July 21, 2013 - Mid-life schmid-life

July 21: Remember when you were a kid and you went over to your Aunt’s house for the afternoon and you thought to yourself- “Oh my goodness, what a stick in the mud! Thirty-eight is knocking on death’s door.”  I’m thirty eight. Hannah (name changed to protect the guilty) is having a mid-life crisis. I didn’t think that was possible until you were scratching at fifty…or maybe even sixty. But I must have been mistaken as it must be thirty. Her being a tad older than I, I guess I’m four years from it being here full force. I already feel it for my husband (though he doesn’t even have a twinge of it). How in the world is my husband 41???? Honestly, I don’t feel a day over thirty. I can’t be married to someone closer to fifty than thirty. We are closer to retirement than the start of our career. Do I need to put money down on a patio home (wait, I’m already in a patio home)? If I really sit and think about it all, I could easily be guilty of inducing my own mid-life crisis. It’s probably right behind my grocery list in this mind of mine. Yep, it’s there lurking as I think of my parents being closer to a nursing home than a single’s party. It’s coming. I’m right there on the cusp. And hearing my friend Hannah, this past week, speak of her cusp I realize I am teetering on my own.

But I’m also embracing this perspective that comes with getting past the selfish days of twenty something. I adore not having to keep up with the Joneses (whoever they are and how did they become so famous?). Materialism actually irks me instead of drives me. I greatly appreciate watching the mothers around me sort through the strategy of child rearing. How do we make this little human being now in our care a meaningful contributor to society? Trial and error can be a hoot to observe. But there is also some immense satisfaction as you watch a niece or nephew (even those that are honorary) choose to be a Christ follower or observe them sincerely mourn on behalf of a sibling that got knocked down on the playground. I don’t miss those days where I would have criticized you for wearing pink with red. I crave giving to the Mission instead of to the local boutique. If only I could have made this wisdom come years ago. And what incredible knowledge of mid-life still awaits me over the next few week, months, years, decades? I truly believe it must get better from here.  Not that I am saying life itself gets better and that we are immune to the struggles of living here in this fallen world, but maybe the struggles seem somewhat less of a struggle with newly found wisdom found with each passing slice of birthday cake. I’m also not naïve enough to not acknowledge the sorrow of loss that lies in wait as well.  That will be my truest test of wisdom. But I think they must end up balancing each other out. Maybe the wisdom of midlife makes the dread of impending loss all the more bearable.  Or maybe the ongoing loss of immaturity leads to the maturation of coping skills. An appreciation of the value of relationships around you so that when you lose one, you grow deeper in another that is helping you get by. Surely.

So I’m embracing mid-life (maybe?). Ok, so I am attempting to embrace mid-life. I think of how different my last year would have been had I started this journey of mastectomy a decade earlier. Instead of the worry of what others may think of me or the doom of temporal loss of vanity that would have prevailed a decade ago, in this age of thirty something I feel this sense of wisdom through mastectomy. It took me a year, but I am seeing a newly defined glimpse of the pride of battle scars (Sarah, I now understand what you said eight months ago).  I feel more informed, more connected (more disconnected maybe, but in a positive way), just simply more. I love my perspective of life more now with imposters in tow than I did with the original counterparts . The fake have grown on me.  I respect the triumph over circumstances. Maybe that is a secret blessing of mid-life. Mid-life knows your husband doesn’t even blink an eye at hottie walking in front of you in the mall. Mid-life means choosing dinner with your parents over dinner with the Joneses at the country club. Mid-life is letting the laundry sit while you walk around the pond with your elderly neighbor. Mid-life is sometimes putting a little away instead of getting the silver bangle. Mid-life is choosing your friends wisely. Mid-life is praying for the coworker that grates your every nerve and praying for yourself to focus instead on her strengths. Mid-life is forgiveness.  Mid-life is choosing mastectomy. I don’t know that I would have done that 20 years ago.

All of you in and past mid-life can say the same in your own perspectives. Look at yourself the week before you found out you were pregnant, and now the you two years after delivery.  The you the year after your first job, and now the you 6 months after being laid off.  You before you miscarried. You before the loss of your mother. You before the diagnosis. You when your spouse battles addiction. You when you see your son choose Christ over society. Maybe I’m Miss Super Positive (I most certainly am a glass half full kind of person), but I truly do believe with every circumstance, even those that seem insurmountable, brings this incredible sense of purpose and perspective that couldn’t be obtain otherwise. Mid-life is the looking rear view mirror for wisdom and running with that wisdom and respect toward the future. A chance to grow closer to your spouse and those around you. A chance to shine for purpose.  I think God is brilliant in that. Mid-life was very specifically purposed. However, He doesn’t dictate what you do with it. It’s simply an opportunity for the taking.

I read something to the effect of this just a few days ago “To the female teenagers of the world: Choose the nerd every single time. Trust me on this! Sincerely, Married women of the world a few years older.”  Oh how very true! Think of all of those tidbits of information that you wish had darkened your door a decade earlier.  (I was lucky to already have that knowledge of marriage very early I life- Thanks, Mom!) So why not be excited of what is to come? Why not sit and wait in intense anticipation? Mid-life crisis, Schmid-life crisis! If God truly wants the best for us, and we decide to believe in that plan despite circumstance, how can the next best thing not be today, and again tomorrow, and again the next day? Today is the best! And tomorrow will be the best! And even if struggle darkens your door (as it most certainly will), mid-life is a reminder of just how surmountable it all can be.

So women, let’s embrace those wrinkled foreheads. A testament that thinking and praying your way out of any situation is much better than chance. Put a little swagger in your fluffy trunk for that fluffy trunk shows eating cupcakes with a 3 years old is far better than choosing solitude while cleaning the house. Hello, mini-van...only  a testament to choosing family over self.  Graying hair? Survived the chaos! Sagging boobs? Well I wouldn’t know about that. = )


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June 16, 2013 - Rear View

June 16: Because I believe that every single moment in life can be teachable if the student cares to learn, I’ve made it a habit of mine to always maintain a clean, well placed, rear view mirror. I want to not only look forward as my instant gratifier personality traits often drives me, but also remember to turn around and look back at the road just traveled and possibly even those not traveled at all when I came to a junction. So having just left this week what I assume to be my very last breast appointment, I find myself glancing backward at my chosen path evaluating the outcome of my choice. It’s been almost a year to date since I first learned of the new/now old medical data surrounding lymphoma survivors. Ironic that the last appointment fell almost to that exact date of my knowledge of there needing to be a decision. Was it successful? Did everything prove true? I’m one of the few people without the BRCA gene that have chosen this route, maybe one of the first of many to come. I’ve crossed over from the 75%+ chance of breast cancer with limit treatment options to now being <5%. I didn’t “feel” when I cross over that line, but I’m told it happened. I imagine <5% came August 7, 2012 when the scalpel made its very last resection and the final piece of breast tissue left in the skin envelope was placed onto the glass slide for pathology results. At the exact moment when the Lead Breast Surgeon looked down and observed she had in fact finished that OR case after 5+ hours of standing over my chest. I didn’t “feel” the percentage transition occur, but it happened. I’m sure to her I was just another case, maybe better than others since I in fact did not have breast cancer. Her usual mastectomies were not curative, but rather just one modality to help the survival chances better fought with rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. For this woman laying on her OR table, she was in fact taking the sole measure to save my life (from a breast cancer death anyway). I do wonder what her thoughts were at that moment. I know my decision was controversial to her. She gave me options to wait a year or two to ensure I wasn’t planning to have kids. She wanted to be sure I had thought through every aspect of the decision and got other medical opinions (for she knew way better what lie in wait for me). She wanted me to be informed. Well to me, I was informed. 75%+ breast cancer. That was all I needed to hear. I’m usually very quick to make medical decisions (I know those of you that go to a restaurant with me are laughing at this very moment when I am paralyzed by having to choose an option from a menu. Menus are a flaw of mine). Medical decision making is an area I feel confident in. I considered myself stupid NOT to do this mastectomy. So, yes, I was very sure in my choice. Well, as sure as I could be in July 2012 pre mastectomy. I discovered her thoughts later the following morning when she came to discharge me from the hospital. When she instructed me under no circumstances to open those bandages (see post from the Fall titles “Looking back to Day 0 part 1 and 2”). She knew exactly what I was getting in to. Little did I know that a very black and white medical decision led to some very grey aftermath that in many ways would affect everyone in my surroundings, particularly family. Let me tell you my foresight was a far cry from my hindsight in this one. But my hindsight has allowed me to glean some really incredible pearls of wisdom. Some already partially realized pre mastectomy, but better solidified post. Some are brand spanking new to my cerebral awareness.

