Day 31: I'm sitting here in my sun-room watching the storm roll in. If you've been around me for more than an hour, you know I absolutely adore a storm. They make me all kinds of chipper. And some days you just need a little chipper in your step. They also make me reflective.
I just returned from church and on the way home I could see the thunder clouds building up. I was alone in the car (which means I drove! Woo hoo! Frightening, but accomplished) so I was able to really put some uninterrupted thought in to some things. It's rare you have quiet time to sit back and just ponder. You know how life sometimes just smacks you in the face? One of those catch you off guard, changed perspective kind of hit you in the face. I actually love when that happens. I love knowing that I can think I have life all figured out and then- smack- comes more perspective. This is where my thoughts went. This mastectomy is a whole lot of nothing when you compare it to the issues surrounding the lives of so many. Homelessness, Human Trafficking (did you know N.C. ranks in the top 10 for states involved in this heinous act?), alcoholism, divorce, chronic illnesses, the loss of a spouse, your child that won't speak to you any more. How in the world does no boobs even begin to compare to that?
Just a few days ago my coworker lost her 18 month old son (he was a twin) and today they had a funeral. How does a mother overcome this? How does she pick up her anything and get out of bed the next morning? How does she put aside such tremendous unimaginable pain and find the motivation to even fix a sandwich? How do you explain that loss to your other child who keeps asking where her twin brother is. As I sat in church tonight, just an hour before service starts, our music leader got a call that his father had passed away. No even an hour before! And where did he stand an hour later? Right there on the stage putting his heart into what he loves- music and faith. No doubt on the inside he was struggling with every piano key, but he knew his purpose in that moment was to celebrate Christ...even in death. Then there is a friend and family member who has a cancer diagnosis and finds struggle in each moment. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring in that diagnosis. Or a young women is who is caught in the desperate grip of depression. She sees nothing but haphazard despair.
So it's very clear to me as I am driving down the road that my last 31 days enduring post mastectomy is absolutely nothing in comparison. It's a blink of an eye. It's a splinter in a finger. It's trivial in comparison to the life others have on their plate. So why does it seem so devastating at times? Well, because everyone in life wants the perfect, the happy, the easy going. We don't want the hardship, the challenge, the knock you off your feet. But we all know, knock you off your feet is always right around the next bend. Or if you are like me, it's your right now.
You see, my mastectomy journey seems so intense because I can only compare it to the smooth as glass journey I was having back in May. No bumps, no bruises, just basking in the goodness of life. When things go smoothly, I sit back and enjoy the ride. When things switch modes to knock you off your feet, everything comes to a screeching halt and you take notice. You aren't comparing yourself to others, you are comparing yourself to your "before". You kick you, you scream, you pout just like anyone else. "This is not what I asked for. Things were going so well". In August I felt like I was swimming up stream. I was in tune with God's grace and His provision (and even the belief that this path was chosen specifically for me), but even trusting God's role in all of this, it didn't take away the sting. And you know what? It's not supposed to. I firmly believe God gives us emotions, and they serve a very specific purpose in every journey. Anger can lead to motivation. Sadness can morph in to reflection and advocacy. Fear can soon become motivation to find refuge in something you can't provide yourself. And then, we are able to see purpose in chaos.
I would be amiss to feel shame for my emotions of August (although I have on several occasions). Those emotions for the most part served their purpose as long as they didn't consume me. Feel what I need to feel, find purpose from those feelings, then move on with intent and focus. However, I would be hard pressed to move past these emotions without belief that God very specifically allowed this moment in time to become one of my stories. If I didn't believe that, I would be filled with hatred, bitterness, judgement, and hopelessness that consumed my every moment. Instead, because I have faith in Christ's big picture, I'm able to feel anger which purposed me into motivation to get on the other side. Sadness and confusion propelled me into empathy and advocacy (and even his blog). Fear, made me claim hope. I don't know how women do these journeys without that sense of hope?
Sometimes the turns of life just can't be explained, but when you have hope in something bigger than yourself, those unexplained moments become purposeful. Instead of sinking, you find a way to start to swim again. It may take days. It may take years. But soon you find that your desperate attempt to stay afloat becomes a doggie paddle, then a frog leg swim, and soon you are swimming the 100 meter freestyle with grace and poise. The circumstance may not have improved. You may by all earthly standards be in the pits of chaos, but your perspective changes and that pit comes with a big old basket of purpose. Happiness is based on atmosphere and circumstance. Joy is based on perspective. And I shouldn't be so naive to assume I can find that on my own.
So as I was driving home, I was thinking about how minor my mastectomy is in the whole scheme of things. But at the same time, in my own little bubble of Sally's life, it's a whopping ball of chaos. I began rolling over in my head the lyrics to a song I adore and had just heard for the umpteenth time earlier today. Here's the link if you want to give it a whirl. http://www.tr3s.com/music/artists/one-sonic-society/videos/forever-reign-819276/. I have it playing in the background as I type this. I CAN NOT DO ANY OF THIS on my own. I would not be even remotely able to pull myself out of the awfulness of a concave chest. I would still be lying in a big ole heap of balling my eyes out if it were up to my own accord. My human side would fall prey to my circumstance. And just like anyone else, I would return to happiness again as circumstances changed, however I would always be destined to return right back to despair the very next moment life took a sharp turn. Praise God, I have have something to save me from that. I have faith in Christ who offers me peace when fear cripples me. Light when darkness closes in. Joy when life turns to mastectomy. My emotions will still be there and they will be raw, but Hope gives me belief that this emotion can be temporary even when the circumstance may become permanent.
I happen to know my coworker will be able to start the healing process even though her son's death is permanent. She will feel raw. She will feel her heart rip out. She will feel every single letter of awful, but because she has Hope in Christ and knows that with every event there can be purpose, and in time, she will start to heal. Not forget, but heal. I even see her becoming an advocate as she too works in pediatric oncology. Our world is filled with mothers losing a child. Why he was taken, I have no clue. We will never know. Her circumstance is sealed and permanent. But I have the utmost assurance that with her perspective she gains from faith in Christ, she will see that God allows amazing things to come from despair if you can focus on the master plan.
If you keep searching for something in life and you keep coming up empty, if you keep falling prey to your emotions and circumstance, if you can't find purpose in trials, try running in to the arms of something bigger than yourself. Let Christ give you purpose. See if that gives you new perspective and the motivation to wait it out with realization that something incredible can be happening at the same time as despair.
Thank you "Forever Reign" (the song above) for reminding me of something I've known all along but need to hear again on occasion. Even chaos loses it's sting in the promise of hope. I want to be a reflection of that in a mastectomy that stretched me to my core. It is no longer the month of May, but where do we find purpose if it is always smooth sailing.
And thank you, whoever is reading these updates, for allowing me to not only show the triumphs and humors of this mastectomy, but for allowing my raw struggles and thoughts well.
Maybe a visit to the mirror long over due. If God can bring Hope in the crazy of life, I can take a peek in a silly little mirror.
____________________________________________________
Lyrics for "Forever Reign": Hillsong Music
Sept 7, 2012 - Day # 30 - Card carrying member
Day 30: Have I mentioned before that I have an Implant ID Card I'm supposed to safe guard? Bet you didn't know that. Seriously, I have an ID card that presents all the "stats" of my wonderful new impostors.
Side A:
Patient Name: Sally McCollum
Date of surgery: 8/20/12
Doctor's Name: Lead Plastic Surgeon (name changed to protect the guilty)
Breast Implant Size: 800 grams
Final Fill volume
Side B:
Implant ID Card- This device is a tracked device
Left: Smooth Round High Profile Gel (High profile makes me giggle. And they are anything BUT smooth!)
Lot #: XXXXX
Right: Smooth Round High Profile Gel
Lot #: XXXXX
This strikes me as hysterical. What exactly am I supposed to do with this Implant ID card???
"Hello, Officer. I'm sorry I was speeding. Here's my implant ID card and my official car registration." Insert big grin and hope for the best? Or maybe it's like tthis. Cashier: "That will be $42.37 for the bra and matching panty." and then Me: "Do you offer discounts to implant ID card holders?"
So here it sits on my table with me wondering what in the world am I to do with it. I could frame it and mount it in the hallway for all to see. Card on the left, up close picture of impostors on the right. All highlighted with focused frame lighting. Would you enjoy that as your house decor? These implants are high profile after all. They deserve some sort of in-your-face placement. Rolling my eyes. After further investigation I find out implants are considered "devices" and tracked by the FDA in case of a recall. Recall! Can't you imagine how that would play out. I wonder if they call you and say they are shipping news ones in the mail to arrive on Friday. In the box you find a shipping return label to send back the recalled boobs. They better provide free shipping! Or maybe I show up at Lead Plastic Surgeon's office for an exchange. All these ladies lined up with Smooth High Profile Implants Lot # XXXXX waiting for their switch out. Kind of hope there is a recall just so I can see how that unfolds.
And did I mention that this isn't a one time fit all kind of Implant? Lead Plastic Surgeon said I am going to need to make modifications as time goes on. To which I asked what time frame are you talk about? 20 yrs? 30 yrs? "Sally, more like 1 or 2 yrs. And initially maybe in a few weeks or months."
Side A:
Patient Name: Sally McCollum
Date of surgery: 8/20/12
Doctor's Name: Lead Plastic Surgeon (name changed to protect the guilty)
Breast Implant Size: 800 grams
Final Fill volume
Side B:
Implant ID Card- This device is a tracked device
Left: Smooth Round High Profile Gel (High profile makes me giggle. And they are anything BUT smooth!)
Lot #: XXXXX
Right: Smooth Round High Profile Gel
Lot #: XXXXX
This strikes me as hysterical. What exactly am I supposed to do with this Implant ID card???
"Hello, Officer. I'm sorry I was speeding. Here's my implant ID card and my official car registration." Insert big grin and hope for the best? Or maybe it's like tthis. Cashier: "That will be $42.37 for the bra and matching panty." and then Me: "Do you offer discounts to implant ID card holders?"
So here it sits on my table with me wondering what in the world am I to do with it. I could frame it and mount it in the hallway for all to see. Card on the left, up close picture of impostors on the right. All highlighted with focused frame lighting. Would you enjoy that as your house decor? These implants are high profile after all. They deserve some sort of in-your-face placement. Rolling my eyes. After further investigation I find out implants are considered "devices" and tracked by the FDA in case of a recall. Recall! Can't you imagine how that would play out. I wonder if they call you and say they are shipping news ones in the mail to arrive on Friday. In the box you find a shipping return label to send back the recalled boobs. They better provide free shipping! Or maybe I show up at Lead Plastic Surgeon's office for an exchange. All these ladies lined up with Smooth High Profile Implants Lot # XXXXX waiting for their switch out. Kind of hope there is a recall just so I can see how that unfolds.
And did I mention that this isn't a one time fit all kind of Implant? Lead Plastic Surgeon said I am going to need to make modifications as time goes on. To which I asked what time frame are you talk about? 20 yrs? 30 yrs? "Sally, more like 1 or 2 yrs. And initially maybe in a few weeks or months."
Day # 13 - Princess Sally (posted out of order)
Some positive comical vibes to keep us going: Ron and my sister have resorted to calling me "princess sally".
(no irony lost on me since the name Sally actually does mean "princess"). I'm thankful my mom has stuck with plain ole sally. I guess a woman who actually needs upwards of 11 pillows in the bed to get comfortable deserves a little name calling. Of note, I only require two under normal circumstances. Add to those 11 pillows a face mask and ear plugs, and I'm a slumbering site to behold. Picture me sitting straight up in a chair to eat dinner. Such is the position to be achieved for sleeping. But I'm adamant about sleeping in the bed for normalcy (vs the chair). But seriously, what is normal about that position? It's the only way I can keep the pressure of the drains at a minimal. No doubt an intruder would be frightened out of his shoes if he walked in to find that scene in the middle of the night. But princess Sally needs her beauty sleep just like the next gal.
Today, we washed my hair in the kitchen sink. A dining room chair. Two pillows to sit on. Three towels. Ron's entire arm under my head for cushion- his arm more wet than my head. Mom up to her elbows in soap suds. Oliver, the cat, trying to partake in the festivities. Then comes the blow dryer and 3 brushes.
Shall we start talking about pajamas and sponge baths? In the past 5 days, I've been through as many if not more sets of pajamas. A gal deserves her comfort right? And what is more comfy than fresh pjs? Then there is the munchies every two hours with pain meds. So three title "her highness" may carry some merit, I suppose. Or we can blame the medications.
Wonder how shoulder massages can be worked in to the daily schedule?
"Ron, where are you???? I have an idea...
(no irony lost on me since the name Sally actually does mean "princess"). I'm thankful my mom has stuck with plain ole sally. I guess a woman who actually needs upwards of 11 pillows in the bed to get comfortable deserves a little name calling. Of note, I only require two under normal circumstances. Add to those 11 pillows a face mask and ear plugs, and I'm a slumbering site to behold. Picture me sitting straight up in a chair to eat dinner. Such is the position to be achieved for sleeping. But I'm adamant about sleeping in the bed for normalcy (vs the chair). But seriously, what is normal about that position? It's the only way I can keep the pressure of the drains at a minimal. No doubt an intruder would be frightened out of his shoes if he walked in to find that scene in the middle of the night. But princess Sally needs her beauty sleep just like the next gal.
Today, we washed my hair in the kitchen sink. A dining room chair. Two pillows to sit on. Three towels. Ron's entire arm under my head for cushion- his arm more wet than my head. Mom up to her elbows in soap suds. Oliver, the cat, trying to partake in the festivities. Then comes the blow dryer and 3 brushes.
Shall we start talking about pajamas and sponge baths? In the past 5 days, I've been through as many if not more sets of pajamas. A gal deserves her comfort right? And what is more comfy than fresh pjs? Then there is the munchies every two hours with pain meds. So three title "her highness" may carry some merit, I suppose. Or we can blame the medications.
Wonder how shoulder massages can be worked in to the daily schedule?
"Ron, where are you???? I have an idea...
Day # 7 - Transparency Promised (posted out of order)
Day 7: I'm making a difference. See, every journey has it's purpose we just have to wait it out. Even if one life is changed or impacted, our purpose is served. Often the difference is not for ourselves, but for some one on the periphery. Someone you wouldn't even imagine would be impacted. Tears streaming down my face. "Take the boobs, Lord, if it leads to a changed life, a changed heart, a changed medical practice, empathy, a better relationship...". I promise that makes all if this worth it. So many of you have emailed me to keep the posts coming because it's impacting your day. I was simply trying too get the benefit of 100+ psychiatrists without paying the bill. But hey, if it helps you too. Let's go for it!
