The Day I Blogged About Boobs
WARNING: If the word "boobs" is offensive to you, stop reading right now.
On December 11, as I prepared to slip off the ever-flattering one-size-fits-none mauve mammogram blouse they provide you, I posted on social media--- "Ladies, get your mammograms." This gaping, single-tie closure top is really just a formality since your boobs are hanging out for the whole procedure, and who cares if the other folks in the hallway on the way to the procedure room sneak a peek. Once you've bared your boobs to be manipulated like play dough and squished between two plates of steal, the modesty bar drops right to the floor, along with your shirt and your bra, without a second thought. After my routine yearly mammogram, Charli and I proceeded to enjoy a great day of Christmas shopping and lunch at Olive Garden.
A few days later, I got a call that they needed to get some more images to clarify a couple of things that showed up on the routine mammogram. This was nothing new. I've been called back before for more pictures and even ultrasound followed by a biopsy three years ago. This is part and parcel with having what they call "dense" breast tissue. (Why can't dense translate practically into perky and voluminous?) Instead of showing up mostly black on a mammogram, dense breast tissue shows all shapes, sizes and configurations of white on a black background.
I was nervous about the biopsy, but it turns out, my anxiety was far out of proportion to the level of discomfort I actually experienced during the procedure. I had to lay on my belly with my boobs hanging through holes in the table. The left one was clamped firmly into a vice grip of some sort and injected with local anesthesia to numb me up, after which the doctor and assistant left the room for a couple of minutes. The peak of my fear came right then as I imagined an earthquake occurring and me having to chew off my left boob in order to escape the building. Thankfully, no earthquake, and I walked away from that biopsy, which turned out to be nothing, with a little gift -- metal markers to watch the area on future imaging.
After further imaging on December 21, I received a call at work on Thursday, January 6, informing me that I have cancer in my left breast and a high-risk area in the right breast. Both will need to come out.
Every woman knows she may hear those words at some point in her life. When it happened to me, it set my brain to spinning in my head and my pulse rate soaring. Within half an hour of the doctor's phone call to me, my patient advocate , Jackie, called to explain next steps.
The phrases that stuck in my mind were -- "very early;" "stage 1;" "less than 7 mm." And the sentence that I grabbed onto and recall verbatim -- "This is a nasty bump in your road. It's not the end of your road."
The next day, I had an MRI with contrast. It confirmed what had been shown on the ultrasound and mammograms and, further, indicated no cancer in the lymph nodes.
By this point, I knew I had some difficult decisions to make. Typically an avid (aka OCD) researcher, I chose to limit my research to medical journals and to "lumpectomy versus mastectomy." This was not the time to do a Google search and read about Aunt Marge's nightmare mastectomy or how Tina cured her breast cancer eating wheatgrass and bathing in bat guano. (No offense if that has worked for you.) I needed to know what the evidence says about breast cancer treatment. I also needed to talk to someone else who had been down this road and could offer not only relevant information but also hope and encouragement. I texted my friend Kimberly. She has become everyone's go-to when they learn they have breast cancer. She immediately confirmed a couple of things I'd found in my research and alerted me to a couple of things I hadn't known that I would want to ask my breast surgeon about.
I could write pages about the emotions and thoughts that occupied my mind and heart, even settling into my body from Thursday to Monday. First and foremost -- what do I need to do to be around to see my grandkids grow up and to see my beautiful kids live their lives and to keep exploring all the simple and monumental wonders this world has to offer?
I was nervous about meeting the breast surgeon that Monday and had already planned to set up a second opinion, just to cover all my bases. After meeting Dr. Bremner that afternoon¬—no need for a second opinion. She knows her stuff, has great bedside manner, and is the right person to be on my "kick cancer's ass" (KCA) team.
I am profoundly grateful for her reassurance that this is a very early cancer, very small, and totally curable. I am grateful that there appears to be no need for chemotherapy. I am grateful that I have options to consider.