Husbands come in all shapes, sizes, commitment levels, and emotional intelligence. My husband scores incredibly high in the area of "marriage through thick and thin." Lead Plastic Surgeon as well as Lead Breast Surgeon both said confirmatory statements about Ron at my last appointments with each. Both alluding to “Sally, you don’t know how great you have it. We see divorce after divorce happening after mastectomy.” Well, yes I do know just how great I have it. He’s proven it time and time again this past year. Not like I ever had a doubt but there is definite proof in the pudding. There where those moments when I was standing in the shower, and there he stood with me wet to the core with a loofa in hand since I had no range of motion. “Nooks and Crannies” we joked, me in tears, him pulling me back together piece by piece, then grabbing a towel to get me dry when I was paralyzed in nothing short of shock. Or the 10+ pillows being repositioned night after night since I absolutely could not find comfort in bed. Me having to wake him up every 45 minutes to reposition, him jumping right up at any moment more than eager to help. Then being obligated to empty the contents of clot filled breast drains into a Tupperware bowl hour after hour when I would fall apart at the thought of having to do it even one more time. Or even further back, when I asked him what choice we should make and him not blinking an eye saying we needed to do this. He loved me with boobs, he loved me without boobs (the true test of a man), and now he loves me with imposter boobs and weight gain. And the amazing thing is I never saw a variance in love despite the stage. In fact, we are stronger for it. Mastectomy care is full time, and he abandoned everything of self to be fully devoted to me. There are few men in this world that would be what Ron proved himself to be. And without a lick of preparation! This I learned: Women, wait for quality. It’s out there. You never know when you are going to need someone to empty your breast drain at 6 in the morning when all you yourself want to do is crawl into the fetal position. But slowly, as you watch your spouse step up to the plate time and time again, you find yourself doing the same.

Vanity is relative. I have never once in life considered myself vain by the worldly standard of the word. Sure, any woman likes a good hair day or a cute outfit. A compliment from a passerby, but I had long since learned I was not the worldly standard of beauty. I’ve always struggled with my weight since my lymphoma therapy as a teenager. I very much remember the day my coach told me my weight was out of control. That was my first realization I had a twinge of vanity. I didn’t keep up with the fashions per se. I wore what I had.  I definitely never once thought I would get cosmetic surgery (other than my mandatory cleft lip repairs) particularly breast implants. I remember when Lead Plastic Surgeon told me I wasn’t a candidate for the natural tissue reconstruction - removing fat from the abdomen and making breast tissue out of it - since I had received so much radiation to my abdomen as a teenager. I was devastated. That felt like a more “real” option to me, and I desperately wanted to go that route. Instead, I had one option: Implants. And when last July I started searching the net to see the pictures of mastectomy reconstruction, I quickly found myself experiencing vanity first hand. I began having panic attacks about the scarring I was seeing in those pictures. I remember that afternoon after having spent a majority of the night on the web now sitting on my knees in my sister’s craft room painting a baseboard. My mom and sister were up on ladders working on the wall, and all of a sudden I just lost it into a full fledge sob. Those scars were etched into my mind and I could get them out. Well, ladies, let me tell you that the moment that resident pulled off that bandage (Post titled Looking back to Day 0) and I saw the scarred contents that remained, I would have shoved a cantaloupe under my skin and called it a day. I very much found myself the recipient of unapologetic full fledge vanity. Who had I been kidding all that time? I’m just like any other person out there. So this too I learned: 1) Don’t look at scarring on the internet. Procedures are amazing now and I have the best scars ever (considering). I'll show you if you ever find yourself in this position. 2) Vanity exists in all of us and you quickly can change “what I would never do” when you find yourself in a situation of needing implants very badly. 3) If you do look at pictures on the internet, don’t commit to painting a room covered in old brown wood paneling. Awful place to have a breakdown. However, if you are stupid like me, make sure both your sister and your mom are there so they can absorb all the newly found curse words that fly out of your mouth in that given moment both over the paneling and the scarring. (Sorry mom.) And also win the lottery so you can buy your sister a suitable painter.

Don’t let anyone you know go through mastectomy alone and more importantly don’t allow yourself to go though it alone. I don’t know why in life we consider so many things “private affairs”. Why in the world would God bring us (or allow) a certain event in life and want us to be hush hush about it when this whole entire world is about His kingdom. It doesn’t have a single moment of orbit around me. So by sharing the journey, we grow with others, through others, and just maybe someone will grow because of us. About the only thing in life that might should be considered private  is finances. We shouldn’t hide miscarriages, we shouldn’t hide infertility, we shouldn’t hide the death of a loved one, we shouldn’t hide job loss, we shouldn’t hide mastectomy (at least from very close friends). Sure we need to grieve on our own for a period of time, but we also need to make ourselves vessels and also allow others to teach us in the process (my opinion anyway).  Mastectomy being about a breast, I understand why you would want to crawl into a hole and hide the whole battle from everyone around you. But I don’t think that is what God intended for us. He designed us for community not for self. And I for one would not have fared even remotely this “well” had I not had each and everyone one of you involved. I get it. You don’t want to air out your boobage in front of all of the world (you don’t have to be so drastic as to do a social media update), but those close friends who have been there time and time again…. Involve them. And friends, involve yourself! Get nosey and get into the lives of those around you. You might just be amazed at what comes from that either for yourself or the person standing in front of you. I regained a college roommate because of this journey. I met some incredible new people. I even found some new pieces of me I didn’t know where down there. I truly think God has a plan in that if we can just learn to get out of ourselves for long enough to let him do something with our muck.

A bra, is not a bra, is not a bra. Particularly a surgical bra. Just last week I threw mine away. I’m kicking myself for it. I should have kept it for show and tell. I should have kept it as a reminder to myself. And these fancy underwire things we shove ourselves into for beauty….well keep on doing it ladies! I’ve always known lipstick goes a super long way for a cancer patient in the midst of treatment. Well so do fancy bras for the post mastectomy. They may be a pain in the boob, but they serve their purpose after being restricted to surgical and sports bras (and no bras for that matter) for months on end! Vanity bad, vanity good. I still laugh (and cry out of joy) when my mom had to go bra shopping for me and she came back with 6 or 7. I just COULD NOT for the life of me find comfort for even one more minute in that surgical bra clinching my drain sites and bringing me to tears. It had-to-come-off-stat! So there mom went store after store after store all for little ole me. A bra, is not a bra, is not a bra, nor is a mother. You need a good one of both. Score!

If you decide to start a mastectomy blog, hang on tight! It will change just about everything, particularly if you promise transparency which I 100% recommend. It has its setbacks. You may be sitting in an office meeting with people who now know the new shape of your impostor or who read about your drain drama from the evening before. Or you walk into a crowded room where you just know the face of the person across the table, but they know every detail of your previous day when you woke up that morning with blood running down your arm. But at the same moment there just may be a woman in Iran who is struggling with the loss of a breast who needs to read your words, because she lives in a country where she can’t speak openly about sexuality or anything that remains covered by native attire. You may be her only source of an outlet.  She may be reading your words finding a source of triumph that she isn’t alone. I’m learning that I have to at time expose my own weakness and ineptitudes so that some other woman may not feel utterly alone. I also like to find you laughing at my High Profile Smooth Round Implants when earlier that morning you had a fight over the breakfast cereal.  But transparency has it’ sown benefit for me. It forced me not to hide under the shame you want to feel in all of it. It keeps me in touch with the realities of tough journeys and one day you look back and find you are on the other side. And not only are you on the other side, you are stronger on the other side.

I’m more of a woman than I was on August 6, 2012. And I hope at this very moment I am less of a Godly woman than I will be on August 6, 2022. I’m getting older, and hopefully wiser….and I have brand new quirky boobs that absolutely will grow old with grace.

Hugs to each of you. You have made my journey brighter and more laughable.

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June 9, 2013 - Lopsided?

June 9: Deep sigh. Deep, deep, deep sigh. I’m grateful, oh so very grateful in all circumstances, but boy oh boy is this one giving me a gut check of walking the walk! I can hands down say this had been the longest 10 months I ever recall having. God has been there at every turn. I see that on so many levels. Likewise, my challenges made themself evident. It wasn’t one thing or another, it was the whole big bucket all lumped together. I can only imagine what this year would have resulted in had He not proven himself time and time again thus allowing me to claim His will be done in even these 10 months. Deep sigh. Deep, deep, deep sigh.