Ok, so there is my new focus -100% transparency for my own processing, but also because so many of you have contacted me as to how my transparency is helping your own journey. Well, perfect timing ladies, because today of all days, I am a wreck!
Poor Ron and mom had to suffer through it last night. I was a the year old tantrum, an inconsolable 37 year old frustrated female. It was awful on my own account. Don't get me wrong, i fully trust God and his plan, but sometimes the "going through it" just catches up with your emotions. He gives us emotions for a reason, they are very therapeutic, but boy did mine go haywire.
Flash back to yesterday afternoon when I was feeling so great. Great wasn't something I had felt in seven days. Very far from great. So when there was a single flash of feeling decent I latched on to it with a grip of an iron man. I was up and about. I visited with a friend, I took a long walk, I watched my mom vacuum (hey, it took some effort instructing her) and I took in all the sights of the living room. Reminder, I was running low on pain meds so I also spent the day rationing.
Ok, so there is my new focus -100% transparency for my own processing, but also because so many of you have contacted me as to how my transparency is helping your own journey. Well, perfect timing ladies, because today of all days, I am a wreck!
Poor Ron and mom had to suffer through it last night. I was a the year old tantrum, an inconsolable 37 year old frustrated female. It was awful on my own account. Don't get me wrong, i fully trust God and his plan, but sometimes the "going through it" just catches up with your emotions. He gives us emotions for a reason, they are very therapeutic, but boy did mine go haywire.
Flash back to yesterday afternoon when I was feeling so great. Great wasn't something I had felt in seven days. Very far from great. So when there was a single flash of feeling decent I latched on to it with a grip of an iron man. I was up and about. I visited with a friend, I took a long walk, I watched my mom vacuum (hey, it took some effort instructing her) and I took in all the sights of the living room. Reminder, I was running low on pain meds so I also spent the day rationing.
Sept 6, 2012 - Day # 29 - Even I don't believe it.
Day 29: By calendar dates, tomorrow marks one month since the mean ole mastectomy joined my list of "I have dones". I'd much prefer adding sky diving or dog sledding to the list (everyone knows how much I adore a sled dog!), but alas...mastectomy it is. It certainly wasn't on my "top 10" to-dos. But life doesn't always come in top 10s. I now join a glorious club though and am honored to be part of the amazing women who also chose life over the other possibles. I'm in excellent company. Some prophylactic as I, others as a life saving choice in response to a diagnosis. Maybe there should be a mastectomy wall of fame honoring some of those women. Can you picture that? If we can honor a baseball player making millions of dollars a year (really?), why not the face of these women fighting for their lives for free? I shall create this wall of fame in my head. Better yet, feel free to use the comment section below to honor someone you want on this wall. What is better than honoring a struggle or a triumph?
I actually don't personally know anyone else who did this prophylactically, especially someone who was Brca gene negative as I was, so I will start the wall of fame with Sarah Steegar Delaney. She's on facebook, look her up to see picture of what courage looks like.
I actually don't personally know anyone else who did this prophylactically, especially someone who was Brca gene negative as I was, so I will start the wall of fame with Sarah Steegar Delaney. She's on facebook, look her up to see picture of what courage looks like.
Sept 5, 2012 - Change in appearance
I easily bore with colors and designs, so I decided to switch the blog appearance up for a bit. Don't worry, you have the right site. Just me needing some more variety in this journey. If I had to change my appearance, why not the blog? Smile.
Have I mentioned my four walls I live in every day. I'm coming up with all kinds of "home improvement" ideas while being on house arrest. But I have a surprise for you regarding "track tryouts" stay tuned.
Have I mentioned my four walls I live in every day. I'm coming up with all kinds of "home improvement" ideas while being on house arrest. But I have a surprise for you regarding "track tryouts" stay tuned.
Sept 5, 2012 - Day # 28 - Driving Mrs. Sally
Day 28: I guess I have grown accustomed to a chauffer. It's now a comfort zone. Yesterday, I sat in the front seat for the first time, and I was freaked out the entire time. The shoulder belt is NOT my friend. It's bad news bears. It's out to get me I'm sure. I have this irrational fear the entire time Ron is driving that we will be in an accident with me being thrown into the belt crushing the imposters. Today, I want to choose the back seat again. Would you think bad of me for this backward slide? Is there a 12 step program for back seat riders anonymous? I'm bigger than that, right? And somehow I'm supposed to transition from my back seat haven to that of driver! EEEEKKK!
See, my fear is not in the driving itself. It is like riding a bicycle. It is the pot hole that is my enemy. The speed bump. The pea size pebble that once traversed by my wheel sends chaos through my chest.
My family has chuckled at the choice words that leave my lips at the sight of a upcoming bridge or pavement change. FUSELLI PASTA! CRAWFISH STEW! OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH! And maybe on occassion something a tad stronger. Maybe. It doesn't help that the entire ride from shutting the door to arriving at said location I'm sitting there as stiff as a mummy. Put a piece of coal under my armpit and no doubt in an hour you will find a diamond. I'm too afraid of each little bump and jelly mold giggle that I can't do anything but clinch.
I want to conquer the seat belt! I want to tame the clinch! People, work is 12 days away. Surely! If I could just get some of the chest tightness and swelling to lessen then I wouldn't require so much clinching and bracing at every driving moment. It almost takes the joy out of the destination. Almost (these four walls are pretty motivating)! I should probably acquire a "student driver" sign so fellow drivers will find pity on my 25mph car stroll.
First, I have to work up some nerve. For the record, I still have yet to hug my mirror so there is a precedent for "delay".
See, my fear is not in the driving itself. It is like riding a bicycle. It is the pot hole that is my enemy. The speed bump. The pea size pebble that once traversed by my wheel sends chaos through my chest.
My family has chuckled at the choice words that leave my lips at the sight of a upcoming bridge or pavement change. FUSELLI PASTA! CRAWFISH STEW! OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH! And maybe on occassion something a tad stronger. Maybe. It doesn't help that the entire ride from shutting the door to arriving at said location I'm sitting there as stiff as a mummy. Put a piece of coal under my armpit and no doubt in an hour you will find a diamond. I'm too afraid of each little bump and jelly mold giggle that I can't do anything but clinch.
I want to conquer the seat belt! I want to tame the clinch! People, work is 12 days away. Surely! If I could just get some of the chest tightness and swelling to lessen then I wouldn't require so much clinching and bracing at every driving moment. It almost takes the joy out of the destination. Almost (these four walls are pretty motivating)! I should probably acquire a "student driver" sign so fellow drivers will find pity on my 25mph car stroll.
First, I have to work up some nerve. For the record, I still have yet to hug my mirror so there is a precedent for "delay".
Sept 4, 2012 - Day # 27 - Denial, it's what's for dinner.
Day 27: I didn't make the track team. I gave it a good old sally try, but those exercises are not fun and quite the strain on little pectoral muscle that just 13 days or so ago was filleted and glued and stretched. It loudly screameth outeth in retaliation. Hanging my head low. I desperately wanted to please the coach (aka. surgeon). But today is a new day, right? I have practice in a about an hour, but I decided to post instead and put you, my faithful supporters, first. Laughing, ok well I just wanted to delay the scar splitting implant popping exercises a bit more. What's another hour?
I did however have a few successes yesterday. Blue ribbons all around! Almost.
1) I, the very woman who has had nothing but pajamas on for 27 days (with the exception of one outing to church where I feared God smirk on the PJs), put on Jeans and a blouse for an outing with Ron! Wooo hallelujah hooo! And they actually fit! This was a bit of a fear of mine and maybe a small source of delay in switching from the PJs. You know denial is a handy tool of mine, but I'm working on lessening my denial arsenal. More on that soon.
2) I washed AND dried my hair! It was an awful rat's nest in the end, but hey, it was dry.
3) I put on makeup.
4) I once again applied deodorant.
5) I fixed myself a bowl of cereal.
6) Went on a date. It was short with just dinner out, but it was a date all the same. We wanted to go to a movie, but I didn't have it in me. I'm working up to that. So we came back home to watch a dvd here. By the way, at this current place in my journey, I'm still too emotional to make it through "The Last King of Scotland". Wowsers, I was a wreck! I hurt from head to toe by the end of that.
Now this whole shower, dry, makeup, clothes process only took me about 2.5, maybe 3, hours but still it got done and there were no tears! I somehow have to find a way to knock that process down to about 45 mins in the next 10 days in prep for going back to work, but you have to start somewhere.
Let me go back to the movie. I've learned something new about myself. And I quote Ron. I am now a "wuss". And let me tell you that is a drastic change from the pre-mastectomy me. I can't explain it, it just is. Where I used to be rock solid in tolerating blood and goo, I now cringe at the sight of a kid getting a vaccination. I see a needle and I freak out (already seeing red lights for my clinic job I am returning to soon)! I see a leg being amputated on the screen, I hurt to my core with physical pain. Last night, during the movie, I kept grabbing my sternum in pain.
What I am learning is that my subconscious anguish is being manifested in physical reactions. I saw this start back in July when I was approaching my surgery date. I would wake up in the middle of the night with horrible shooting pains running down each leg, then 10 second later the elbow, 10 seconds later my sternum. They hurt so bad I would scream out grabbing this and that. Always migrating and never a physical explanation. This is the first time in my life I've fully understood how much the mind plays a roll in health. I have several examples in July of sitting working on a project or more embarrassingly sitting in a staff meeting and with absolutely zero notice bursting out into uncontrollable sobbing. Thankfully, this has resolved. But I started realizing how much this decision to undergo mastectomy had wrecked my subconscious thinking. This was brand spanking new to me. I'm the one you want in an emergency. I'm the one you want making tough medical decisions with you. I'm the rational one! Well, boy did that change for about two months. I see that rational side coming back, and I have hopes I will return to that baseline steady has served me so well. It's right around the corner! Anyway, its just amazing how much chaos can impact your everything. I think everyone was amazed at how much this impacted me. We didn't expect that. But I was a slobbering and blubbering saint bernard at the sight of my mastectomy. Rock solid Sally was no where in sight. Believe me, I searched.
And that brings me to needing to admit something else. A failure of yesterday. You should see me rolling my eyes and scrunching up my face as I type this. It's pitiful really. I want to be a better person than this. I see the absurdity of my delay. It's been 27 days for goodness sake. You know how I mentioned in yesterday's update that i was going to embrace the mirror? (Maybe all of you forgot that and I am off the hook, but doubtful.) I gave myself 12 hours to go stand in front of the mirror and actually look at the impostors and their scars. (Reminder, I've yet to see these implants in all their glory staring back at me in a mirror, I've only had the vantage point of looking down. I have no idea what they really look like). Well, I didn't reach my goal. I tried, twice in fact, and just couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't know what I am so afraid of. This is not me. I'm never afraid to face life. But these impostor boobs have me all freaked out! If I don't look, they aren't so bad. If I look, they are my reality. I think deep down I am waiting for them to get into their final state before I commit to knowing them personally. I'd rather them just be an architectural work in progress that I ignore until the finalized building passes building code inspection. Lead Plastic Surgeon told me it will take several weeks before everything settles out, swelling gone, lumpiness less lumpy, divots filled in, pain resolved, remotely looking normal. I'm a sap. I'm the queen of mastectomy denial.
THIS is my weakness in this whole journey. I just don't want these impostors to be mine! I want back my, flawed as they were, former God-given tenants. I want back their asymmetry. I want back their 37 year old sag (well, maybe). They were mine, and I had plans to grow old with them. They knew me and I knew them. We had a great thing going! Breaking up is hard to do. I mourn my pitiful, not at all worthy, flawed boobs. There was no drama there. God had a different fate for that relationship, I trust that fate, but I still mourn the old. I mourn last May when I was none the wiser before picking up a medical abstract. I mourn the days of not thinking about a boob for even one second of my day.
My thoughts and reactions seem dramatic. They are. I imagine some women sore through this prophylactic journey with flying colors. Not even a second thought. In surgery today, embracing new boobs tomorrow! I hope that for them with everything in me. I wish that for me. Boy, do I. But here I sit...adjusting. Better today than yesterday though. So there is a trend!
Does it count that I do like having not so large "hands"? Oh yeah, then there is a 5% breast cancer risk. Priceless.
I did however have a few successes yesterday. Blue ribbons all around! Almost.
1) I, the very woman who has had nothing but pajamas on for 27 days (with the exception of one outing to church where I feared God smirk on the PJs), put on Jeans and a blouse for an outing with Ron! Wooo hallelujah hooo! And they actually fit! This was a bit of a fear of mine and maybe a small source of delay in switching from the PJs. You know denial is a handy tool of mine, but I'm working on lessening my denial arsenal. More on that soon.
2) I washed AND dried my hair! It was an awful rat's nest in the end, but hey, it was dry.
3) I put on makeup.
4) I once again applied deodorant.
5) I fixed myself a bowl of cereal.
6) Went on a date. It was short with just dinner out, but it was a date all the same. We wanted to go to a movie, but I didn't have it in me. I'm working up to that. So we came back home to watch a dvd here. By the way, at this current place in my journey, I'm still too emotional to make it through "The Last King of Scotland". Wowsers, I was a wreck! I hurt from head to toe by the end of that.
Now this whole shower, dry, makeup, clothes process only took me about 2.5, maybe 3, hours but still it got done and there were no tears! I somehow have to find a way to knock that process down to about 45 mins in the next 10 days in prep for going back to work, but you have to start somewhere.
Let me go back to the movie. I've learned something new about myself. And I quote Ron. I am now a "wuss". And let me tell you that is a drastic change from the pre-mastectomy me. I can't explain it, it just is. Where I used to be rock solid in tolerating blood and goo, I now cringe at the sight of a kid getting a vaccination. I see a needle and I freak out (already seeing red lights for my clinic job I am returning to soon)! I see a leg being amputated on the screen, I hurt to my core with physical pain. Last night, during the movie, I kept grabbing my sternum in pain.