Still...it is a shitty decision to make. Do I have them strategically cut out just the bad parts followed by six weeks of radiation. Or do I have them remove my breasts along with the cancer and the high-risk area?
They're just breasts, right? They're not anything magnificent, resembling small ski slopes after having nursed four babies and being subject to gravity for 45 years. (Yes, I'm 57, but puberty didn't hit until 12.) But they're mine. I like them. I actually love them. They nourished four babies. They are part of me. But now...they're mad at me.
After weighing the evidence before me, on March 8, I will undergo a double mastectomy with reconstruction. There is no right or wrong choice. Each woman has to make her own decision based on solid evidence and what makes sense for her.
Even as I write, "There is no right or wrong choice," I wonder if I'm making the "right" choice. I won't go into the details of how I came to this decision, but as Charli said, "From a strictly cerebral standpoint, it makes logical sense to do the double mastectomy." I love her mind. And her heart. And, really, just everything about her.
Last week, I met my plastic surgeon who will build me some perky, beautiful new boobs at the same time the breast surgeon removes my grouchy ones. He comes highly recommended from friends who have been down this road. Between Dr. Smith and Dr. Bremner, I have great confidence in my KCA team. I meet my oncologist next Friday. She looks about 14 years old from the online pictures I've seen. Here's hoping she proves to be on par with my other two team members.
Today and every day leading up to March 8, my plan is to do what I've been attempting to do for many years–to live into the moments of THIS day. None of us are promised tomorrow, or even tonight. That's not to say I will sit in my outdoor swing gazing at my navel and meditating 24/7. I...we...still have to go about our work and our household chores and all the mundane routines that make up our lives. And here's the thing. The work and the chores and the routines–they all matter. They are the moments that make up our lives. The vacation-in-Maui moments and the just-got-a-promotion moments are wonderful and worthy of celebration. But what happens in between, the daily stuff of life, is where we settle in and learn the art of being in the moment. Truly present. Right now.
At times it's not easy for me to live into this moment. While I never used to get notifications on MyChart (my health portal), I've gotten multiple notifications of upcoming appointments and procedures since December 6, the day I heard the "c" word. For someone who takes my health seriously and does everything I can to STAY healthy, this is unnerving.
On any given day, I will be tooling along as if everything were normal–working, playing with my dogs, reading–then I remember. There's cancer in my body. I have to stop my thoughts in their tracks because they lead to -- "Oh, my God! I want that cancer out right now!" Fear. Panic.
I remember what Chip told me a few days ago. "There's a difference between 'living' and 'living.'" Living, as in surviving, is one thing. Living, as in breathing deeply, enjoying a walk in the sunshine, reading a good book, diving headlong into work that you love, is something completely different. That is the living I want to do.
I choose to LIVE today. I will tackle this thing one day at a time. I certainly won't...CAN'T...do it alone. God is WITH me. And I have the most amazing family and friends who will support me...as always.
I am pretty hard-headed, which serves me well most of the time, and may prove to be an invaluable trait in the weeks to come. I'm not naive. I know cancer is a formidable foe. I know the surgery and recovery will be difficult, and that's a gross understatement. There's a much better word I typically use (starts with b, ends with ch) to describe what's to come, but since I've likely scandalized some readers with multiple uses of the word "boobs" and a couple of other colorful words, I'll refrain for the moment. I've done hard things before. This will be one of the hardest. But on the other side of it, I will say with all due respect -- I kicked cancer's ass.
Now for my soap box:
If you are a woman in the age group for which routine mammograms are recommended (usually starting about age 40 depending on family history), please, just DO it. Getting your boobs squished once a year is SUCH a small thing when you consider the tremendous benefits of early detection. Dr. Bremner told me, "Kudos to your radiologist. This is so small, it could have easily been missed."
Do what you need to do to take care of YOU! Your people want you around and healthy!