Friday, I was leaving work on the late side and was walking back through the buildings to the garage. I didn’t see a soul for many minutes on end. The outpatient hallways carry an eerie demeanor in the evenings. The day times are filled with a hustle and bustle as comes with a trauma center of this magnitude, but after hours in the clinic areas it’s like a ghost town. So there I walked reflecting back on the day and week lost in thought as I meandered through the tunnels. I turned a corner to transition buildings and look up to see Lead Plastic Surgeon coming my way. This was a first. I have yet to run into him or anyone else on my care team outside of an official visit setting. This is a benefit that comes with working in a building of such size, anonymity. But not today. I think he was just as surprised to see me as I him. I’m scheduled to have an appointment with him this coming week. Hopefully, my last! Good riddance! Not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy a good impromptu show and tell (I don’t!) but I am beyond ready to be boob appointment free. It’s been 7 weeks since the last antibiotic infusion, 10 weeks since the last surgery. I’m ready to be done. Imposter 2.2 is coming along nicely! It’s at home and well loved, but I want to find my way back to this being my past instead of my current. I want to not have to juggle this against that. We always want greener grass, don’t we? Sometimes we seem entitled to greener grass. How dare we? Why do we do that? (There is some noteworthy greener grass:  I still can’t believe I have escaped mammograms for the rest of my life. Score 1 for Sally, Score 0 for mean ole boob presser)

After initial greetings of such I asked if this chance encounter could count as the last appointment. He replied “see you next week.” You can’t blame a gal for trying. I am a grateful.  And also grateful to move to another pasture. Or at least ready to incorporate it into who I am and focus on something entirely different for a bit. Mental note: reminder to ask for a new implant ID card when we meet next week. I don’t think 2.2 was ever documented in a card and given to me. Must rectify that for my hallway implant shadow box display. Gotta be prepared for that recall! I’d hate to be walking around with a recalled implant and not even know it. Embarrassing and a definite fashion faux pas!

It’s interesting how now that the swelling of boob 1 and 2.2 has diminished, you can see (well, I can see) just how different these things are from month to month. And 2.2 is not an identical ancestor of 2 as one might would have expected. Shouldn’t all Smooth Round High Profile Gel implants all be the same? Maybe they are, but their positioning certainly is not. Dare I say there is a little lopsidedness? What, too much information? It’s comical really. I wouldn’t really notice except boob 1 is so perfectly placed. Boob 2.2 however, not so much and it gives me a little chuckle. Dare to say you would never notice, but me, I notice and it makes me chuckle. Why would I not laugh? Somehow I ended up with implants. The irony of that is not lost on me at all and therefore I am able to see some humor in its placement. A lopsided boob. It’s a bit endearing on some levels much like a birthmark that you couldn’t dare part with. Lopsided is the new thing. It provided Boob 2.2 with some personality. Makes it seem a little less fake. Or maybe it seems even more fake?  Now I’m picturing each of you the next time we meet trying to detect the imperfection. That too makes me chuckle.

I’m a stronger woman for this journey. Collateral benefit I suppose. I could name all of the ways. I SHOULD name all of the ways. I will name all of the ways…one day. For now, deep sigh. Deep, deep, deep sigh while basking in His grace and promise to work all things together for His purpose.  I have no doubt the purpose is great and one day I hope to be privy to that. I already see some great and I hope there is more to come if not for me, then for you. Great is His faithfulness. Trying to make equally as great MY faithfulness.


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May 18, 2013 - Brave Heart

May 18: I'm intrigued by reading other people's perspectives around the mastectomy topic, particularly prophylactic mastectomy. Perspectives are everywhere you turn in recent days as Angelina decided to make her journey public, though after the fact. I kept receiving emails, post, calls "have you heard?". Then the news ran story after story of her journey calling her "brave", "inspirational", "applaud worthy" and the accolades go on. It made me think even further about "perspective" around this type journey and how different that perspective is for the one's viewing the journey compared to those walking it. If I had to bet, Angelina never once felt brave, inspirational, or applaud-able.

I asked Ron to try and describe to me that perspective from the outside looking in. Bravery to me is running into a house being consumed by flames to extract a stranger. Putting aside all thoughts of self while embracing the life of other. Choosing to honor someone else over your own self. This whole nation is captive by selfishness and the need to make our self the center of all motive. But then, as I continued to mull around thoughts and perspectives it started to click for me. Bravery is also putting aside one's own fear even to better the outcome of self. And then I saw it, the bravery of mastectomy.

You see, before now, to me it wasn't about bravery, but about survival. It was just the choice that needed to be made. Honestly, last summer, Ron and I saw it as a decision that was a no brainer. Really not even a choice at all. I didn't really see God leading me toward it, I didn't see Ron and I kicking and screaming and running away from it. It just made since to choose life over death. Wouldn't everyone do that? Just a decision we made and very quickly moved forward with. In fact, on some levels I considered myself selfish for making the decision (very far from brave) as I was greatly impacting Ron in this process as well, and my work team as I was needing to pull out of work for 8 weeks leaving them to sink or swim with one man down in the middle of a massive project. This would be my fourth surgery in 3 years. There was definite guilt for how this would impact people around me. Yet, as Ron and I continued to talk this week and him highlighting that he doesn't know if he would have made the same decision had we been talking about him instead of me, it started to bubble up that maybe this was something not just "reactive", "necessary", a "no brainer", an "instinctive" response to possible death but rather "brave", "inspirational", and "applaud worthy".  (Prior to now the brave one to me was those that chose NOT to do it in my situation). Maybe I did choose something your average person would have struggled greatly with choosing. I have to admit, there wasn't much thought for me in the choice other than worrying about it's impact on family and potentially finances. My great thought came after the decision had been made and the first scalpel inserted. Maybe it's because I tend to choose rational over emotional (not that emotions are avoided, because I had those). But the rational choice to me was taking 65-95% chance of breast cancer and turning it to whopping < 5%. Bravery? I don't know, but I am starting to understand that is what those outside of this bucket perceive. Maybe had I known what would happen in those 3 months following mastectomy and had I chosen it anyway, then one could call me brave. Now, knowing all of what I know of mastectomy, I definitely can now in hindsight call it a brave choice from a brave heart.

So I applaud Angelina Jolie. And I applaud those many women not engulfed in fame that are taking these steps to choose something a bit more complicated than a "no-brainer" decision. This will be a very difficult journey for some. For others, they may sail through with flying colors. The trouble is you don't know which road will be yours. And therefore, I now see the bravery in it. Just know that for every thing you've heard or read about mastectomy, there is a much deeper layer there few speak of. Ask my spouse. Ask my mom. Ask my sister. Ask Nancy, Content, and Amy who cried with me in a restaurant booth. Ask my work team who allowed me to cry in a conference room. But then also ask about the incredible moments in mastectomy. Cause it is there too. Hard to be summed up in the brief paragraphs in appropriately titled "My Medical Choice" by Angelina in the New York Times May 14th, 2013. But the bravery is there all the same if you were able to view the behind-the-scenes of the journey.


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May 5, 2013 - The Burning Question

May 5: Two weeks off antibiotics. Anything is fair game (love, war, mastectomies) at this point, but so far we are strolling along with no signs of infection. Gone is the redness and pain that comes with cellulitis. All in all, I'm working to show hospitality to 2.2 while it itself is settling into a new home. And I was trucking along with that welcome until I realized that this coming weekend Ron and I are scheduled to be at the beach for a wedding. Beach = swim suit. Swim suit = just too much right now. Is it wrong to pray for snow in May? I don't know the patron saint of snow fall nor would I think he would listen to me anyway since I tend to bypass each saint and go straight to the Father in a direct prayer line. (So grateful He allows us a direct line.) God, maybe a little snow. Just a tad. I think it would make for beautiful beach wedding pictures. The bride would thank me I am sure. I'm positive of it  = I'm a tad selfish.

I'm hearing so much encouragement from each of you. I can't thank you enough for that or even begin to tell you how it boosts my motivation. What is the most remarkable to me in those comments is your ongoing reassurance of how well I am embracing this mastectomy.  I can't even begin to figure out how I am supposed to act in all of this. I have no concept of whether I am right on target or off in left field. At times I chuckle at the thought of your impression of me. Yes, I'm positive. Yes, I look for God's activity in my journey. Yes, I desperately want to ooze faith through every nook and cranny of this mastectomy. But boy, have there been moments of negativity, self centeredness, and doubt on an embarrassing ongoing frequency. Last week, when I was failing miserably at balancing the nuisance of this infection, an impossible work week, accumulating house chores left undone for weeks on end, and a self centeredness that even I couldn't stand  I looked at Ron and asked the burning question. "Did we make a mistake doing this?"