What I am learning is that my subconscious anguish is being manifested in physical reactions. I saw this start back in July when I was approaching my surgery date. I would wake up in the middle of the night with horrible shooting pains running down each leg, then 10 second later the elbow, 10 seconds later my sternum. They hurt so bad I would scream out grabbing this and that. Always migrating and never a physical explanation. This is the first time in my life I've fully understood how much the mind plays a roll in health. I have several examples in July of sitting working on a project or more embarrassingly sitting in a staff meeting and with absolutely zero notice bursting out into uncontrollable sobbing. Thankfully, this has resolved. But I started realizing how much this decision to undergo mastectomy had wrecked my subconscious thinking. This was brand spanking new to me. I'm the one you want in an emergency. I'm the one you want making tough medical decisions with you. I'm the rational one! Well, boy did that change for about two months. I see that rational side coming back, and I have hopes I will return to that baseline steady has served me so well. It's right around the corner! Anyway, its just amazing how much chaos can impact your everything. I think everyone was amazed at how much this impacted me. We didn't expect that. But I was a slobbering and blubbering saint bernard at the sight of my mastectomy. Rock solid Sally was no where in sight. Believe me, I searched.
And that brings me to needing to admit something else. A failure of yesterday. You should see me rolling my eyes and scrunching up my face as I type this. It's pitiful really. I want to be a better person than this. I see the absurdity of my delay. It's been 27 days for goodness sake. You know how I mentioned in yesterday's update that i was going to embrace the mirror? (Maybe all of you forgot that and I am off the hook, but doubtful.) I gave myself 12 hours to go stand in front of the mirror and actually look at the impostors and their scars. (Reminder, I've yet to see these implants in all their glory staring back at me in a mirror, I've only had the vantage point of looking down. I have no idea what they really look like). Well, I didn't reach my goal. I tried, twice in fact, and just couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't know what I am so afraid of. This is not me. I'm never afraid to face life. But these impostor boobs have me all freaked out! If I don't look, they aren't so bad. If I look, they are my reality. I think deep down I am waiting for them to get into their final state before I commit to knowing them personally. I'd rather them just be an architectural work in progress that I ignore until the finalized building passes building code inspection. Lead Plastic Surgeon told me it will take several weeks before everything settles out, swelling gone, lumpiness less lumpy, divots filled in, pain resolved, remotely looking normal. I'm a sap. I'm the queen of mastectomy denial.
THIS is my weakness in this whole journey. I just don't want these impostors to be mine! I want back my, flawed as they were, former God-given tenants. I want back their asymmetry. I want back their 37 year old sag (well, maybe). They were mine, and I had plans to grow old with them. They knew me and I knew them. We had a great thing going! Breaking up is hard to do. I mourn my pitiful, not at all worthy, flawed boobs. There was no drama there. God had a different fate for that relationship, I trust that fate, but I still mourn the old. I mourn last May when I was none the wiser before picking up a medical abstract. I mourn the days of not thinking about a boob for even one second of my day.
My thoughts and reactions seem dramatic. They are. I imagine some women sore through this prophylactic journey with flying colors. Not even a second thought. In surgery today, embracing new boobs tomorrow! I hope that for them with everything in me. I wish that for me. Boy, do I. But here I sit...adjusting. Better today than yesterday though. So there is a trend!
Does it count that I do like having not so large "hands"? Oh yeah, then there is a 5% breast cancer risk. Priceless.
Sept 3, 2012 - Day # 26 - Knocked out by an implant
Day #26 track tryout highlight: About to tinkle on myself I'm laughing so hard.
Exercise #2 says to pull on rope until you feel slight pull at incision scar. My scars are completely numb as most reconstruction boobs have no nerves and thus no feeling. If you were in the room you would have heard me yell out: "Ron, whatever you do, do NOT stand in front of me! I might pop an incision and an implant fly out and nail you in the forehead! Run for your life!"
Well, maybe you had to be there.
Well, maybe you had to be there.
Sept 3, 2012 - Day # 26 - Try out report
Day 26 Track tryout report: I didn't even get through exercise #1 successfully "Sally, take the bench." Rolling my eyes. Stay tuned for more sports highlights.
Sept 3, 2012 - Day # 26 - Track Team Tryouts (as if)
Day 26: Today is supposed to be one of my solo days. Ron is here, but I get the impression I'm supposed to pretend he is not. Scarey!!! We are prepping the placement of things. Moving high to low, and pulling things from back to front. But it just seems all too early. I'm awful at failure.
I'm a bit more sore this morning but want to attribute that to the car ride yesterday (I felt like a jelly ...
I'm a bit more sore this morning but want to attribute that to the car ride yesterday (I felt like a jelly ...
mold shaking and jiggling in the back seat), but there may be some nervous pain rolled up into the big picture.
When Ron came to pick me up yesterday from my mom's, we both instinctively leaned in for a big squeeze your innards out kind of hug. I adore those. I crave those. I advocate for those. Try it! Now! Find a stranger and squeeze their insides out! (Inquire about personal space rules first though particularly if you are on the job today.) About two inches before the embrace, a quick stop of recognition of the mistake we were about to make. Then, a soggy ole frustrated let down. I miss those hugs! I'm ready to be able to run in for the romantic tragedy kind of sweep you of your feet, whirl you around, follow up with a smooch kind of hug! Ok,I admit we have never whirled each other around, but still. It's been four weeks since I've done a worthy hug with anyone! That's like neglect. Call in the law, fill out paper work, remove me from the household kind of neglect. For both parties involved. These scars get in the way of life! They sure know how to rain on a coming home party. They are bothersome. They ruin all kinds of intent.
I wanted to mattress shop...alas, I can't lie down flat to test them out. I need to dress shop for an event in October...well that's impossible when you can't clothe yourself or put on a normal bra. I want to go to the movies...can i even sit an hour in a chair I can't reposition? I want to dress in normal clothes and actual fix my hair...guess what, the dryer is too heavy and my reach restricted so I can't touch the top of my head. Hello business in the front, but unfortunately a drug party in the back.(Flashback to mullet descriptions of the 90s).
I have allot of "I wants" right now. I feel a little burned out. I'm eager to see some lumpiness resolve. I need some Sally time. Please, oh please let driving be right around the next corner. I would even drive to the proctologist if that allowed me to drive! (Hint of desperation.)
All that said, it's a little frightening coming to this Monday where I'm supposed to start the rehab exercises. No joke lost in me that it's Labor Day! Dare I postpone to tomorrow?!?! But today is the try out day. Tomorrow, Ron is back at work, mom at her home a few cities away, and me finding out if I have a chance of making the team. (insert the butterflies of 10 mins before hearing your name at track tryouts...however it would never be track for me. There would have to be a doberman chasing me to pull a run out of these knees.) How can doing every day tasks elicit such an emotion? Because there's always the fear of failure in life. Sitting on the bench desperately wanting to say this is the day. Not meeting coach's expectations. Honestly, not even knowing the expectations other than you have two weeks from today to "be well". Well let me tell you something, Mr. Lead surgeon!!! "I don't yet feel well!!!!" But boy do I crave it!
Raising a glass to giving it my best shot! I'm actually going to look in the mirror today. I haven't done that even once since the reconstruction. I've been very purposeful about not doing that. I actually have no idea what the big picture looks like. I've never once seen the reconstruction scars. I've glanced down to put on a shirt or access a specific pain, but I've yet to see their all amazing lumpy, discolored, unsettled glory looking back at me in a reflection. It's absurd that I haven't looked. Denial is a very effective technique for a bit, but boy will it destroy some things.
Working up my nerve...today, I will embrace the mirror and all it's reflections! Poor mirror, it no doubt feels my same hug neglect. But the silver lining is I have 12 hours to get this done and it still be called today. But I wouldn't watch the clock if I were you.
When Ron came to pick me up yesterday from my mom's, we both instinctively leaned in for a big squeeze your innards out kind of hug. I adore those. I crave those. I advocate for those. Try it! Now! Find a stranger and squeeze their insides out! (Inquire about personal space rules first though particularly if you are on the job today.) About two inches before the embrace, a quick stop of recognition of the mistake we were about to make. Then, a soggy ole frustrated let down. I miss those hugs! I'm ready to be able to run in for the romantic tragedy kind of sweep you of your feet, whirl you around, follow up with a smooch kind of hug! Ok,I admit we have never whirled each other around, but still. It's been four weeks since I've done a worthy hug with anyone! That's like neglect. Call in the law, fill out paper work, remove me from the household kind of neglect. For both parties involved. These scars get in the way of life! They sure know how to rain on a coming home party. They are bothersome. They ruin all kinds of intent.
I wanted to mattress shop...alas, I can't lie down flat to test them out. I need to dress shop for an event in October...well that's impossible when you can't clothe yourself or put on a normal bra. I want to go to the movies...can i even sit an hour in a chair I can't reposition? I want to dress in normal clothes and actual fix my hair...guess what, the dryer is too heavy and my reach restricted so I can't touch the top of my head. Hello business in the front, but unfortunately a drug party in the back.(Flashback to mullet descriptions of the 90s).
I have allot of "I wants" right now. I feel a little burned out. I'm eager to see some lumpiness resolve. I need some Sally time. Please, oh please let driving be right around the next corner. I would even drive to the proctologist if that allowed me to drive! (Hint of desperation.)
All that said, it's a little frightening coming to this Monday where I'm supposed to start the rehab exercises. No joke lost in me that it's Labor Day! Dare I postpone to tomorrow?!?! But today is the try out day. Tomorrow, Ron is back at work, mom at her home a few cities away, and me finding out if I have a chance of making the team. (insert the butterflies of 10 mins before hearing your name at track tryouts...however it would never be track for me. There would have to be a doberman chasing me to pull a run out of these knees.) How can doing every day tasks elicit such an emotion? Because there's always the fear of failure in life. Sitting on the bench desperately wanting to say this is the day. Not meeting coach's expectations. Honestly, not even knowing the expectations other than you have two weeks from today to "be well". Well let me tell you something, Mr. Lead surgeon!!! "I don't yet feel well!!!!" But boy do I crave it!
Raising a glass to giving it my best shot! I'm actually going to look in the mirror today. I haven't done that even once since the reconstruction. I've been very purposeful about not doing that. I actually have no idea what the big picture looks like. I've never once seen the reconstruction scars. I've glanced down to put on a shirt or access a specific pain, but I've yet to see their all amazing lumpy, discolored, unsettled glory looking back at me in a reflection. It's absurd that I haven't looked. Denial is a very effective technique for a bit, but boy will it destroy some things.
Working up my nerve...today, I will embrace the mirror and all it's reflections! Poor mirror, it no doubt feels my same hug neglect. But the silver lining is I have 12 hours to get this done and it still be called today. But I wouldn't watch the clock if I were you.
Sept 2, 2012 - Day # 25 - Hurdles
Day 25 additions: This morning, I lined up my hurdles of what still had to be done.
Put on my clothes BY MYSELF.
Go to the bathroom BY MYSELF.
Apply deodorant (it's the little things in life).
Dry my own hair.
Use my right arm to scratch my left elbow.
Fix myself lunch.
Fix my family dinner.
Lift something heavier than 3 pounds.
...
Put on my clothes BY MYSELF.
Go to the bathroom BY MYSELF.
Apply deodorant (it's the little things in life).
Dry my own hair.
Use my right arm to scratch my left elbow.
Fix myself lunch.
Fix my family dinner.
Lift something heavier than 3 pounds.
...
Drive ANYWHERE from here to there.
Sit at a desk comfortably for at least an hour.
Sleep in a normal Sally position.
Put on something other than pajamas (for the love of mankind and fashion entrepreneurs everywhere).
Return to work (sigh).
Accept my boobs as mine and loving every lump and bump.
And anything else I'm forgetting.
Well, I am happy to report that yesterday I went to the potty all by my little lonesome. Mom must be beaming with pride that I'm now potty trained. All of you mothers of toddlers, I now understand your plight. But do I get a sticker or coin for my piggy bank. No!
This morning, I myself took off my sleep shirt and put on my very own tshirt for the day. (Don't tell Lead Plastic Surgeon. He wanted me to wait a few more days to tackle this.) Insert sticker chart again.
And my neighbors are ecstatic to report Sally's underarm is now boasting a brand new aroma of chamomile and lavender. The entire neighborhood is no doubt celebrating my triumph. I may be able to now resume dinner out with pals. (You know who you are....Sarah, Kristy, Leigh, GNO folks.)
This coming week, I'm going to be on my own during the day (that's our goal anyway), so I imagine there may be a breakfast and lunch preparation in my future. Premade guacamole and chips, anyone? Remember, no judgment.
Drying my hair is a huge motivator. Thus nappy mane that only slightly resembles hair had become my new trade mark. And I'm aware hats are only so becoming after 3 weeks. Ask Ron.
So, I have my goals cut out for me. Updates from the boob front: the pain is now tolerable. The stiffness not do overwhelming, and the swelling now enhancing instead of distracting. But the lumpiness still an eye sore. Will I ever get used to the appearance?
Appt still set for Wednesday of next week. Wonder if I will get to be the driver. Doubtful, but maybe. Hope, right?
Sit at a desk comfortably for at least an hour.
Sleep in a normal Sally position.
Put on something other than pajamas (for the love of mankind and fashion entrepreneurs everywhere).
Return to work (sigh).
Accept my boobs as mine and loving every lump and bump.
And anything else I'm forgetting.
Well, I am happy to report that yesterday I went to the potty all by my little lonesome. Mom must be beaming with pride that I'm now potty trained. All of you mothers of toddlers, I now understand your plight. But do I get a sticker or coin for my piggy bank. No!
This morning, I myself took off my sleep shirt and put on my very own tshirt for the day. (Don't tell Lead Plastic Surgeon. He wanted me to wait a few more days to tackle this.) Insert sticker chart again.
And my neighbors are ecstatic to report Sally's underarm is now boasting a brand new aroma of chamomile and lavender. The entire neighborhood is no doubt celebrating my triumph. I may be able to now resume dinner out with pals. (You know who you are....Sarah, Kristy, Leigh, GNO folks.)
This coming week, I'm going to be on my own during the day (that's our goal anyway), so I imagine there may be a breakfast and lunch preparation in my future. Premade guacamole and chips, anyone? Remember, no judgment.
Drying my hair is a huge motivator. Thus nappy mane that only slightly resembles hair had become my new trade mark. And I'm aware hats are only so becoming after 3 weeks. Ask Ron.
So, I have my goals cut out for me. Updates from the boob front: the pain is now tolerable. The stiffness not do overwhelming, and the swelling now enhancing instead of distracting. But the lumpiness still an eye sore. Will I ever get used to the appearance?
