she had a "good type" of breast cancer. My thoughts and prayers remain with you in this battle. I am glad you need not deal with chemo and radiation. Here's to a speedy recovery. You'll be up and running in good time.
ReplyDeleteYou sound optimistic and positive...It s truly inspirational, Jen!
ReplyDeleteI'll have to ask my mom what kind of breast cancer she had...everything is eerily similar- brought me right back to 1988.
Also, I'm sure you're exhausted but I'm putting together a "ladies night out" and sent you an evite awhile back. I'm sure it went to your junk mail or spam folder. It's September 22nd in Libertyville. I would love to see you if you're feeling up to it? And if the 22nd is too early in the recovery process, I'll plan another one at a later time...just let me know.
XOXO
Alyssa