I was so naive last summer when we were choosing this path. August 7th was to be a quick surgical procedure that would come and go with little more than having to succumb to fake breasts. And while I actually did have "best case scenario" at almost every turn, that whole stinking thing threw me for a very unexpected convoluted loop both physically and mentally. I had an enormous amount of grief. Bitterness found it's way to my doorstep on more than one occasion. Big whopping doses of frustration bombarded my evenings. And maybe I failed you in not allowing you to see more of that. I did strive for transparency and allowed it to show on occasion. But I don't want any one of you to think me immune to the emotions that I myself never once expected for a moment prior to August 7.  Instead, I'd rather leave a legacy of Holy Spirit driven perseverance  interwoven with the raw human reality. I call it a sandwich of grace, perspective, doubt, bitterness, positivity, faith, sorrow, triumph. I do not, however, want my legacy in mastectomy to be regret. Yet at times, it lurks into an hour of my day. Days when reality sets in of how much easier these last few months would have been had I not had August 7. There would be no April  cellulitis had there not been an August 7 mastectomy. There would be no monumental fatigue. There would be less balancing, less adjusting. There certainly would be no dread of a swim suit (ok, well yes there would be but it would be for the old routine reasons, not the new). You know what else there wouldn't be? The amazing growth of self that has happened. The facing of something enormous that I originally anticipated to be trivial. The reminder that just when you think you have it all figured out it can just as easily become flooded with something foreign and unexpected.

I don't have it all figured out. Not even close. But I don't doubt for a second that purpose is being served. And when those moments of regret threaten to surface, I want to dig deep down to remind myself that purpose triumphs (and maybe even when I fail). It's been a tough month. I allowed myself to be bitter. By his Grace, even in that there was purpose. He's sneaky like that.

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April 17, 2013 - Boobage

April 17: I’ve been carrying all this Boobage (baggage) around the last few days. Saturday I found myself in a funk. It resolved Sunday morning only to creep itself back in with a vengeance Monday. It did not help that I went back to work (work from home due to the infusions) Monday and instead of easing myself back in, I worked 10 hours that day. Everyone keeps saying “take care of your self”, “slow down”. Well that is easy to do under any other circumstance than the one I find myself in now at my job. Monday, it was one thing after another and it just kept building up and building up until when my friend, Cassie (name changed to protect the guilty), came by to bring meal. I opened the door, saw her sweet face, and busted out into tears. Nasty tears! It didn’t help that the previous night, I noticed that boob #2.2 was again feeling warmer than it’s mirror image boob #1.  And that’s how all of this started 2 weeks ago. Ron and I went to bed very fearful that the infection was returning. (Thankfully, that comes and goes and is not a constant symptom, so we feel more safe). And then came the waiting to see how that would unfold. Combine those emotions with a super busy return to work and I was a not so faith-filled Sally. I was just having one of those days, make that 72 hours, and I couldn’t part with those emotions. Boobage! And it didn’t help that in that 72 hours I turned 38. I’m not used to this waxing and waning in positivity. I’m pretty rock solid on that. Make that "Was".

I found myself back in the breast clinic today for my first post-surgery follow-up appointment. I do not miss that waiting room. I do however still hold my respect for the women in that waiting room. Despite that respect, I had been super happy-go-lucky for the past 4 months not visiting that location except for professional purposes. I had finally moved on, successfully parted with the emotions that linger post mastectomy. They weren’t fully gone, but they were part of my historical journey. No longer a day-to-day play-by play that invades your every hour. I no longer thought about boobs around the clock. The imposters had incorporated themselves into my person. So to find myself back in the drama of mastectomy again was rather unsettling.  I simply wanted to be done. I was done. Now, I’m here again. It’s different, but vastly similar. Similar enough to be more than uncomfortable. And then there were the gowns. And the show-and-tell. And the cold room.

Lead Plastic Surgeon was pleased with the progress thus far. He noted some irritation/redness around the stitches, but we are just watching that. And the swelling.  Always the swelling. (Will that ever go away?) I think I was set back 6 months for the swelling. Then he commented casually “we are not out of the woods yet”. The true test will be when we stop the antibiotics next week and it will go one of two ways. Continue to improve no problems. Infection returns because it’s stuck in the deep tissue around the High Profile Smooth Round Gel Implant. Have mercy if that were to occur. I don’t think I care to go through a 4^th surgery for these boobs. And he even said he wasn’t sure he could do his “best work ever” a third time.  That was just tempting fate! I promised him all would go well. He promised me. And we left with that Pact on the examining table.  I never break a promise. Let’s hope he has that same character trait.

Boobage, be gone! I have no place for you. I’d rather be filled with over flowing gratitude. It will return again. It always does. It’s lurking just under the surface.

April 14, 2013 - Castor Oil

April 14: I talked Ron into us going to church last night. It was a terrific idea on paper. I needed a pick me up as I had landed myself in a very foul mood earlier in the day. The reality of what had happened had finally sank in. Whether I had been in a bit of denial or whether I was just riding the energy of the fast paced week eludes me, but whatever it was came to a quick halt Saturday morning and I was fully aware of the current circumstances. I thought a visit to church would provide the swift kick in the hiney I very much needed. A reminder of God's provision and grace. Well, I accomplished reclaiming that reminder, but also found myself very overwhelmed. That's one of my downfalls, I try to rush through the moment. Get this nastiness behind me, be better than I am, heal quicker than the body allows. I wanted to be back in the normalcy of the life of 10 days ago. If I think I'm well, I'm well. I'm also an idiot. I'm not well. Last night was a quick reminder of God's provision, but also a dose of reality that I am walking around life with a PICC line, a whole in my side from where a drain once thrived, and stitches up the front of Boob 2.2, and I'm tired. Very tired. I had gotten rid of Tired back in December. Kicked to to the curb. Well it must have just been lurking next door waiting for an opening. Tired likes me. I dislike tired.

Speaking of the PICC line- because I'm infusing 7 hours of antibiotics in across my day, I find myself performing said infusions in the most unlikely places. Sitting watching a play or more strangely in the car on the way to church. Ron and I had a chuckle when he parked the car, got out, turned to look back in to ensure the doors were locked and noticed the front seat looked very much like a drug cartel's haven. "RON! If we got pulled over by the cops, we would have a very difficult time explaining all the syringes and lines strewn across the car." They certainly know how to kink a day. Ron starts them when he firsts wakes up to allow me a few more minutes of snooze. Once the first one finishes, he hooks up the second and then I finish everything out with flushes and such 3 hours later. Well today, I was eager to get up and get my shower to get the day started. Got to the bedroom, gathered my supplies, called Ron to bring the Press and Seal and tape to wrap my arm (it can't get wet) only to remember I still had an antibiotic infusing and I can' shower while it's infusing. So my shower had to be delayed until 11 this morning. And here lies my dilemma of how in the world do I get this to function in a way to where I can go back to work? And I still haven't allowed myself to drive. I'm terrified of driving. I don't want to hold arm adjacent to 2.2 up on a steering wheel for a 35 minute commute. And a seat belt can only go so many places. And walk around the office with a pump? I'd like to think I am bigger than all of this and it can be done, but I'm struggling finding a way to fit a 3 hour infusion, a shower and getting dressed, and a 35 minute commute in to the morning, then a work day including a 45 minute infusion/flush followed by a 35 minute commute home, dinner, and a 3 hour infusion into a 12 hour awake day where I still function and produce anything worthy of calling it a result.  So instead I'm working at home next week with the exception of the two followup appointments I have. I tend to get more accomplished at home anyway and since I have crazy deadlines coming up, maybe it's a win win. But I admit I feel defeated in that. I want to be able to juggle it all with flying colors. I want to be THAT woman. Isn't it funny how we are the very first person to call ourselves inadequate? God needs to kick me around a little bit more to remind me he chose/allowed this path and I am to do my best. That's it. Just my best. Well my best is here at home in my pajamas working weird hours around weird infusions and laughing at the value of Press and Seal when it comes to keeping a line dry. Score!