Appt still set for Wednesday of next week. Wonder if I will get to be the driver. Doubtful, but maybe. Hope, right?
Sept 2, 2012 - Day # 25 - Heavy Heart
Day 25: I woke up in the middle of the night with a heavy heart. A feeling that I needed give you more background. I didn't want anyone to see this journey as something I was orchestrating and charting alone. I'm too flawed too ever be able to get through chaos on my own. All of my best and greatness will always be one stair step short of being enough to get by in this environment. I have hundreds
of report cards, evaluations, and personal references from others around me to prove that.
Back when I was six, I must have been very advanced for my age (smile), I recognized I wanted to place my life in the hands of God. In the years to come, I would better understand what that means and see that I had no means within myself to be anything other than self motivating, self promoting, self righteous. I understood that those things would continue to motivate me as a human, and I was destined to feeling like a failure constantly driving myself to be better than the person to my right or left. Often failing. I wanted a chance at something different. I wanted to please God, at that time simply because it was the right thing to do to want to please people. But I did understand God loved me more than I could every love him and that he desperately wanted to save me from myself. I also recognized I couldn't tackle the hate of the world on my own. I couldn't overcome my own tendency to add to the hate of the world. I was a great person, but there wasn't any amount of great that could save me from myself and those things that come from living in a world of chaos. Don't you get tired of this rat race? I needed the forgiveness of God. I was desperately flawed. I needed to trust in His love for me, his plan through Jesus to save me from self with the resulting outcome becoming a better Sally than I could ever be without that devotion to Him. Sally was making Sally watered down. In God I can be the Sally He designed me to be.
Many years later in life, in my thirties, I spent some time reading through Romans and realized I didn't have to please God out of responsibility, the whole world revolves around this to do list and judgement of performance (yuck!), but rather when I loved him more than I loved myself, those things would naturally flow out of me. (Fruit of the spirit.) I threw out my to do list of doing right and focused instead on my relationship with Him and the people around me and all of a sudden, I found I was happy, content, joyful, peaceful and desiring to want that for my own life and those of everyone I came in contact with.
I started seeing the potential in others instead of always focusing on their deficiencies. I wanted them to become everything they could be instead of trying to out do them. Don't get me wrong, my old self of competition and slander and self promotion still comes out at times, often, but i now recognize when it does and am able to fall back in God's mercy and grace to find my love for other people again. I truly do want you to be the best Bobbie Jo you can ever be! And I know that without faith in God's plan for you, that becomes impossible. Bobbie Jo will mess that up in a heart beat! How can you finding your greatness and you wanting the same for me not make life better?!?! There's no pressure to be something I'm not. There's freedom to be who He created me to be. And freedom to recognize how amazing this life is despite the world trying to prove otherwise. I love the Sally God frees me to be. And when I find myself screwing up, I remind myself God's plan for me is better than anything I could ever imagine up for myself. My own plan is the quickest path to miserable.
Ok so why do I mention that here? Well, in case you haven't noticed, there are moments in life when things can just be rather crappy from our perspective. Remember, we live in a world of self promotion. Everyone doing everything to promote self. I must be the 1 out of 10 who gets "excel" in that work eval. I'm better than Susie, right? (For the record, I got "achieves"). I better mention to Pam that brad has been unable to hold down a job. He's flawed (thus making myself appear well kept and together). When will people realize that a team of amazing is a thousand times better than one person of amazing. Brad may have lost his job (we forget downsizing can wipe out even the best), but he is incredible at accounting. I'm horrible at accounting! Your skill supplements mine to make me better. My deficiencies often produce commonality with others around me. My strengths your benefit.
We live in a world where cancer eats joy, jealousy drives ambition, popularity squashes potential, death drives fear. Circumstance dictates emotions. I want cancer to produce advocacy, jealousy to fall prey to encouragement, death to drive belief in something bigger than myself, and circumstance to become inconsequential. Joy can be our outcome! God loves me enough to save me from hate! I love him enough to claim his provision and find joy in the ridiculous around me. And you know what, it's free to anyone who wants to man up enough to see yourself as flawed, admit you are destroying yourself, recognize He desires the absolute best for you even in the awful, claim the saving grace of Jesus, and walk in life with a new perspective. Become someone who desires the best for others in addition to yourself. Become someone eagerly awaiting the next turn. I'm a work in progress. I fail all the stinking time. I continue to be flawed every silly day. Do you recall my desperation and tears of early August? But you know what? I have hope! And hope changes everything. (Open the book of John starting at Chpt 1 and give it a whirl. It will be a life changing read if you allow it to be.)
So why did I spill all of that out on this page? Life can crappy. It's one split minute decision away from chaos. One day you are riding happiness with a new found love, the next day your new found love is with you no longer. One year, you become a trend setter in your corporation, the next year you file bankruptcy. One day you are helping a kid with cancer, the next day you sign yourself up for a mastectomy. Life is brutal! It's unpredictable. It's one big jumbled up ball of what is right around the next corner. And you know what? I love it. I love the mystery of all of that. I love knowing that even in the awful something amazing can result. Maybe not always for me. Sometimes my awful results in amazing for you. I love that I can see a glimpse of God's plan at every stinking turn if I allow myself to. (Remember Sally is the best person to mess up Sally.) Life may be out to "get me", but I'm full of hope that just around the next corner lies something new.
This mastectomy has resulted in all kinds of crazy. It's been painful, it's stripped away some vanity, it's broken my mood on occasion. It created a sucky kind of August. And now September. But I'm not stupid enough to bask in that satan driven focus for long. I want to claim the new friendships, the altered perspective, the experience that will impact the life chaos to come, the strenghtened marriage, the power of encouragement. The ability to overcome. The realization of trivial this really is in the scheme of hurricanes and loss of life.
You see, circumstance is what it is. I battled lymphoma. Now, I have imposter boobs. No amount of good intention or focused control will always prevent choas. This is reality. Famine will happen. Floods will take homes. Cindy will talk bad about Stacey. Cancer will be in a diagnosis. But I can either bask in the awful as so much of the world does every day and allowing myself to slip into sustained depression and defeat while on the outside trying to clamor to the top and appear put together and desirable. OR I can claim God's promise and look for the amazing that is always present in the awful. Amazing might be hidden and disguised under a rock, but God gave me hands didn't he? And I surely know how to move a rock.
Claim that God wants Amazing, even in chaotic circumstance. Find hope and maybe even some humor. It's often life changing.
(And if you want someone to talk to about putting your faith in God through Jesus, contact me!)
Back when I was six, I must have been very advanced for my age (smile), I recognized I wanted to place my life in the hands of God. In the years to come, I would better understand what that means and see that I had no means within myself to be anything other than self motivating, self promoting, self righteous. I understood that those things would continue to motivate me as a human, and I was destined to feeling like a failure constantly driving myself to be better than the person to my right or left. Often failing. I wanted a chance at something different. I wanted to please God, at that time simply because it was the right thing to do to want to please people. But I did understand God loved me more than I could every love him and that he desperately wanted to save me from myself. I also recognized I couldn't tackle the hate of the world on my own. I couldn't overcome my own tendency to add to the hate of the world. I was a great person, but there wasn't any amount of great that could save me from myself and those things that come from living in a world of chaos. Don't you get tired of this rat race? I needed the forgiveness of God. I was desperately flawed. I needed to trust in His love for me, his plan through Jesus to save me from self with the resulting outcome becoming a better Sally than I could ever be without that devotion to Him. Sally was making Sally watered down. In God I can be the Sally He designed me to be.
Many years later in life, in my thirties, I spent some time reading through Romans and realized I didn't have to please God out of responsibility, the whole world revolves around this to do list and judgement of performance (yuck!), but rather when I loved him more than I loved myself, those things would naturally flow out of me. (Fruit of the spirit.) I threw out my to do list of doing right and focused instead on my relationship with Him and the people around me and all of a sudden, I found I was happy, content, joyful, peaceful and desiring to want that for my own life and those of everyone I came in contact with.
I started seeing the potential in others instead of always focusing on their deficiencies. I wanted them to become everything they could be instead of trying to out do them. Don't get me wrong, my old self of competition and slander and self promotion still comes out at times, often, but i now recognize when it does and am able to fall back in God's mercy and grace to find my love for other people again. I truly do want you to be the best Bobbie Jo you can ever be! And I know that without faith in God's plan for you, that becomes impossible. Bobbie Jo will mess that up in a heart beat! How can you finding your greatness and you wanting the same for me not make life better?!?! There's no pressure to be something I'm not. There's freedom to be who He created me to be. And freedom to recognize how amazing this life is despite the world trying to prove otherwise. I love the Sally God frees me to be. And when I find myself screwing up, I remind myself God's plan for me is better than anything I could ever imagine up for myself. My own plan is the quickest path to miserable.
Ok so why do I mention that here? Well, in case you haven't noticed, there are moments in life when things can just be rather crappy from our perspective. Remember, we live in a world of self promotion. Everyone doing everything to promote self. I must be the 1 out of 10 who gets "excel" in that work eval. I'm better than Susie, right? (For the record, I got "achieves"). I better mention to Pam that brad has been unable to hold down a job. He's flawed (thus making myself appear well kept and together). When will people realize that a team of amazing is a thousand times better than one person of amazing. Brad may have lost his job (we forget downsizing can wipe out even the best), but he is incredible at accounting. I'm horrible at accounting! Your skill supplements mine to make me better. My deficiencies often produce commonality with others around me. My strengths your benefit.
We live in a world where cancer eats joy, jealousy drives ambition, popularity squashes potential, death drives fear. Circumstance dictates emotions. I want cancer to produce advocacy, jealousy to fall prey to encouragement, death to drive belief in something bigger than myself, and circumstance to become inconsequential. Joy can be our outcome! God loves me enough to save me from hate! I love him enough to claim his provision and find joy in the ridiculous around me. And you know what, it's free to anyone who wants to man up enough to see yourself as flawed, admit you are destroying yourself, recognize He desires the absolute best for you even in the awful, claim the saving grace of Jesus, and walk in life with a new perspective. Become someone who desires the best for others in addition to yourself. Become someone eagerly awaiting the next turn. I'm a work in progress. I fail all the stinking time. I continue to be flawed every silly day. Do you recall my desperation and tears of early August? But you know what? I have hope! And hope changes everything. (Open the book of John starting at Chpt 1 and give it a whirl. It will be a life changing read if you allow it to be.)
So why did I spill all of that out on this page? Life can crappy. It's one split minute decision away from chaos. One day you are riding happiness with a new found love, the next day your new found love is with you no longer. One year, you become a trend setter in your corporation, the next year you file bankruptcy. One day you are helping a kid with cancer, the next day you sign yourself up for a mastectomy. Life is brutal! It's unpredictable. It's one big jumbled up ball of what is right around the next corner. And you know what? I love it. I love the mystery of all of that. I love knowing that even in the awful something amazing can result. Maybe not always for me. Sometimes my awful results in amazing for you. I love that I can see a glimpse of God's plan at every stinking turn if I allow myself to. (Remember Sally is the best person to mess up Sally.) Life may be out to "get me", but I'm full of hope that just around the next corner lies something new.
This mastectomy has resulted in all kinds of crazy. It's been painful, it's stripped away some vanity, it's broken my mood on occasion. It created a sucky kind of August. And now September. But I'm not stupid enough to bask in that satan driven focus for long. I want to claim the new friendships, the altered perspective, the experience that will impact the life chaos to come, the strenghtened marriage, the power of encouragement. The ability to overcome. The realization of trivial this really is in the scheme of hurricanes and loss of life.
You see, circumstance is what it is. I battled lymphoma. Now, I have imposter boobs. No amount of good intention or focused control will always prevent choas. This is reality. Famine will happen. Floods will take homes. Cindy will talk bad about Stacey. Cancer will be in a diagnosis. But I can either bask in the awful as so much of the world does every day and allowing myself to slip into sustained depression and defeat while on the outside trying to clamor to the top and appear put together and desirable. OR I can claim God's promise and look for the amazing that is always present in the awful. Amazing might be hidden and disguised under a rock, but God gave me hands didn't he? And I surely know how to move a rock.
Claim that God wants Amazing, even in chaotic circumstance. Find hope and maybe even some humor. It's often life changing.
(And if you want someone to talk to about putting your faith in God through Jesus, contact me!)
Sept 1, 2012 - Day # 24 - Family time.
Ron was needed at the farm so I got packed up, boxed, taped, and stamped and mailed to mom's for the weekend since I wasn't farm ready yet. Grateful for the new walls and some sister time. First time with Amy in over three weeks!
Must-have-new-mattress STAT. Slept in my childhood bed last night with a firm mattress and it changed my everything as far as having been miserable at night. Guess I know what our next outing will be.
Me (left)chillin and relaxin with my sis (right)... Good times!
Must-have-new-mattress STAT. Slept in my childhood bed last night with a firm mattress and it changed my everything as far as having been miserable at night. Guess I know what our next outing will be.
Me (left)chillin and relaxin with my sis (right)... Good times!
Aug 31, 2012 - Day # 23 - Post recon appt details
Day 23: I realize I never gave you a full update from my reconstruction followup appt two days ago. So here you go for inquiring minds who have a need for details.
I had already mentioned how my mind started wandering in the waiting room. All of these women waiting for their breast cancer appt. Oh how different my journey could have been. These women who have more on their plate and minds on this one day than I may have in years of my own (much longer than my silly 23 days). A shout out to those readers who have struggled with this very challenging battle. The Sarahs and Rachels of my life. My hat off and heart open to you. And my apologies for not supporting you more than I did in your journey. And anyone else facing a cancer diagnosis. I've been there and I know that it sucketh! Each day is a battle itself and the mind lay heavy. But cancer is meant to be conquered! And when not, no doubt, purpose comes from heart break. I see that first hand in my career.
So there we sit among these incredible women and I'm quickly reminded why I chose the crazy choice. Why this ever so frightening decision to move forward with a mastectomy became much less frightening than the alternative. These women reminded me of the value and intent of my choice.
"Sally McCollum?"
Well, here we go. Back to the intake room for a weight check (Again for the umpteenth time. It hasn't changed, people! Well, ok so it has.) Blood pressure check. Temp. All well except for the weight. Then, move to the patient room. "please slip on this gown, open in the front, and remove everything underneath." Truly, my favorite part of any appointment. At least I won't be embarrassed by someone seeing my new granny bra. But a quick reminder that yet again there is absolutely no dignity in this adventure. Slip on gown and wait. Well slip on gown seems way more simple that the actual. It's a lengthy process getting dressed and redressed with four drains coming out of your side. And a chest wall that feels like you just completed training for iron man. It's a very strategic maneuvering of this and that to change clothes. Painful! Ron and I have it down pat by now, but still it's a process with many organized steps involved.
I'm actually a little excited to see lead plastic surgeon. I haven't seen him since the hour before reconstruction surgery when he came in with his little black marker to practice his Picasso techniques. I wanted to hear his thoughts of how it went. Well, knock knock, and in he walks with this huge grin on his face.
I actually think he was just as excited to see me. (From the get go, I think he had considered me his challenge. His Goliath. My radiated damaged chest his rival and foe that needed to be put in it's place. His chance to get it right and prove to the plastic community that this can be done.) "Sally, before I say anything else, I did my very best work just as I promised."...."and sorry about the four drains." I laughed but gave him ample ragging about the pesky little suckers and how I wanted to throw something at him when i woke up and saw not 2 but 4. He was very sneaky.
Sally: "Ok, now let's see the masterpiece." Then, I drop my gown and wait.
Silence.
Sally: "Ut oh, what?" I've been worried about the viability of the skin so I'm sitting there worried he sees something wrong. To break the silence and tension I ask him to pay me a dollar for having the opportunity to see the imposters. (I figure if I had charged people all along I would have enough for that bora bora trip we've been wanting to take.)
Then he just grins. A big ole slap happy grin. "My very best work!" It looks great. Better than I was expecting considering all the risks we had. Tissue looks great. No redness. I ask him about all the swelling and tightness and was that normal? Lots of dialogue I won't bore you with her. (Remember, I've never had reconstruction before, so who knows how it's supposed to feel or look). He says that yes, it seems a little tighter than normal so I should now go bra less for two weeks.
What??? Did he just say "bra less?" In my 37 years of existence, I've never once been able to go bra less. He has lost his every living mind. But he is insistent that I need to reduce the pressure on the chest so that the tissue underneath gets enough blood supply to stay viable and not damage the implant. He's concerned, but not worried. So bra less it will be, but it's freaking me out. I didn't have the heart to tell him my mom had just purchased SEVEN new granny no support no frill no fun bras. Note to self: break this news to mom gently after the appointment.
"Sally, I couldn't be more pleased with how the tissue has adjusted. Now we just wait."
"Lead plastic surgeon, I have to take your word for it. I have nothing to compare it to. You did a beautiful job, but they still are odd, weird, and awkward." I inserted the story about how it feels getting new hands (see previous post). He said that was the perfect analogy he could now use with patients. "I love you're work, thank so much, but I'm still adjusting and it's gong to be a while before I love, or even like, your work."
"Sally, no lifting for another week. Then, on Monday, start these exercises. We need to get your strength and mobility back. I'm very pleased and optimistic that we've passed the worry point, but I want to see you back in two weeks." (paraphrased)
Sally: "Doc, now there's the matter of these pesky little drains that make living absolutely miserable." - I can be a tad dramatic. Smile. "Well then, let's take them out!" (I did try and talk him into the complementary liposuction, but he want budging. Maybe if I remind him my abdomen had been radiated to he might find liposuction an equally fun challenge. At that point at the confirmation of drain removal, all of heaven opened up with sound of the hallelujah chorus. David pulled out his harp. Peter a harmonica. I personally saw Moses grab Ruth's arm for a celebratory fox trot across the cloud covered floor. Jesus himself tapped a foot in rhythm. Even my Ron sitting next to me had a smile (he's not known for getting super excited about stuff). And God simply winked an eye at me, him fully aware he himself had orchestrated this perfect moment. (I will spare you the details of hyperventilation that occurred during the drain removal).
Long gone are the drains!!! Long gone is the gore! Long gone is my screeching when we milk the tubing. Long gone are my tears where we clean the sight. Hello, freedom! He promised provision. There hadn't been a single glitch since August 7. My course could have gone every shade of bad. It had every earthly reason to. He doesn't promise the Christian the perfect life or even a good day. He just promises his hand in every twist and turn. But he does love to shower his children with blessings. And blessings galore have I. I'm not worthy, therefore, I'm immensely grateful. So whatever his purpose and intent in giving me the easy road, I promise to make it worth while. So we aren't completely out off the woods, but i can see the river ahead. Praise the Lord that both surgeons are so pleased considering where we started. He said I may need some revisions, that we will know more in a few weeks, but for now watch and wait while the tissue continues to heal and settle. Hopefully, the pain will start to lessen soon, though I'm not sure with the exercises, and the swelling will become less. Stay tuned! There's more to come in this journey for sure. I wait with baited breath.
I had already mentioned how my mind started wandering in the waiting room. All of these women waiting for their breast cancer appt. Oh how different my journey could have been. These women who have more on their plate and minds on this one day than I may have in years of my own (much longer than my silly 23 days). A shout out to those readers who have struggled with this very challenging battle. The Sarahs and Rachels of my life. My hat off and heart open to you. And my apologies for not supporting you more than I did in your journey. And anyone else facing a cancer diagnosis. I've been there and I know that it sucketh! Each day is a battle itself and the mind lay heavy. But cancer is meant to be conquered! And when not, no doubt, purpose comes from heart break. I see that first hand in my career.
So there we sit among these incredible women and I'm quickly reminded why I chose the crazy choice. Why this ever so frightening decision to move forward with a mastectomy became much less frightening than the alternative. These women reminded me of the value and intent of my choice.
"Sally McCollum?"
Well, here we go. Back to the intake room for a weight check (Again for the umpteenth time. It hasn't changed, people! Well, ok so it has.) Blood pressure check. Temp. All well except for the weight. Then, move to the patient room. "please slip on this gown, open in the front, and remove everything underneath." Truly, my favorite part of any appointment. At least I won't be embarrassed by someone seeing my new granny bra. But a quick reminder that yet again there is absolutely no dignity in this adventure. Slip on gown and wait. Well slip on gown seems way more simple that the actual. It's a lengthy process getting dressed and redressed with four drains coming out of your side. And a chest wall that feels like you just completed training for iron man. It's a very strategic maneuvering of this and that to change clothes. Painful! Ron and I have it down pat by now, but still it's a process with many organized steps involved.
I'm actually a little excited to see lead plastic surgeon. I haven't seen him since the hour before reconstruction surgery when he came in with his little black marker to practice his Picasso techniques. I wanted to hear his thoughts of how it went. Well, knock knock, and in he walks with this huge grin on his face.
I actually think he was just as excited to see me. (From the get go, I think he had considered me his challenge. His Goliath. My radiated damaged chest his rival and foe that needed to be put in it's place. His chance to get it right and prove to the plastic community that this can be done.) "Sally, before I say anything else, I did my very best work just as I promised."...."and sorry about the four drains." I laughed but gave him ample ragging about the pesky little suckers and how I wanted to throw something at him when i woke up and saw not 2 but 4. He was very sneaky.
Sally: "Ok, now let's see the masterpiece." Then, I drop my gown and wait.
Silence.
Sally: "Ut oh, what?" I've been worried about the viability of the skin so I'm sitting there worried he sees something wrong. To break the silence and tension I ask him to pay me a dollar for having the opportunity to see the imposters. (I figure if I had charged people all along I would have enough for that bora bora trip we've been wanting to take.)
Then he just grins. A big ole slap happy grin. "My very best work!" It looks great. Better than I was expecting considering all the risks we had. Tissue looks great. No redness. I ask him about all the swelling and tightness and was that normal? Lots of dialogue I won't bore you with her. (Remember, I've never had reconstruction before, so who knows how it's supposed to feel or look). He says that yes, it seems a little tighter than normal so I should now go bra less for two weeks.
What??? Did he just say "bra less?" In my 37 years of existence, I've never once been able to go bra less. He has lost his every living mind. But he is insistent that I need to reduce the pressure on the chest so that the tissue underneath gets enough blood supply to stay viable and not damage the implant. He's concerned, but not worried. So bra less it will be, but it's freaking me out. I didn't have the heart to tell him my mom had just purchased SEVEN new granny no support no frill no fun bras. Note to self: break this news to mom gently after the appointment.
"Sally, I couldn't be more pleased with how the tissue has adjusted. Now we just wait."
"Lead plastic surgeon, I have to take your word for it. I have nothing to compare it to. You did a beautiful job, but they still are odd, weird, and awkward." I inserted the story about how it feels getting new hands (see previous post). He said that was the perfect analogy he could now use with patients. "I love you're work, thank so much, but I'm still adjusting and it's gong to be a while before I love, or even like, your work."
"Sally, no lifting for another week. Then, on Monday, start these exercises. We need to get your strength and mobility back. I'm very pleased and optimistic that we've passed the worry point, but I want to see you back in two weeks." (paraphrased)
Sally: "Doc, now there's the matter of these pesky little drains that make living absolutely miserable." - I can be a tad dramatic. Smile. "Well then, let's take them out!" (I did try and talk him into the complementary liposuction, but he want budging. Maybe if I remind him my abdomen had been radiated to he might find liposuction an equally fun challenge. At that point at the confirmation of drain removal, all of heaven opened up with sound of the hallelujah chorus. David pulled out his harp. Peter a harmonica. I personally saw Moses grab Ruth's arm for a celebratory fox trot across the cloud covered floor. Jesus himself tapped a foot in rhythm. Even my Ron sitting next to me had a smile (he's not known for getting super excited about stuff). And God simply winked an eye at me, him fully aware he himself had orchestrated this perfect moment. (I will spare you the details of hyperventilation that occurred during the drain removal).
Long gone are the drains!!! Long gone is the gore! Long gone is my screeching when we milk the tubing. Long gone are my tears where we clean the sight. Hello, freedom! He promised provision. There hadn't been a single glitch since August 7. My course could have gone every shade of bad. It had every earthly reason to. He doesn't promise the Christian the perfect life or even a good day. He just promises his hand in every twist and turn. But he does love to shower his children with blessings. And blessings galore have I. I'm not worthy, therefore, I'm immensely grateful. So whatever his purpose and intent in giving me the easy road, I promise to make it worth while. So we aren't completely out off the woods, but i can see the river ahead. Praise the Lord that both surgeons are so pleased considering where we started. He said I may need some revisions, that we will know more in a few weeks, but for now watch and wait while the tissue continues to heal and settle. Hopefully, the pain will start to lessen soon, though I'm not sure with the exercises, and the swelling will become less. Stay tuned! There's more to come in this journey for sure. I wait with baited breath.
Aug 30, 2012 - Day # 22 - Solo Shower
So in 22 days, I've been out of this house 4 times. Once for church, once when I snuck out, then for appts. In 22 days, I've put on real clothes once (Jeans and a blouse). PJs have been my every day. How in the world do I go back to real clothes? (Particularly knowing they will no longer fit. That's an unsettling feeling.)
Seven hours later.... I just showered BY MYSELF!!! (sort of) I was supervised and maybe missed some spots but still. There is hope!
Aug 30, 2012 - Day # 22 - How this all came about (June 2012)
Day #22: Yesterday, marks three weeks since the double mastectomy. I've had 21 days to contemplate each individual day of this experience. The day after the mastectomy which set my mental course (post # day 0 part 2), the first shower (did i even post about that?), the miserable little drain suckers (that's in about every post), but it wasn't until yesterday in the waiting room and then last night laying in bed that I stepped back and looked at it all in one big album, instead of individual snapshots.
What have I done??? Did I really make this radical controversial decision to have two breasts I had worked so hard to grow (smile) removed? Did I just allow two surgeons I had met once before decide what the physical future of my new "breasts" would become? These impostors I'm now supposed to know and love. Am I now a woman who has had a mastectomy? Equally as shocking, am I now a woman who has implants? The big picture feels life changing -at least temporarily at this very moment. It affects my marriage, my faith, my personal medical course, my topsy turvy emotions of today. It certainly, hopefully only for the short-term affects my view of self. It even affects me view of you. Somehow, I'm supposed to return to work and the rest of the world and function as though I am who I was when I left August 3rd. Some people at work don't even know this happened. I have to admit I am changed. And I'm going to need time to transition. Time to settle out. Time to fit this new chest and all that comes with it back into the world. (Maybe there was some hidden rationale in my surgeon demanding I be on house arrest these last three weeks.)
How did I even get here???
Back in June, on a Thursday, I was sitting in clinic waiting to see a patient. The Attending Physician I work with had just returned from a national oncology conference and was giving us the low down on some of the hot topics of discussion of the past week. Now let me step back it's interesting to note I'm only in clinic two days a week. The rest of my week I'm in another building with another life. So had this physician returned on a Monday, I would have missed this discussion in it's entirety and be none the wiser for some time to come. So the timing of these events this is lost on me. He was telling us about all the new pediatric oncology research that focused on exposure to radiation therapy and long term outcomes. We've always known radiation therapy is a yin and a yang, particularly when used in children. It's a terrific modality for curing certain tumors, but it carries its own potentially negative risks while propagating the positive curative ones. Historically, Hodgkin's lymphoma patients received very large doses of radiation to the chest region, where primary tumor most likely lived. And we've always known these large doses, while needed for tumor kill, can lead to secondary risks later in life. For female teenagers, breast cancer is one of these risks. We've known this for years. What we didn't know was the magnitude of that risk.
Back to the meeting highlights, the Attending Physician began quoting off the new statics on the radiation data. Well, let's just say my ears perked up when I heard numbers that were much higher than previously published. (I had been treated for Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was 16 so this was not only professionally relevant but personally relevant.) I simultaneously, while he conversed, went online to the meeting abstracts to pull the data myself. And there it read females treated with 20gy radiation doses are at least equivalent in risk for breast cancer as women who carry the brca gene for breast cancer. As I continued to read, and mentally calculating my own dose of 40+ gy being double that number, light bulbs start going off in my head like that on the red carpet. Percentages ranging from 30% up to 90% as you advance in age. What?!?!?!?!? We had thought it like 10-30%. That was a risk I had known and even prepared for. Roll the dice, it may happen, but more likely not. I've done cancer once, surely not twice. But 90%???? Are you kidding me? That's a whole other ballgame. That not a statistic, that's a prediction! That's.............awful!