It's my birthday. I called my mom last night to ask her what she was doing this very moment at 8:05 pm 38 years (25) ago on the evening before I arrived. "Drinking Castor Oil." (Sorry, Mom!) I think I will take stitches over castor oil. I'm to arrive at 2 pm today (38 years ago). I plan to eat cake at 2 pm. However, it's not lost on me that  I should send my mom the cake. She did all the hard work. I just gurgled and cooed. Well, not quite- we had a very rough go at it at my birth with surgeries and near death for mother and child alike. That's how mom and I do things....with a big ole bang! Peas in a Pod she and I. It's not lost on me that we both at this very minute are walking around with central lines (mine a Picc, hers a port). We both have daily (her's weekly) infusions. And just like so many of you say of me, she is the most positive person I have ever met when it comes to her perspective of her health. I let my positivity wax and wane a bit more than she (yesterday is a testament to that). And no matter how crazy her world becomes, she is still more worried about me than herself. That's an amazing mom. She may fall head first into my coffee table while caring for me (previous posts last Fall), but she moves herself right into my spare bedroom and cares for me all the same. And she does provide a good bit of laughter. Thanks, mom, for birthing me. Thanks for giving up six weeks of your life last Fall all for little ole pitiful me and the new Impostors. Thanks for sitting with Ron while I was spelling out I-M-P-L-A-N-T in a drug induced stupor in the OR waiting room a week ago. But more so thanks for reminding me to keep my head high in the midst of chaos. That bit of advice has served me well. And more than anything, thanks for trudging through it all with me. Two boobs in a pod!

Happy Birthday, Sally.
Happy BIRTHday, Mom!
(I will eat a slice in your honor, it's the least I can do).

April 12, 2013 - Jaded at 38 (25)

April 12: Ron and I are not known for our spontaneity or really even our creativity. I decided this year for my birthday, we were going to make plans so it wouldn't be another "here is comes, there it goes" kind of birthday. I don't want birthdays to become the forgotten day that often happens in the craziness of adulthood.  Shouldn't we all embrace the Elmo birthday cakes of childhoods gone by? In an attempt to do this, but to replace Elmo with something a tad more fitting and less perky, we decided to take a vacation to downtown Raleigh (about 15 minutes from our house for those of you not from N.C.).  Almost a month ago, we bought tickets to see Ira David Wood in "To Kill a Mocking Bird" tonight, then for Saturday we would spend the time downtown scoping our galleries and museums with dinner plans at a new (now old) restaurant downtown called Oro. We'd sum it all up with stay at a local bed and breakfast. I had won the bed and breakfast in a raffle and having never stayed in a B&B before I was super excited for this fun weekend and chance to better explore the very town we live in. Creative, huh? Well, creative for me anyway. I'm turning 38 (or 25 to those of you I've lied to), and I wanted to cushion that with some purposeful excitement particularly considering how crazy this year had been both personally with a double mastectomy and professionally with a project that is running about 350 mph.  So I find myself sad. Ok maybe a little bitter.  Dare I say angry? Nah, not angry. That's a bit much. Jaded, yep that is a good description. I'm jaded and wishful for the weekend plans we had so carefully crafted for a birthday I really wanted to celebrate (and this is a very different desire from previous years).

Instead of celebrating the successful navigation of the past year with two nights on the local town, I find myself launched right back into last fall (different, but similar) left trying to muster up some normalcy. A good start is my friend Kristen is bringing macaroni and cheese on Sunday. Is there a better way to celebrate a birthday than with some comfort mac and cheese? We are also trying to see if we can still fit in a dinner downtown this weekend. We have to eat right? So what if I look a little scruffy and uneasy on the eye?!? I sh ant let the trials of this week totally unglue the purposeful intention of celebrating 38. But in all honesty, despite everyone telling me how stoic, positive, inspirational I can be, there is a side of me intertwined with all that positivity that feels a good bit bummed. Bummed! Jaded! Don't mistake it - I'm so grateful that God allowed option #1 to occur with  the introduction of boob 2.2 (instead of going 4 months with no boob at all where all you would see of me is BASKETCASE!), but I would have been perfectly fine with boob #2 and no surgery at all. I was floating along in a bliss of life is good, work is good, relationships are even better to now find myself sitting on a sofa infusing antibiotics 7 hours of my day, unable to drive, pulling at stitches, cleaning holes where drains once made their presence known, and fumbling with not being able to lift much more than 5 pounds. I want my independence back! I want my birthday weekend! I even want to be at work digging through the trenches with my team. I love that! ( I will deny it if ever asked in public). I DO NOT, however, want to be here. There it's said and out in the open.

Ok so now for the return of the silver lining positive focused Sally that we all know and understand. God is gracious. He has his purpose. I have met some amazing people in the hospital and have been re-reminded of the many friends that love me and would drop their schedule at a moments notice to provide me dinner or drive 45 minutes to visit me in the hospital. I love that! I've always been a person of relationships. They mean more to me than anything else this life can provide. Also, I've been working tirelessly, and maybe God needed me to slow down and be still. To know him as Father and Orchestrator of all things. And as I assumed from last fall during the mastectomy, maybe this journey still has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with someone walking along side me. I should not be so prideful to assume this life is about me. Maybe the reason behind this journey to a new impostor boob will never be fully understood. But this I know, people have great hearts. They can be selfless, they can make life worth trudging through. If it takes boob 2.2 to remind me of this again for fear I had forgotten since last August, it is worth it. (I think!)

So let's raise a slice of cake to 38 (25) which will darken my door this weekend. And instead of mourning the plans uncelebrated (although there is still hope of propping me up in a theater seat with antibiotics), here's to a new boob the ripe old age of 5 days and to a new found remembrance of the meaning of relationships in life. I celebrate each of you! And if you need a reason to celebrate too, I offer up boob 2.2 as a reason to embrace life again. Let 2.2 remind you to accept the good and the bad as God has purpose in it all.

April 12, 2013 - 5 days post operation- Introducing the Picc Line

The picc line and infusion. Some have you have been asking, so what's better than a picture?

The line is inserted in the upper inner portion of my left arm. The ball you see is the vancomycin infusion that is infused by pressure created in the ball. Genius, huh?  The other antibiotic is administered on a portable pump. Two hours for the vancomycin, 0.5 hours for the zosyn three times a day. Then all the flushes and such and it makes for a fun morning and evening. 

Now to wrap it all in seran wrap and tape every morning so I can shower and keep it dry.

It really is a hoot and hollar around here.


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April 11, 2013 - Recap of the birth of Boob 2.2

April 11: We made it home yesterday, later than we would have hoped. By the time we got morning meds infused, waited for the surgeon to come by to pull the drain (have I mentioned how much I detest the drain but also detest the process of getting it pulled?), then waited for everything to be arranged through home health it was almost 2pm before we left the hospital. It was so great to be headed home. Just 5 days ago, on Friday, we were on our way out of town to visit my mom and our plans got derailed.

Let me back up a few days to give you the full story. Thursday afternoon I was sitting in clinic and noticed there was a spot on my breast that felt odd. You couldn't see anything on the surface, but underneath my skin there was an area about 3 inches x 3 inches that felt a good bit like a pulled muscle. But what an odd place to pull a muscle. I didn't think much of it, but as the day rolled on, with each hour it got more and more painful. Email to lead plastic surgeon where he asked me did I have fever (non), was it red or irritated (no), just muscle pain (yes), was it warm to touch. Now this is where the day had a little humor in it. For the life of me, I couldn't objectively tell if one was warmer than the other so I reached out to a coworker to "touch a fake boob" and tell me if one felt warmer than the other. She was happy to take one for the team because she knew the question was an important one, and yes in fact it was warm to touch. (and now she has that for her resume/cv). After we controlled our laughter, I emailed him back that yes one was warmer than the other. Watch and wait and call if it showed signs of redness or I got a fever. On my way home, the pain had spread from a 3x3 area to the entire boob and I was in tears trying to control the steering wheel. Got home, went to bed early and hoped rest would take care of the issue. If it was in fact a pulled muscle, I need to let it relax. Unfortunately, I tossed and turned all night because of the pain. Still no visible redness or fever.