I quietly try to gather my wits and think rationally about this data. I formulate an email to a breast oncologist I work with in my other job. (reminder, this life altering conversation happened on a Thursday when I happened to be present, I started working with a breast oncologist as of six months ago in my brand new job, I have access to brand spanking new medical literature..."I'm here God, it's me Margaret"?)
"Breast Oncologist, have you seen the new breast data that was just released for Hodgkins patients? What do you think about me doing yearly mammograms in addition to the yearly breast MRIs I'm already getting? I had lymphoma and was treated with more than 40 gy doses of radiation to the chest as a teenager."
"Sally, yes, I saw the data. I didn't realize you were a lymphoma survivor. I think you need to see a breast surgeon......" And at that very second I mentally checked out. Stopped reading. Had tears pool at the bottom of my eyelids.
Excuse me? What in the world did he just say??? A breast surgeon? What do you mean a breast SURGEON? Didn't you mean to say "yes, please schedule a mammogram at your earliest convenience."? Why in the world are you mentioning a breast surgeon?
Ok check back in, compose yourself. Wipe the fluid from your eyeball and retype the email.
"Breast oncologist, did you mean to write the word surgeon in your email? I'm a little confused. Did you mean to say oncologist?"
"Sally, I think it would be wise for you to meet with the chief of breast surgery to discuss mastectomy options. Let me talk to her today about your case and I will get the appointment set up for you as soon as possible."
Hyperventilate. Mind racing. Punch in the stomach. Oh my gosh, please don't let me throw up right here in my laptop in front of everyone. Hold it together. Pull up your boot straps. Got-to-get-some-air-now. Walk out of the room to the bathroom and ball your eyes out. And then it also hits me while standing in that bathroom....Ron!
Let me insert here that all of this unfolded in a matter of about 3 minutes from the time my attending walked in all excited about the conference he just attended to me being set up in an appt with a surgeon. How does that even happen?
Email Ron frantically. Email my sister frantically. Wait for response from oncologist. Pull up data on brca gene. What in the world a prophylactic mastectomy? Women actually do that????? I really don't think I had any idea that women were finding out about brca gene results and scheduling mastectomies. Why do they do that? And why would I do that? That is radical. That is crazy. That is taking matters into your own hands. Do I not trust God's plan for my life? If I'm destined to have breast cancer, we just deal with it when it comes. I'm not someone to run from trouble. I like to roll the dice and trust God in the decisions in life. I've got this. Mastectomy, no way. (This, another free flowing train of thought spanning about 45 seconds).
Keep reading the article, Sally..unlike brca gene patients "hodgkins survivors, having already reached the maximum doses of radiation, will have limited treatment options for secondary breast cancer..." Let me re-read that. Again. One more time.
Frantically email Ron a second time. Desperately watch the clock. I've GOT to get home! This room is closing in on me. I'm of no use to these patients today. Devastated. Confused. Frightened. Surprised. Blow to the stomach. (Little did I know that Ron was having the the exact same experience sitting at his work desk as he later told me).
So it was no longer IF I was going to get Breast cancer, but more likely WHEN. And when that were to happen, my treatment options would be limited to no radiation.
Long story made semi short. Two weeks later, I'm sitting in an exam room with two surgeons discussing my mastectomy plans. Two weeks! Who gets an appointment with the chiefs of breast surgery and plastic surgery in two weeks? God does, with a little of "it's all who you know" thrown in for balance. By the end of the appointment I had a surgery date scheduled for August 7. The delay only because one of the surgeons was headed away on vacation for two weeks. Those four weeks would become very challenging for me with me subconsciously processing the what was to come. The radical procedure was going to happen! I chose the crazy option!
I should insert here, I'm a unique case. I got massive amounts of radiation as a teenager. Dose is everything. Timing and age of exposure is everything. Not every radiation patient has these risks. There is a lot of data that has to be sorted through for any given patient. I am NOT advocating mastectomy for radiation patients. I'm not even advocating mastectomy for hodgkin's patients. I'm advocating that you research the data. Determine your risk. I'd bet for most women, mastectomy is a bit drastic for your statics. For me, it became a very reasonable option that dropped my risk from up to 90% with limited treatment options down to about 5%. Less than that of the average reader reading this post. Then, I'm advocating support for women who choose this crazy life saving option. This is a radical life changing choice, and women need support in that. No judgment. No gossip about the "did you hear". No questions about implants and a boob job. Don't ever ask "how big are you going!" Support! Encouragement. Belief that this hard choice is able to be done successfully. Cheers of "you can do this" should be shouted through your telephone, your open front door, across the restaurant table as she sits there telling you her incredible dilemma and support that she can be open about this extremely personal journey. Understand that this is an awful decision to have to make and that this surgery is not knee surgery. She needs Love. She needs to know what she feels is justified, even if on some levels it seems trivial.
What she (now me) is feeling is something i never previously understood. Fear of the what ifs. Guilt for her thoughts of vanity. Shock that this is happening. Concern over her spouse and what he may think. Disappointment over reconstruction options. Guilt for feeling that disappointment. Shame that having no boobs affects her like it does. Shame that this journey impacts her like it does when she didn't even have breast cancer like some women have to struggle through both BC and mastectomy. Confusion as to why this affects her so drastically. Worry that God may have wanted her to choose differently. Frustration over the physical limitations now present. Anger at her lack of control. And the list goes on. Trust me, it's best to just sum it up and say "She feels a lot!"
Anyway, back to the original point of all if this. In order to process the big picture, I have to understand how those first few weeks played out. How timing is everything. How God chose a Thursday for this discussion to take place. (Reminder, this was brand new literature your average person would not know about for quite some time to come. I work in oncology.) How God, not even six months before crossed my path with that of a breast oncologist that I work on several projects with. That God would grant Ron and I wisdom to recognize His role in placing me at the right place at the right time and his offering this option to us. That Ron would make his decision that I should go through with mastectomy before I would and that they would match up. Maybe God had a specific plan not only to save me from a tremendously difficult journey with breast cancer, but to change me, challenge me, grow me. Was Sally going to let fear of a drastic surgical procedure guide her? Was Sally going to trust that God had big plans for her or even someone else by choosing the hard road? Who was Sally going to put her faith in?
I'm changed. I'm challenged. I'm broken. I'm restored. I'm accepting my new breasts.. as strange as that sounds. But most importantly, I'm allowing this journey to be whatever vessel God chooses in growing His kingdom. I may kick and scream along the way, but I'm still moving forward. I take steps back. I doubt things, but I'm committed for the long haul. Come what may.
Now, pray that these next few weeks are smooth. I have a great bit to accomplish in a short amount of time. Pray for my transition back into life. Monday, I start removing some of my restrictions. In two weeks, back to the surgeon to assess everything. Will the skin survive, is my mobility and strength back, have the impostors settled in their new home. Is the swelling and pain gone. Can I handle going back to work? Can I drive? Can I shower in my own without falling apart emotionally in the process?
A lot happened in three short weeks. More than I could ever have imagined. I hope to be a better person on the other side of this. I hope you found a new understanding of preventative mastectomies. And maybe you saw a glimpse of God's provision in the awful (and incredibly amazing.)
What have I done??? Did I really make this radical controversial decision to have two breasts I had worked so hard to grow (smile) removed? Did I just allow two surgeons I had met once before decide what the physical future of my new "breasts" would become? These impostors I'm now supposed to know and love. Am I now a woman who has had a mastectomy? Equally as shocking, am I now a woman who has implants? The big picture feels life changing -at least temporarily at this very moment. It affects my marriage, my faith, my personal medical course, my topsy turvy emotions of today. It certainly, hopefully only for the short-term affects my view of self. It even affects me view of you. Somehow, I'm supposed to return to work and the rest of the world and function as though I am who I was when I left August 3rd. Some people at work don't even know this happened. I have to admit I am changed. And I'm going to need time to transition. Time to settle out. Time to fit this new chest and all that comes with it back into the world. (Maybe there was some hidden rationale in my surgeon demanding I be on house arrest these last three weeks.)
How did I even get here???
Back in June, on a Thursday, I was sitting in clinic waiting to see a patient. The Attending Physician I work with had just returned from a national oncology conference and was giving us the low down on some of the hot topics of discussion of the past week. Now let me step back it's interesting to note I'm only in clinic two days a week. The rest of my week I'm in another building with another life. So had this physician returned on a Monday, I would have missed this discussion in it's entirety and be none the wiser for some time to come. So the timing of these events this is lost on me. He was telling us about all the new pediatric oncology research that focused on exposure to radiation therapy and long term outcomes. We've always known radiation therapy is a yin and a yang, particularly when used in children. It's a terrific modality for curing certain tumors, but it carries its own potentially negative risks while propagating the positive curative ones. Historically, Hodgkin's lymphoma patients received very large doses of radiation to the chest region, where primary tumor most likely lived. And we've always known these large doses, while needed for tumor kill, can lead to secondary risks later in life. For female teenagers, breast cancer is one of these risks. We've known this for years. What we didn't know was the magnitude of that risk.
Back to the meeting highlights, the Attending Physician began quoting off the new statics on the radiation data. Well, let's just say my ears perked up when I heard numbers that were much higher than previously published. (I had been treated for Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was 16 so this was not only professionally relevant but personally relevant.) I simultaneously, while he conversed, went online to the meeting abstracts to pull the data myself. And there it read females treated with 20gy radiation doses are at least equivalent in risk for breast cancer as women who carry the brca gene for breast cancer. As I continued to read, and mentally calculating my own dose of 40+ gy being double that number, light bulbs start going off in my head like that on the red carpet. Percentages ranging from 30% up to 90% as you advance in age. What?!?!?!?!? We had thought it like 10-30%. That was a risk I had known and even prepared for. Roll the dice, it may happen, but more likely not. I've done cancer once, surely not twice. But 90%???? Are you kidding me? That's a whole other ballgame. That not a statistic, that's a prediction! That's.............awful!
I quietly try to gather my wits and think rationally about this data. I formulate an email to a breast oncologist I work with in my other job. (reminder, this life altering conversation happened on a Thursday when I happened to be present, I started working with a breast oncologist as of six months ago in my brand new job, I have access to brand spanking new medical literature..."I'm here God, it's me Margaret"?)
"Breast Oncologist, have you seen the new breast data that was just released for Hodgkins patients? What do you think about me doing yearly mammograms in addition to the yearly breast MRIs I'm already getting? I had lymphoma and was treated with more than 40 gy doses of radiation to the chest as a teenager."
"Sally, yes, I saw the data. I didn't realize you were a lymphoma survivor. I think you need to see a breast surgeon......" And at that very second I mentally checked out. Stopped reading. Had tears pool at the bottom of my eyelids.
Excuse me? What in the world did he just say??? A breast surgeon? What do you mean a breast SURGEON? Didn't you mean to say "yes, please schedule a mammogram at your earliest convenience."? Why in the world are you mentioning a breast surgeon?
Ok check back in, compose yourself. Wipe the fluid from your eyeball and retype the email.
"Breast oncologist, did you mean to write the word surgeon in your email? I'm a little confused. Did you mean to say oncologist?"
"Sally, I think it would be wise for you to meet with the chief of breast surgery to discuss mastectomy options. Let me talk to her today about your case and I will get the appointment set up for you as soon as possible."
Hyperventilate. Mind racing. Punch in the stomach. Oh my gosh, please don't let me throw up right here in my laptop in front of everyone. Hold it together. Pull up your boot straps. Got-to-get-some-air-now. Walk out of the room to the bathroom and ball your eyes out. And then it also hits me while standing in that bathroom....Ron!
Let me insert here that all of this unfolded in a matter of about 3 minutes from the time my attending walked in all excited about the conference he just attended to me being set up in an appt with a surgeon. How does that even happen?
Email Ron frantically. Email my sister frantically. Wait for response from oncologist. Pull up data on brca gene. What in the world a prophylactic mastectomy? Women actually do that????? I really don't think I had any idea that women were finding out about brca gene results and scheduling mastectomies. Why do they do that? And why would I do that? That is radical. That is crazy. That is taking matters into your own hands. Do I not trust God's plan for my life? If I'm destined to have breast cancer, we just deal with it when it comes. I'm not someone to run from trouble. I like to roll the dice and trust God in the decisions in life. I've got this. Mastectomy, no way. (This, another free flowing train of thought spanning about 45 seconds).
Keep reading the article, Sally..unlike brca gene patients "hodgkins survivors, having already reached the maximum doses of radiation, will have limited treatment options for secondary breast cancer..." Let me re-read that. Again. One more time.
Frantically email Ron a second time. Desperately watch the clock. I've GOT to get home! This room is closing in on me. I'm of no use to these patients today. Devastated. Confused. Frightened. Surprised. Blow to the stomach. (Little did I know that Ron was having the the exact same experience sitting at his work desk as he later told me).
So it was no longer IF I was going to get Breast cancer, but more likely WHEN. And when that were to happen, my treatment options would be limited to no radiation.
Long story made semi short. Two weeks later, I'm sitting in an exam room with two surgeons discussing my mastectomy plans. Two weeks! Who gets an appointment with the chiefs of breast surgery and plastic surgery in two weeks? God does, with a little of "it's all who you know" thrown in for balance. By the end of the appointment I had a surgery date scheduled for August 7. The delay only because one of the surgeons was headed away on vacation for two weeks. Those four weeks would become very challenging for me with me subconsciously processing the what was to come. The radical procedure was going to happen! I chose the crazy option!
I should insert here, I'm a unique case. I got massive amounts of radiation as a teenager. Dose is everything. Timing and age of exposure is everything. Not every radiation patient has these risks. There is a lot of data that has to be sorted through for any given patient. I am NOT advocating mastectomy for radiation patients. I'm not even advocating mastectomy for hodgkin's patients. I'm advocating that you research the data. Determine your risk. I'd bet for most women, mastectomy is a bit drastic for your statics. For me, it became a very reasonable option that dropped my risk from up to 90% with limited treatment options down to about 5%. Less than that of the average reader reading this post. Then, I'm advocating support for women who choose this crazy life saving option. This is a radical life changing choice, and women need support in that. No judgment. No gossip about the "did you hear". No questions about implants and a boob job. Don't ever ask "how big are you going!" Support! Encouragement. Belief that this hard choice is able to be done successfully. Cheers of "you can do this" should be shouted through your telephone, your open front door, across the restaurant table as she sits there telling you her incredible dilemma and support that she can be open about this extremely personal journey. Understand that this is an awful decision to have to make and that this surgery is not knee surgery. She needs Love. She needs to know what she feels is justified, even if on some levels it seems trivial.
What she (now me) is feeling is something i never previously understood. Fear of the what ifs. Guilt for her thoughts of vanity. Shock that this is happening. Concern over her spouse and what he may think. Disappointment over reconstruction options. Guilt for feeling that disappointment. Shame that having no boobs affects her like it does. Shame that this journey impacts her like it does when she didn't even have breast cancer like some women have to struggle through both BC and mastectomy. Confusion as to why this affects her so drastically. Worry that God may have wanted her to choose differently. Frustration over the physical limitations now present. Anger at her lack of control. And the list goes on. Trust me, it's best to just sum it up and say "She feels a lot!"
Anyway, back to the original point of all if this. In order to process the big picture, I have to understand how those first few weeks played out. How timing is everything. How God chose a Thursday for this discussion to take place. (Reminder, this was brand new literature your average person would not know about for quite some time to come. I work in oncology.) How God, not even six months before crossed my path with that of a breast oncologist that I work on several projects with. That God would grant Ron and I wisdom to recognize His role in placing me at the right place at the right time and his offering this option to us. That Ron would make his decision that I should go through with mastectomy before I would and that they would match up. Maybe God had a specific plan not only to save me from a tremendously difficult journey with breast cancer, but to change me, challenge me, grow me. Was Sally going to let fear of a drastic surgical procedure guide her? Was Sally going to trust that God had big plans for her or even someone else by choosing the hard road? Who was Sally going to put her faith in?
I'm changed. I'm challenged. I'm broken. I'm restored. I'm accepting my new breasts.. as strange as that sounds. But most importantly, I'm allowing this journey to be whatever vessel God chooses in growing His kingdom. I may kick and scream along the way, but I'm still moving forward. I take steps back. I doubt things, but I'm committed for the long haul. Come what may.
Now, pray that these next few weeks are smooth. I have a great bit to accomplish in a short amount of time. Pray for my transition back into life. Monday, I start removing some of my restrictions. In two weeks, back to the surgeon to assess everything. Will the skin survive, is my mobility and strength back, have the impostors settled in their new home. Is the swelling and pain gone. Can I handle going back to work? Can I drive? Can I shower in my own without falling apart emotionally in the process?
A lot happened in three short weeks. More than I could ever have imagined. I hope to be a better person on the other side of this. I hope you found a new understanding of preventative mastectomies. And maybe you saw a glimpse of God's provision in the awful (and incredibly amazing.)
Aug 29, 2012 - Day # 21- Post reconstruction appt update
Bad news. No lower body liposuction. Guess I better get on the treadmill. (All four drains are out!) More specifics later.
A few hours later.... Thinking I can't formulate a post (maybe), but I will say sitting in the breast clinic this afternoon reminded me of why I made this radical mastectomy decision. Judge me if needed but I feel awful for these ladies that sit here who didn't have the luxury of preventative options that I had. Prayers for these women and their journeys..
A few hours later.... Thinking I can't formulate a post (maybe), but I will say sitting in the breast clinic this afternoon reminded me of why I made this radical mastectomy decision. Judge me if needed but I feel awful for these ladies that sit here who didn't have the luxury of preventative options that I had. Prayers for these women and their journeys..
Aug 29, 2012 - Day # 21 - Pesky little suckers!
So there is this one little pesky little drain, whom I've hated all along more than the others (under normal circumstances I would feel extremely guilty about that. I used to line up all the dolls on my bed so one wasn't left out). Anyway, this drain #3 decided in the last 24 hours to start dumping out more. Well let's just say, if this drain keeps me from getting them pulled out, not only will I be getting free lower body liposuction from this surgeon (yesterday's post), but this drain #3 is going to be slandered, mauled, talked about for centuries to come all over social media. The power of words, buster!
Disclaimer: this author in no way supports bullying. And finds it absolutely unacceptable and intolerable with the exception of drains.
Aug 27, 2012 - Day # 21 - Bra burning
Surgical bra burning...stay tuned for more up to the minute notice in upcoming weeks.
Aug 28, 2012 - Day # 20 - Seven Bras
Day #20: I'm not sure if I've mentioned this or not, but just so there is no mistaken assumption of adoration, I sure do detest these drains. All stinking four of them, although there are two I loathe a bit more than the others. So I feel worthy of having a go away party full of good riddance and best of luck to the four miserable suckers!
When: Wednesday (tomorrow) at 2:45.
Where: Cancer Center Clinic
Who: Lead plastic surgeon He better come with parting gifts in tow (gauze, tape, chew toys for me to bite down on while he pulls them out...and I'm not opposed to cupcakes throw in for good measure.)
And Dear God, all of everything will break loose if he says for any reason they have to stay in another week. He will have to bribe me one more week in exchange for lower body liposuction. It's only fair bartering. This for that. Heave for hoe. I'm willing to forego liposuction though for the sake of all sanity, so hop on that prayer coverage folks! The true celebration will come afterwards when I beg Ron and mom to take me out for dinner on the way home if my stamina will allow it. Surely, an adrenaline high will be my fate for a few hours at least. While, my journey won't come to a close for several weeks to come (He did afterall perform extensive surgery on my pectoral muscle, insert an implant, create a synthetic sling, glue this to that, insert fluff, suture here, suture there) I'm still elated about this drain milestone.
My next milestone in this order will be:
return to life outside these stinking four walls (at least without feeling guilty of sneaking out); resolution of all of this chest pain;
removal of lifting restrictions;
shower By MYSELF;
resumption of exercise;
driving again; back to work.
Think all of that can happen in the next two weeks???? Doubtful, but that is the original agreed on timeline. Six weeks will have flown by! Sort of. Mom is back. Yesterday, she walked in with SEVEN new bras to try out. Having these surgical vests on 24 hours a day was causing all kinds of chaos on my skin and thoracic muscle. Let's talk about pressure points and raw skin. I was in tears simply because of a simple seam. So I'm having to switch bras out about every 12 hours from this to that simple to save my skin. Bet you didn't know that tid bit before this blog post. No underwire. No pushup. No frill. No silk. No nothing but poorly designed 1800s coverage. I am however grateful to be out of the Velcro. So mom, you did very well!!! And quite frankly, what used to fit, fits no more. I've gained weight in this glorious journey. Stress weight no doubt, but you know weight gain is a gals worst enemy. Worst enemy. And then, I've downsized in other front line areas. We can blame the plastic surgeon and medical technology for this result. After a mastectomy, you don't have underlying tissue to build on top of unlike super models who are adding to their baseline conditions... so you are at the mercy of 800 grams of less of silicone. (Did we or did we not land a man on the moon?) People, 800 grams is not very much.
Without being overly graphic as this is social media after all, but still maintaining transparency as promised, they are weird. Every mastectomy patient I had talked with...every one of them... said, "Sally, you are going to love the results. They do an amazing job!", or something along those lines. Well let me tell you, I'm not sure I agree. I'm pretty positive I don't. They just aren't me. I look and see something foreign. Great work if this was all I had to compare it to, but I don't. I have a lot to compare it to. I have my pre mastectomy self to compare it to, very flawed as they were, but they were what I had known for 20+ years. They were me, and they were mine. These are not me (ok, so I admit they are now mine) but they are weird. Imagine getting a new set of eyes. Wouldn't that freak you out going to the mirror expecting the beautiful old green hue you have always cherished only to find stinking muddy brown in return? (not that i have anything against brown eyes...they write songs about brown after all.) Or let's try your hands. You've looked at those a million times in your life. Try lopping those off, inserting a new one that is covered in different colors, spots, size, texture, and consistency, and guess what? Now, they are yours! You used to have small petite hands, now you have enormous man hands. Try that on for size!
There is one very distinct difference I have assumed from the get go based on my vast oncology experience both personal and professional. In breast cancer after the diagnosis is confirmed, I imagine you quickly start to view your own breast as dangerous. Out to kill you. Life threatening. And you can't wait to do everything in your power to kill tumor cells, including resorting to mastectomy. Good riddance, so long, can't get them off fast enough. They are killing you so you need them gone!! In preventative/prophylactic mastectomies, as in my case, there really is no problem. No emergency. No life threatening scenario (yet anyway). So you feel like you are trading in something perfectly fine for some imposter in return. When you are large chested, as I was, and when you have had so much radiation in the past that you virtually glow in the dark, you don't have any choices in reconstruction. You get what you get. One option, chosen by a surgeon that you hope likes you and wants the best for you (I happened to luck up here). Wake up from surgery, and there you have it folks! Distorted, taunt, super heavy, strangely smaller, painful, lumpy...Foreign hands! And hands that will need a lot of revision as years pass. Maybe even in a few weeks. New hands! Or in my case new fake "breasts". Imposters. Beautiful on someone else because I've never seen yours before. On me, imposters. His best work with what he had. But still.
So there you have it. Perspective. Other mastectomy patients may disagree, but this is where I am today. All that said, God have me an opportunity to be saved from best cancer that was in my future. (more on that remarkable story later). So for that, these are the best boobs ever! Breast cancer free. Back to what matters. Surgical drains out hopefully tomorrow!!! 2:45. It's where the party is at.
When: Wednesday (tomorrow) at 2:45.
Where: Cancer Center Clinic
Who: Lead plastic surgeon He better come with parting gifts in tow (gauze, tape, chew toys for me to bite down on while he pulls them out...and I'm not opposed to cupcakes throw in for good measure.)
And Dear God, all of everything will break loose if he says for any reason they have to stay in another week. He will have to bribe me one more week in exchange for lower body liposuction. It's only fair bartering. This for that. Heave for hoe. I'm willing to forego liposuction though for the sake of all sanity, so hop on that prayer coverage folks! The true celebration will come afterwards when I beg Ron and mom to take me out for dinner on the way home if my stamina will allow it. Surely, an adrenaline high will be my fate for a few hours at least. While, my journey won't come to a close for several weeks to come (He did afterall perform extensive surgery on my pectoral muscle, insert an implant, create a synthetic sling, glue this to that, insert fluff, suture here, suture there) I'm still elated about this drain milestone.
My next milestone in this order will be:
return to life outside these stinking four walls (at least without feeling guilty of sneaking out); resolution of all of this chest pain;
removal of lifting restrictions;
shower By MYSELF;
resumption of exercise;
driving again; back to work.
Think all of that can happen in the next two weeks???? Doubtful, but that is the original agreed on timeline. Six weeks will have flown by! Sort of. Mom is back. Yesterday, she walked in with SEVEN new bras to try out. Having these surgical vests on 24 hours a day was causing all kinds of chaos on my skin and thoracic muscle. Let's talk about pressure points and raw skin. I was in tears simply because of a simple seam. So I'm having to switch bras out about every 12 hours from this to that simple to save my skin. Bet you didn't know that tid bit before this blog post. No underwire. No pushup. No frill. No silk. No nothing but poorly designed 1800s coverage. I am however grateful to be out of the Velcro. So mom, you did very well!!! And quite frankly, what used to fit, fits no more. I've gained weight in this glorious journey. Stress weight no doubt, but you know weight gain is a gals worst enemy. Worst enemy. And then, I've downsized in other front line areas. We can blame the plastic surgeon and medical technology for this result. After a mastectomy, you don't have underlying tissue to build on top of unlike super models who are adding to their baseline conditions... so you are at the mercy of 800 grams of less of silicone. (Did we or did we not land a man on the moon?) People, 800 grams is not very much.
Without being overly graphic as this is social media after all, but still maintaining transparency as promised, they are weird. Every mastectomy patient I had talked with...every one of them... said, "Sally, you are going to love the results. They do an amazing job!", or something along those lines. Well let me tell you, I'm not sure I agree. I'm pretty positive I don't. They just aren't me. I look and see something foreign. Great work if this was all I had to compare it to, but I don't. I have a lot to compare it to. I have my pre mastectomy self to compare it to, very flawed as they were, but they were what I had known for 20+ years. They were me, and they were mine. These are not me (ok, so I admit they are now mine) but they are weird. Imagine getting a new set of eyes. Wouldn't that freak you out going to the mirror expecting the beautiful old green hue you have always cherished only to find stinking muddy brown in return? (not that i have anything against brown eyes...they write songs about brown after all.) Or let's try your hands. You've looked at those a million times in your life. Try lopping those off, inserting a new one that is covered in different colors, spots, size, texture, and consistency, and guess what? Now, they are yours! You used to have small petite hands, now you have enormous man hands. Try that on for size!
There is one very distinct difference I have assumed from the get go based on my vast oncology experience both personal and professional. In breast cancer after the diagnosis is confirmed, I imagine you quickly start to view your own breast as dangerous. Out to kill you. Life threatening. And you can't wait to do everything in your power to kill tumor cells, including resorting to mastectomy. Good riddance, so long, can't get them off fast enough. They are killing you so you need them gone!! In preventative/prophylactic mastectomies, as in my case, there really is no problem. No emergency. No life threatening scenario (yet anyway). So you feel like you are trading in something perfectly fine for some imposter in return. When you are large chested, as I was, and when you have had so much radiation in the past that you virtually glow in the dark, you don't have any choices in reconstruction. You get what you get. One option, chosen by a surgeon that you hope likes you and wants the best for you (I happened to luck up here). Wake up from surgery, and there you have it folks! Distorted, taunt, super heavy, strangely smaller, painful, lumpy...Foreign hands! And hands that will need a lot of revision as years pass. Maybe even in a few weeks. New hands! Or in my case new fake "breasts". Imposters. Beautiful on someone else because I've never seen yours before. On me, imposters. His best work with what he had. But still.
So there you have it. Perspective. Other mastectomy patients may disagree, but this is where I am today. All that said, God have me an opportunity to be saved from best cancer that was in my future. (more on that remarkable story later). So for that, these are the best boobs ever! Breast cancer free. Back to what matters. Surgical drains out hopefully tomorrow!!! 2:45. It's where the party is at.
Aug 21, 2012 - Day # 14 - God's Interventions (posted out of order)
Day 14: There is absolutely no way that this journey doesn't have God's interventions written all over it. All over it! It's oozing mercy and provision and I love that. (I also don't know how women go through these types of decisions without having Jesus' saving grace in their life. I would have had a much different outcome without my faith in his charting the course.) Every twist and turn defied medical reason. Both surgeons stand amazed at what could have been verses where we are.