Now it's Friday morning around 8 and Ron has already left for work. I knew I wouldn't be able to drive into work because the pain was so very bad. This was the first time i felt warm, so I checked my temperature to find I was febrile. Call to the surgeon again. "Sally, why don't you come in and let me check it out.You're right, it's probably nothing, but let's play it safe. I can fit you in a 12. See you then." I was quickly realizing I would probably need a dose of antibiotics for the fever then Ron and I could keep driving from the appointment to see my family. We packed a bag, loaded in the car and arrived at 12 for our appointment. Here we go again. As soon as I was in the office, I realized how much I had NOT missed the breast appointments. Ron helped me get into my gown where we immediately noticed the entire right breast was flaming red. (This had developed in the last hour). It was now obvious this breast "pulled muscle" was progressing by the hour. The surgeon walked in, I made him drop his dollar in the jar (just kidding!) and he examined the breast. The first thing out of his mouth. I need to admit you for cellulitis. So there you go, weekend plans ruined, and Ron and I head over to the hospital for what we thought would be about 24 hours of IV antibiotics then transition to oral antibiotics and head home. What an inconvenience for our restful weekend plans! And how did this happen????? we had such smooth sailing since October. Turned out, we are assuming that during a dental procedure I had 4 weeks ago, I must have absorbed some of the bacteria from my tooth and it settled into the Imposter. (this is documented in medical literature and the timing was perfect). The crazy thing is that I take antibiotics before every dental appointment to prevent this very thing. Well the prophylaxis let me down this go round.

We got to our room, a peripheral line was placed to get the first dose in then I was sent to the OR to get a central line placed for antibiotic administration. This was my first clue that 24 hours of IV antibiotics was not going to be my future. We got the line placed then watched as over the next 12 hours the redness continued to progress. The surgeon came by at 7pm and said he could decide in the morning if I was responding well enough to watch and wait or to if the cellulitis was progressing and I needed to go to the OR. Tails won and I was off to the OR the following morning. I remember them coming to get me and rolling me through the hospital to the OR, the OR doors opening and the nurse assigned to my case saw the tears rolling down my cheek. I don't know why now of all times it had hit me. I'm losing Boob #2! We had developed a bond, I had let it down, and now it was headed to the mortuary ( a little dramatized, but still...). I didn't know what the outcome would be. Lead Plastic Surgeon had said there would be 2 options and he wouldn't know up from down until he got inside and saw how extensive the damage was.

Option 1: The cellulitis is isolated to the surface of the skin thus leaving the implant intact. We could take the implant out- wash the area out- toss the Smooth Round High Profile Gel Implant- insert a brand new Smooth Round High Profile Gel implant - insert a drain and close me back up with stitches.

Option 2: The cellulitis is deep enough to impact  the tissue integrity and implant. Take the implant out. Leave the implant out for 4 months (hello, floppy boob), then go back in in the Fall and place an extender for several months to regrow the space, then later replace the implant.

Drum roll please- option 1 was the big winner, and therefore I was SUPER duper happy. Well as much as one could be having to do either option at all (which reminds me I need to get an updated Implant card...flashback to post last fall titled "card carrying member"). So five days later after getting nothing more than 1 hour of sleep in succession each night for five nights in a row I survived option #1, had a funeral for Boob #2, welcomed boob 2.2 to the family, had my drained removed and finally got discharged from the hospital. So here we sit at home with 3 hours of infusions in the morning, 45 minutes in the afternoon, and 3 hours again at night. take premed since you are allergic to both antibiotics, swab cap with alcohol, flush the line, hang the med (2 hours), flush the line, hang the med (0.5 hours), flush the line, insert heparin in the line, clamp the line, cheer for the success of the husband who has zero hospital experience and the wife who is used to being on the prescribing side of that medication dose. For two educated adults, we felt like brand new parents starring at umbilical cord of a new born baby wondering what in the world we were supposed to do. I've successfully navigated 1 infusion, and Ron has 1 under his belt as well. Score tied and 10 more days to go. Thankfully the home infusion nurse is coming today to take a peak at the central line which is oozing just a tad this morning. Surely not a reflection of our skills, but rather a reflection of yes there is in fact a whole in my arm with a line leading from the arm up through the top of the chest and dumping out very close to the heart. Why would it not be bleeding?

Peanut butter and jelly helps. And cut in triangles too. That was about all we could muster this morning. No worries. My friend Amy, lined up dinner deliveries for us so we can cut the chaos of our evenings in half. Sometimes you realize you are in fact an idiot when you think you are self sufficient. That revelation happened at about 11 pm last night.

April 9 and 10, 2013 - More updates

April 11: Somehow we accomplished last night. There was a learning curve. 3 hours of infusions. Had dinner at 9:15, in bed around 11. Too much! Got my infusions going this morning and now I'm bleeding from my central line. Health nurse coming to check it out. Not alot of blood at all, but some and there should be none. Maybe i should have stayed inpatient. Sure would have been easier on Ron and I. (now have new sympathy for my kiddos at work who do this around the clock) And then there is boob 2.2 that's still swollen and funny looking. Are we supposed to have football shaped boobs? The stitches gross me out. Come on 2 weeks. Come quickly.

April 10:  My kidney marker is still falling (serum crestinine 1.3) which is great news and I'm cleared to go home today. Just finished changing the dressing on my central line and now waiting for the surgeon to come take my breast drain out. Then i should be on the road. I may need one of you to bust into my bedroom once or twice each hour tonight so we feel like we are still here. Sleep deprived for sure. Wish us luck with the antibiotics. I've got my sister on speed dial.

April 10: The blessings keep coming. The nasty drain that I so very much detest is coming out today! Good riddance, sucker! Now I a chew toy to bite down on when they actually pull it. Content Truelove I think a bundle of twizzlers will do the trick just fine.

April 9: Headed home tomorrow. Nephrology doesn't have a cause for the kidney issues but they think it's short term and already improving, so we are released to our own doings tomorrow. Figuring out the med dosing tonight then we will be back to home. Wow, what was supposed to be a little check up, turned in to a 5 night hospital stay, a good bye boob #2, hello boob #2.2, welcome crazy med schedule, try to... balance that with what was already crazy, other wise normal Friday. To quote my nurse "enough is enough". So there you go. We are out of here sometime tomorrow. Then, we navigate the waters of antibiotics at home and a crazy schedule when we throw in work Whenever that comes. God is good. A big hill for me, simply part of his plans for Him. I shouldn't be grumpy. I should be 100% knowledge of this would all work out from the very beginning. And look at that, just as always, it did. And a new addition to the family (2.2) for fun. See you on the other side

April 9: Frustrated! Breath in, breath out. Trying to coordinate going home. We think everything we are doing here can be done at home, just a few logistical things to workout with home health and monitoring things to occur. I'm still trying to figure out how to fit the crazy antibiotic schedule into my life schedule. Particularly when back to work. Breath in, Breath out. One more time, breath in, breath out.

April 9: Nephrology came by - they are trying to figure out the kidney issues. They may want to do one more test and if that is the case I will stay inpatient until tomorrow. If they don't need that test, I might can go late tonight. Home health in the works and everyone between surgery, nephrology, and infectious disease is working on the plan. Cause you know I have to have a plan. The great news is that boob 2.2 is hanging in there like a champ! Now to make Ron a health care champ as well. Wonder how he will do with line care training.....I fear a line care spreadsheet will be my future if he has anything to do with it. Light-at-end-of-tunnel!

April 4-8, 2013 - Houston, we have a new problem

April 4 - So what wasn't supposed to happen, happened. Boob #2 is infected with cellulitis. The imposter is getting back at me for all the bad things I've said about it. Getting admitted to the hospital for some IV antibiotics.

April 5 - I've managed to avoid surgery this morning. He's made no promises though for tomorrow onward. My white count was a whopping 31. So that is some serious infection in there. Lead plastic surgeon wants to give both antibiotics another 12 hours to kick in, so I'm stuck here at least for today. Was hoping to go home this morning. Some improvement, but not enough for him to feel comfortable to let me do... the IV antibiotics at home. Re-evaluating this afternoon. Now would be a great time to bring boob #2 back into your prayer life. I do get a slight chuckle at how funny i might would look with just one boob. That could make for a few good moments of laughter/tears. Hugs to you and thanks for the ongoing support.

April 5- The redness had spread in the past 3 hours. Calling all prayer warriors! Please take my boob into your prayer closet.

April 5- Making the surgery decision tomorrow morning. If there is some improvement we might can watch and wait on iv antibiotics. If no improvement overnight, surgery it is. We don't know if will be one surgery and all is done or one surgery now and two more a few months down the road. Stay tuned. Keep the prayers coming.

April 6- Heads wins. Surgery at 2 (or earlier if they can slide me in). Now let's shift prayers that they can take the implant out, wash the area and culture it, then put a new one in right then. Best case scenario! You might see a grown woman in a tantrum if we pull this one out and have a 4 month waiting period. Back to your closets folks!


April 6- I woke up with a beautiful presence of God's peace. I know it's provided by Him through each of you as the whole network of relationships in my life have gone to their prayers closets on my behalf. I also know it's God given as I in and of myself have no earthly reason to be peaceful in this. Thank you, God, for the many reminders of the glory of your will and the futility of my own.


April 7- I find myself in great spirits. Family and friends gathered and laughing the morning away. These are those little blessing filled moments that polka dot the chaos and stand out in your mind years later.

April 8- There's something wrong putting something into your body fully knowing you are allergic to it. And not once, but over and over again. Very ready for this pathogen to declare itself so Boob 1 and Boob 2.2 (boob 2 met it's maker yesterday) can rest easy in their new living arrangements and we can skiddale with the antibiotics. I myself am still leasing a room at the hospital with at least 2 more day...s to go. (For the record: I'd step away from the dinner tray if I were you.) Working on home health arrangements so I can get the IV meds at home along with the comfort of my own cooking. Prayer request for today: that mom figures out how to operate the recliner. It's a hoot to say the least. I sent Ron home for some much needed rest so pray for that as well. And a secondary request: boob 2.2 remains uninfected and I make it through the antibiotic course all in one piece. Some of my lab markers are suggesting my kidneys don't like this one bit. Hanging in there all the same.

April 8- Yesterday while waiting it out in the recovery room after surgery, evidently I was intoxicated with anesthesia and somehow found myself leading 7 nurses and any number of patients in game of "gimmie an I (I!), gimme an M (M!) gimme a P (P!)...." Whatcha got? IMPLANT! Say it again! Inplant! One more time! Implant!....Yeah, that was me. Stupid me was overly excited I got the new implant instead of dead space in surgery and became uninhibited with the medication cocktail. And I followed it up with "Gimme a BOOB" once I got back to my own room. True story. Thankfully, everyone felt like playing along so I didn't look like an idiot by myself. Surely there is a note in my chart now that reads: Sally often has adverse effects to anesthesia.









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February 13, 2013 - Sally, I need to ask you a personal question

Feb. 13: Valentine's week. Boy, am I beyond grateful for being out of the dating scene. The pressure of valentine's day on a dating relationship can lead to all kinds of mishaps. Where do I take her, what do I buy her? Is a chocolate heart too over the time? A heart shaped pendant? I do NOT want to be a guy this time of year. And if he forgot the day all together, heaven forbid. I love that valentine's day fell into the background when we got married.  We celebrate with dinner out and never on valentine's days. No gifts exchanged. Just dinner out and no pressure around what to wear and what to buy (or not buy). Where is this going, you ask? Well, romance, physical intimacy, and just plain ole love and like can be a tricky thing. Let me prepare you. The transparancy is about to come out again. I promise to try and restrain myself a tad in the process, but I was so intrigued by a question my breast surgeon asked me at my last appointment. I debated on whether to ever bring this up, but alas Valentine's Day seemed the perfect time to throw it all out there. And for the record, you are not allowed to ever mention this post to me in public. So why am I sharing it? I think it's important for women (and as Ron says, husbands too) to know and that was the whole point of this blog. Prepare the unprepared.

"Sally, I need to ask you a personal question and you don't have to answer, but I feel like since you work in oncology you will understand my asking. Also, my motive is so I can know whether I need to talk to other patients about this. Did you and your husband have problems with intimacy and body image after your mastectomy?"

I will spare you the response and the dialogue that came about, but we all know I struggled with body image if you read even one of my posts from the Fall. I really was intrigued by how this physician cared enough to want to incorporate into her every day conversations with the patient how the mastectomy potentially impacts the emotional aspects of husband and wife. I strongly encouraged her to do so knowing my own vanity struggles with the imposters (See post from Aug 31). No matter how great the reconsturctive work, it is still an adjustment to something foreign. They just aren't what you've seen for 30+ years. And they are so closely tied to your identity as a female. There is definitely some time needed for mental adjustment. And some time to simply physically heal from all of the scarring and edema. I know I was not fully prepared for that. And I later found out how hard it is on the husband to not know what to expect. The surgeon confirmed my suspicions. She described relationships falling apart and women navigating this course alone. The husbands are paralyzed by what the wife is experiencing. How will the wife handle this? Will she sail through? Where are all of these emotions coming from? They just weren't prepared. I truly think there should be classes for the spouses to attend to prepare them for the highs and lows. I was so blessed that God gave me Ron who just took it all in stride, but boy do I worry about that couples that don't have a support system in place. I truly believe a mastectomy can wreck all things in it's path if allowed and not carefully prepared (prayed) for.

So if a mastectomy is in your path- ask questions. Involve yourself in dialogue with women who have navigated those waters. Have your husband ask questions. Surround yourself with people who love you unconditionally (they really do exist out there!). Find yourself a surgeon who wants to be involved in the big picture. Give yourself some time to heal. And if you just sail through it without a second thought, just consider yourself blessed.

I'm excited about valentine's week. I want to celebrate a husband who supported me without a flinch when I doubted everything about my physical self. I've still only looked in the mirror twice since the imposters joined the ranks, but the thought of it doesn't revolt me anymore. It's just something I don't prefer. Lead Plastic Surgeon truly did do his "very best work", so what do I have to lose, right? I've embraced Boob 1 and Boob 2. They have found a loving home. I haven't forgotten their predecessors, but I welcome the imposters all the same. And it's about time!

HappyValentine's week. I hope you have found a spouse even half as great as mine. (And if you're still waiting, don't settle! It's well worth the wait.)




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February 6, 2013 - Six months - For I know the plans...

February 6:  I think one of the hardest things to do in life is sit back and wait in faith or plunge forward to accomplish a goal in blind faith. This came to mind today when a former student, turned friend, turned colleague of mine sought me out for advice in a sticky situation at work. It’s so very easy to let our anxieties and stress about a situation propel us to act prematurely in efforts to control a situation out of fear of the possible outcomes. If we can just push a decision to be made, or steer involved parties into our own agenda, we can control the outcomes…sometimes for the better….sometimes for the worse. That’s the trouble.  You never know which outcome will result.  I fully believe stress serves its purpose. It can be an incredible propellant and motivator for action and change, but there is a very fine line between becoming a positive influence and a negative one that results in a plan so very carefully developed by Sally and so drastically out of the hands of God.  And therein lies the dilemma and why so many Christians find ourselves paralyzed in decision making. Is this God’s will? Is this Sally’s will? Are they one in the same? Are they in drastic conflict? We truly want what is best, but we are afraid God isn’t moving quickly enough for that to come about. Or we aren’t tuned up in our relationship with God that we miss the signs all together. We trust ourselves more than we trust him when we run head first into struggles that threaten to pierce our comfort zone.  I’m praying with expectation for my collegue to find her way as she is in a place that feels out of her comfort zone, and I’m reminded of my ongoing growth in this every day struggle.  

Almost 3 years ago, I was facing some very serious internal struggles with my career (very similar to what my friend is facing now). I had hit a rut that I didn’t feel was lining up with prioritizing family time first and also taking care of self so that I had any form of longevity in this life. More generically, those of us that are self-proclaimed over achievers in our careers too often hit rocky patches when there is a minor external  tweak to our career plan. We live in fear of everything not being perfectly planned, perfectly navigated, perfectly accomplished. The introduction of a new schedule, the conflict of life balance, the entry of a new employee that doesn’t quite fit the bill, or the exit of a beloved boss to be replaced with an unknown can send us into a tail spin desperately seeking a solution to something that hasn’t even fully declared itself as a problem. We overachieve in our careers. Unfortunately, we also overachieve in our self-driven problem solving.  Well 3 years ago, when I was faced with a decision to stay put or make some fairly drastic changes, I wanted so desperately to involve God to a level that the outcome was I wasn’t allowed to act on my own as I was so inclined to do as an instant gratifier. I knew leaving something I knew and loved would be an enormous career risk for me, and I realized I needed God to guide me at every single turn in that decision so I didn’t screw that up. So this admitted instant gratifier female stepped back and prayed with an intensity I don’t recall ever experiencing before. I prayed night and day, day and night. And the first week passed, then the second week, then the month, then 6 months, then a year, then TWO years of consistent focused praying for an outcome and guidance. I literally had to consciously restrain myself from acting. I just sat and waited. I waited for peace. I waited for clarity. I waited for the emotions to drain out of me and rational clarity to replace it. I boggled back and forth to from fear to peace until one day the peace won over.  It was absolutely one of the most rewarding experiences of my career and faith. After two years of prayer I removed all doubt of me making the decision alone and recognized God’s blessing in his guidance. I felt the nudge to act and quit my job to transition into something else. If you had asked me 10 years ago if I would have ever done that you would have gotten a very confident absolute NO!  It’s weird how goals and plans change at a moments notice. And when that happened rather unexpectedly, I knew that after such intense prayer and seeking of a plan I could have absolute faith and trust in what was to come. Even though this career change has resulted in one of the most difficult years of my career life, I still have the utmost faith that God put me here in this moment for whatever reason. I may not adore every second of it, but I can still reside in confidence that for this moment He chose this for me and that makes it more tolerable to go through the trenches and get dirty with the team while we navigate these murky waters. But the rewards aren’t limited to peace in my job decision. As a result of that experience, I have another concrete example of God’s faithfulness to prayer. And a concrete example of how choosing with God is so much more rewarding that navigating myself in fear of a potential outcome. I can have faith that even the tough road in the trenches can bring about peace and faith in His plan. It can turn an instant gratifier into a watch and wait embracer. It also can make a decision to trust God in his plans for a mastectomy so much easier to make.  I love a trickle down effect.

Tomorrow marks 6 months of post mastectomy journeys.

“For I know the plans I have for you….” Jeremiah 29:11

January 6, 2013 - The Aftermath of Death

I’m terrified of Death. There I’ve said it. It’s out there and therefore now there’s no taking it back, and it becomes a recognized flaw on me by each of you. Don’t worry, I’m admittedly full of flaws so adding one more to the stack doesn’t intimidate me all that much. I’ve aired out my very personal dirty laundry about boobs on a blog, so I can surely admit my fear of death. But there is a qualifier in that statement. It is not MY death I fear. Not even a little bit. Not even an ounce.  (Well ok, maybe an ounce, but it’s very little and if it exists it's for the nostalgia of what will be left behind).  It is YOUR death I fear.  I’m so greatly impacted by the emotions a person feels after the loss of a loved one. I detest that uncontrollable down to the core indescribable pain one feels after a person dies. The first time you sit at the dinner table and your brother isn’t beside you. The drive to the house your grandmother inhabited just hours ago. Opening the mailbox the day after the funeral to find a letter addressed not to you but to him who can no longer lift the edge of the flap to see the contents.  The first time you walk back into his bedroom and see the fleece footed pajamas your toddler wore the night before and never to again. The first time you climb into a now empty bed and feel the now cold sheets to your right where your husband lay every night for the past 32 years. Curling up on your side and He no longer there to slide over into the curve of your back to keep you warm.  You pull over his pillow and place it under you head so you can smell his aftershave one more time. You roll over on to his space to catch a sliver of a memory you shared. The most empty of empty.  I dread those moments. I loathe those moments. I even cherish those moments. But when any of us experience one of those moments, I am right there with you feeling it to my core. Almost un-naturally so.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all happy go lucky for the person that actually died. With great anticipation of a Christ-follower finding their way to God’s side, could there be anything better?  I trust God very purposely pulled that person into his arms and thus removing them from ours for a very special reason yet to be dicovered and for all the goodness that can come from loss. The person we just lost is much better off in that new perfect world than in our very fallen broken world here below. But for those of us left behind to endure the raw, unavoidable, so difficult to describe emotions that flood our every waking moment after that death, it wrecks me.  I feel it in my everything, every nook and cranny, I can feel that bone crushing pressure in the center of my chest. I feel it even as I type.

The real meat of it is I already struggle with preparing myself for the loss of my parents, my spouse, my siblings, my best friends.  It’s inevitable right? I’m pushing 40. I’ve already loss 3 grandparents. Those moments I care not to relive. I watch mothers and fathers lose their children on an ongoing frequency in my career. We live in a fallen world, and therefore we can’t avoid loss either in an expected pattern (an elderly grandparent) or unexpected (a beloved sister well before her time).  I lost one of my best friends to aggressive melanoma 2 years ago. Ann had turned 36 only a few days before leaving in her path of cherished moments 2 young children, a devoted husband, and more people impacted by her journey than you would care to count. She’s one for the books. I wager we’ve all experienced a similar loss that is now forefront in your own mind as you read this.  Her death cored me. It put a very identifiable dent in my January, my February, and my many months to come. Only about a month earlier I was brushed by the loss of an acquaintance turned friend, Ben. His sister and I had been close as children navigating the mysteries of becoming a teenager. He was in his very early 30s and sarcoma rather quickly ripped him from his family. I was lucky enough to spend time with him throughout his hospital course. God placed me there for a just a moment as that. Not for Ben’s sake, but for what Ben and his death would teach me. Initially, his death consumed me. I would wake up in the middle of the night grieving the emotions not solely of his death, but also of what the families remaining here below were experiencing at that very moment.  That crawl into the floor, curl up into a ball, intense grief of loss. Thinking at any second you will open your inbox and there will sit an email from him/her talking about your upcoming weekend plans, or you walk into the kitchen and there he/she stands digging through the pantry for chocolate chip cookies.  It's those precious moments in the aftermath that gut me and have me clinging to loved ones with an intensity I can't fully describe. I live for memories, and I love people and what they can bring to my life.  I want that to be never-ending.

Later, I realized these two deaths forced me to look at and evaluate why it touches me so deeply. I greatly struggle watching one of you grieve a loss, and I truly dread the loss of any of my own loved ones. I can lie in bed at night and that thought creep into my mind unexpectedly, and suddenly I’m in a puddle of tears, rapid heart rate, sobs of grief that consume that moment. It’s surely un-natural the level of grief I can have in anticipation of something that hasn’t even declared itself.  PLEASE DON’T DIE ON ME! There I’ve said it. The ball is now in your court! I will hold you personally responsible for my incapacitating grief if you up and die on me.  Let that be your motivation to outlive me, please.

And now there you sit reading this asking yourself “where in the world is this coming from? Why is this on a prophylactic mastectomy blog?”  Well, I think this understanding of the role of grief following the death of someone you cherish may have played a role in my decision to do something so drastic as a preventative double mastectomy when I had absolutely no signs of breast cancer.  The new data very clearly pointed out that my risk for breast cancer could easily push 90% as time when on. And once that diagnosis found its way into my now extensive medical chart, the options for treatment would be limited due to my previous exposures to radiation.  Limited treatment options = altered survival statistics.

Last summer (can I even believe it’s been six months?), Ron and I had both been emotionally rocked by the newly released data about female adolescent lymphoma survivors and their breast cancer risk and had been looking through our options. Do we roll the dice? Do we wait it out and let the cancer present itself in its own time and then undergo mastectomy and chemotherapy? No doubt, God had placed me at the right place at the very exact moment to overhear discussion among colleagues about this data. So I had to accept that God handed me this data for a very specific reason. But can we wait it out and hope we fall into the 10% of people with my history that never developed the diagnosis? (If you know you had a 90% chance of being in a car wreck today, I bet every one of you would stay home under a cozy blanket and watch a movie instead of getting into that car to grocery shop). Instead, do I dive in head first into crazy and lop off both of my boobs, spend two weeks enjoying the concave chest, and then go through the imposter replacement?  

I’m not a person driven by fear. I truly trust God and his role in my journey. He very specifically chooses what I may face in any given day, he also allows me freedom to choose, and then He works for good when my choice may have resulted in good or bad. So I had no fear that whatever we chose, we would be ok. I even leaned a little to rolling the dice, wait it out, see what happens. I’m not afraid of my own death. Been there at 16, faced that, survived, lived from then on with excitement! But then I asked Ron what we should do.  I heard him say “if it were me we were talking about, I’d wait, but we are talking about you and I don’t want to lose you prematurely.” That was it. The decision was made. I could very much see and feel the emotions of him living with me through a breast cancer diagnosis and possibly the failure of medical treatment. I saw my sister grieve down to her toes for the loss of me. She’s always held me in a special place. I saw my mom and dad have to relive something they were forced to face the possibility of 21 years ago at my lymphoma diagnosis. I knew what that feels like. I saw it in Ron’s eyes. My decision was made. These boobs were coming off and they were coming off as soon as possible before tumor cells crept into my MRI screen.

There you have it. The real meat of why I did what I did. Of course there are a few other pieces of influence rolled into there as well, but for the most part my flaw of my fear of those left behind after death led to a crazy decision that I don’t regret for a single minute. I didn’t do it only for myself. I did it for him.  I did it for my siblings and parents. I chose life over potential death for those in my personal circle. For anyone who ever loved me and for anyone who would grieve my loss.

So does that mean I can blame one of you for the chaos of my crazy August? Yeah, let’s do that. It makes me feel better.


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