Plausible outcome: mastectomy, about a week later poor blood flow, thus leading to tissue loss and possibly a skin graft. Delayed reconstruction up to 6 months for best outcome, then definite use of extenders to stretch out the muscle to hold the implant.
What happened: Prayer! And lots of it from so many people, some I don't even know. Mastectomy, a week later excellent blood flow, a week later (not six months) insertion of implants (not extenders) and so far these new drains are way better than the old ones. I'm so much more comfortable in these and my anxiety is almost non-existent. (flashback to those awful nights we had last week. See previous posts). All of this defied what we expected.
Now, that doesn't mean I see God's hand only because our course defied medicine and went well, I also see God in the chaos of this journey. I truly feel I needed to go through the emotional slump to gain a few things: belief in genuine friendship, empathy for mastectomy patients, a stronger relationship with family and spouse, and the list goes on. I truly struggled last week before reconstruction started. I felt scarred, damaged, emotionally broken, frustrated at the restrictions..... It didn't make sense to me why I struggled as hard as I did. I'm usually pretty solid when life throws you curve balls. I'm the one you want to be carrying for you in the medical emergency. I'm level headed in crisis. I know how to make solid decisions under stress. I know how to find positivity in just about anything. Well let me tell you that changed last week. I literally hyper ventilated on every occasion when I saw what was under the bandages. I sobbed. I grew angry. And I was in pain. There wasn't a single point in the first 6 days where I didn't hurt despite good narcotics. And it didn't make sense to me because I'm just not built that way. Pain is a powerful motivator and can wreck every part of your day. I was exhausted, I was broken, I was needing both physical and emotional restoration. And I needed to be all of those things to appreciate where I am now and the role God played in this, as well as the role of each of you. I needed to be reminded of faithful friendship, and your genuine concern for me spoke volumes to my heart. I reconnected. I'm becoming restored.
Today has no resemblance of previous days. Mom says I have my spunk back. I have a new glow. Gone are the tears (so far). Gone is the exhaustion. Gone is the hyper ventilation. I'm over the hump. And ready for the next steps. We will see what tomorrow brings as I'm starting to feel uncomfortable at the surgery sights. But I'm hopeful.
This week I'm restricted from just about everything. I do get to shower after 48 hrs even with the drains in. That should be interesting. I can't lift or hardly even move my arms (picture a pterodactyl with super short arms) -both due to pain and surgeons orders.
No walking at all except for necessity to the bathroom and back per se. A week from today we have our next appt, we are hopeful all four drains will come out. I will be tightly "packaged" for several weeks and hopefully freedom with life as I used to know it in 2 months. I look back and see the trivial aspects of this journey and almost laugh at how big of a deal this became for a month of miserable, but it did. For whatever reason we want to cling to, this mastectomy became a super big deal for me. Compare it to what other people really go through in life and this seems silly. (I watched "seven pounds" last night with mom. Talk about perspective.) But it's my journey and it affected me (temporarily).
Thank you for letting me use this venue to process. I needed to get these thoughts out of my head. What started out as updates for you became processing for me.
Highlight of yesterday, feeling amazing (6 hours after surgery! I think the anesthesia was still in effect) and staying up until midnight with Ron and mom watching movies. Priceless.
Plausible outcome: mastectomy, about a week later poor blood flow, thus leading to tissue loss and possibly a skin graft. Delayed reconstruction up to 6 months for best outcome, then definite use of extenders to stretch out the muscle to hold the implant.
What happened: Prayer! And lots of it from so many people, some I don't even know. Mastectomy, a week later excellent blood flow, a week later (not six months) insertion of implants (not extenders) and so far these new drains are way better than the old ones. I'm so much more comfortable in these and my anxiety is almost non-existent. (flashback to those awful nights we had last week. See previous posts). All of this defied what we expected.
Now, that doesn't mean I see God's hand only because our course defied medicine and went well, I also see God in the chaos of this journey. I truly feel I needed to go through the emotional slump to gain a few things: belief in genuine friendship, empathy for mastectomy patients, a stronger relationship with family and spouse, and the list goes on. I truly struggled last week before reconstruction started. I felt scarred, damaged, emotionally broken, frustrated at the restrictions..... It didn't make sense to me why I struggled as hard as I did. I'm usually pretty solid when life throws you curve balls. I'm the one you want to be carrying for you in the medical emergency. I'm level headed in crisis. I know how to make solid decisions under stress. I know how to find positivity in just about anything. Well let me tell you that changed last week. I literally hyper ventilated on every occasion when I saw what was under the bandages. I sobbed. I grew angry. And I was in pain. There wasn't a single point in the first 6 days where I didn't hurt despite good narcotics. And it didn't make sense to me because I'm just not built that way. Pain is a powerful motivator and can wreck every part of your day. I was exhausted, I was broken, I was needing both physical and emotional restoration. And I needed to be all of those things to appreciate where I am now and the role God played in this, as well as the role of each of you. I needed to be reminded of faithful friendship, and your genuine concern for me spoke volumes to my heart. I reconnected. I'm becoming restored.
Today has no resemblance of previous days. Mom says I have my spunk back. I have a new glow. Gone are the tears (so far). Gone is the exhaustion. Gone is the hyper ventilation. I'm over the hump. And ready for the next steps. We will see what tomorrow brings as I'm starting to feel uncomfortable at the surgery sights. But I'm hopeful.
This week I'm restricted from just about everything. I do get to shower after 48 hrs even with the drains in. That should be interesting. I can't lift or hardly even move my arms (picture a pterodactyl with super short arms) -both due to pain and surgeons orders.
No walking at all except for necessity to the bathroom and back per se. A week from today we have our next appt, we are hopeful all four drains will come out. I will be tightly "packaged" for several weeks and hopefully freedom with life as I used to know it in 2 months. I look back and see the trivial aspects of this journey and almost laugh at how big of a deal this became for a month of miserable, but it did. For whatever reason we want to cling to, this mastectomy became a super big deal for me. Compare it to what other people really go through in life and this seems silly. (I watched "seven pounds" last night with mom. Talk about perspective.) But it's my journey and it affected me (temporarily).
Thank you for letting me use this venue to process. I needed to get these thoughts out of my head. What started out as updates for you became processing for me.
Highlight of yesterday, feeling amazing (6 hours after surgery! I think the anesthesia was still in effect) and staying up until midnight with Ron and mom watching movies. Priceless.
Aug 26, 2012 - Day # 19 - Cards in the mail
Some lady named Amy Moore is sending me a card in the mail every single day! She must be some special girl's best sister ever! And I'm still getting cards from all over eastern N.C. From people I don't even know. Seriously worried about the weight on top of my mantle. Card-o-paloosa! — with Kristi Hardison and Amy J Moore.
Aug 25, 2012 - A rendering of Aug 7 - Day #0; Part 2 (First surgery)
Day 0 Part 2: Cream colored ceiling. Strange lady sitting next to me writing in some blue binder. Weird tight feeling on my chest. IV line hooked to a clear bag above my head. Awful sore throat. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Must-sit-up. Super bad idea. Lady leans over to guide my head back to the pillow. Faint realization.... I must be in recovery and this strange lady must be my surgical nurse. More realization...Oh no, it really happened! Where is Ron???? I really needed him here when I woke up. That was so important to me. Where is he???
Glancing down, I can see every bit of my abdomen. My pelvis. My leg. My foot. NOT my breasts! They really are gone. My thoughts were not of how great this is to no longer be at risk for breast cancer. Nor of how great it is that we have these medical advances available to women like me. Not of God's unfailing provisions. My thoughts were instead of my selfish human perspective of "they truly are gone." Under this surgical vest, there lie absolutely nothing. Nada, zilcho, zero. Instead, scarred leftover tissue that made the cut for use later in reconstruction. Deflated pouches of nothingness. 20 years of development gone in a poof! Abra cadabra. Zippity Zam. 4 surgical hours. Gone! Fast shallow breathing. "I need you to get my husband!!!!" "Please, I need Ron!" It wasn't frantic, just a super strong request that got her attention.
There is a lot of grey here. I remember bits and pieces. Some of this, some of that. Rolling down to my hospital room for my overnight stay. Climbing out of bed to go to the bathroom with four nurses helping my transit (I was super groggy and wobbly). I honestly didn't fully know where we were. That grogginess had an intense hold on me. Then, the unthinkable...vomiting. Nothing like vomiting while walking. Vomiting after chest surgery where every movement can be felt down to your toes. Vomiting on someone else's shoe. Vomiting when you haven't eaten in 12+ hours. Now, desperately wanting to make it to that bed two feet away without face planting myself in a drunken stupor on the not so soothing cream color vinyl floor. Why is my backside so cold? Please don't tell me I walked down the hallway with my gown wide open. Please, I know some of these people! Chick-fil-A. Wonder if someone can get that for me? Can someone PLEASE make that beeping sound stop! (See, anesthesia really messes with your mind).
We made it through the evening with my thoughts slowly returning to rational with each passing hour. I did get my chicken sandwich, but I guess the airway tube scratched up my throat so much I couldn't really eat it. But, not for lack of trying. Then, it got dark. I have no idea what time it was, but Ron was sacked out in a recliner beside my bed. A faint yellow light trickled in under the door and blue lights from my infusion pump making the room an odd greenish hue. It's funny to me that I remember that so vividly. I lay starting at the ceiling wide awake feeling pretty lonely...and weird...and different. (Recall: I'd had a lovely four hour drug induced surgical nap earlier in the day so I felt no need to sleep.) Once again groggy from the repetition of pain meds every three hours. Because the continuously infusing IV fluids, I was ringing the call bell every 2 hours or less for yet another wobbly shuffle back to the bathroom. Surely, I was becoming a high maintenance patient nurses talk about out at the front desk. "Oh no, there's Old Lady McCollum's bell again. How many times can one person need to go to the bathroom? All she says is 'Get me this, get me that'. Rock, paper, scissors. Karen loses and heads to my room. But those nurses were oh so kind when they crossed my threshold. Happily getting me ice chips, or meds, or escorting me back and forth for the umpteenth time. Always smiling despite it being three in the morning on a super long shift with all rooms full. Grateful was I. Grateful. And I tried to consciously remember to thank them at every turn. I wanted to be low maintenance. But those stupid IV fluids...
Then, at six, in came the surgical fellow and I lit up like a Rockefeller Christmas tree. See, I knew that surgical fellows meant morning rounds and that was the only thing standing in my way from a paid ticket out of here and a car ride home to a comfy cozy no more wide open surgical gowns, IV lines, loud beeping noises, too tight compression stocking living room! Come in, say what you need to say. Blah, blah Percocet every four hours, blah blah sponge baths, blah blah this and blah blah that. Surely Ron was getting all of this down. Come on very nice fellow, can't you be any quicker? My couch is calling my name.
Fellow : "Mrs. McCollum, I need to take off your vest so we can check the surgical incisions..." SCREECHING halt!!!!! Slam on the brakes! Hold all your stinking horses. Wide eyed terror filled expression (Me, not the fellow).
Me thinking: Huh? What??? Where's my lead surgeon who told me not to even THINK about opening it and looking? You are doing what and why? This very minute?
Background: Lead surgeon was brilliant in instructing me not to open it for any reason. She knew nothing good could come of me seeing her master piece (it's common knowledge surgeons love to show off their work.) Yet she, being the heart felt clinician that she was -as you would have to be working in breast oncology- wanted to save me from seeing the aftermath. She knew from my very first consult appointment that I was overly grief stricken about the period between surgeries. She had seen the tears as she described the before and after. She even got watery eyes with me. So she brillantly disguised the true intent (salvaging my sanity) with medical lingo and reasoning to camouflage the plan. "Sally, do not look under this bandage".
Fellow: "It's policy for me to check the incision sight to ensure you are safe for discharge."
And there in lie my quandary. If I want to go home, I have to let this 20 something young man, fellow in training might I add, open up this surgical vest for him, myself, and Ron to view it's content. You see, I had absolutely no plans to let ANYONE see this handiwork. Surgery #1. Stay all bandaged up for two weeks. Surgery #2. Voila! Normal chest again! This silly surgeon wanna-be is destroying my brilliant, sanity saving, well devised and lead surgeon approved master plan. What-is-he-doing???
The unmistakable sound of Velcro. (Insert the now famous fast paced shallow breathing.) Right side off. Left side off. All I could think was Holy moly! That looks awful. More than awful. Devastatingly awful. Unrecognizable. Not of this world. Embarrassingly horrible. First, one tear down this cheek, then their watery salty friends join in for good measure because they hate to be left out.
Super delightful fellow in training closes the vest back up, hands me my paper work with last minute instructions and quietly walks out the door with well wishes floating in the air behind him. I, however, sat dazed and speechless staring at my now closed vest. What once was a well concealed package with mysterious and only faintly imaginable contents now became a fully discovered, undeniable, messed up reality. The image now burned into every single memory cell of my brain ready to cause me anguish for some time to come. Don't get me wrong, Fellow was delightful and under any other circumstance extremely likable. Professional and thorough. Rule follower. But at this very second, he was Judus with a shiny new coin in his hand after the last supper. And now my heart, my positive demeanor, and master plan sat crumbled on the hospital floor. And there sat my amazing Ron, who had just seen the unfolded package himself, holding my hand.
Afterward: As irony would have it, 15 minutes later the lead surgeon walked in with her trade mark friendly smile to check on me. "Sally, don't forget to just keep it all bandaged up until our next appt. There's no need for you to ever open it or look at it. It will heal best if you just leave it alone until our next appointment." - She had driven in super early in attempt to beat the rule following fellow to my room. I tell her it's too late. She had just missed him. Her face falls when I told her he checked the incision. Now her well intended thoughtful master plan for me lie crumbled next to my pieces on the hospital floor. She, too, stood holding my hand.
In hindsight, I imagine God even had a purpose for this expecting unveiling and for this Judas. I'm still sorting what that might be. Maybe I needed that experience. Maybe, I require a true vision of the mastectomy leftovers to better prepare other women that might struggle with the emotional adjustments of delayed reconstruction. Or just maybe that event wasn't even for me, but rather for something in the kind Fellow's journey. After all, I've always thought a Christian's life is rarely for the benefit of self but more about becoming a vessel focused on impacting the life of others. I may never know the true why of that morning. But I do know God has purpose. He has a strategic kingdom impacting plan. He sees my big picture and he sees your big picture. Even in the "awful".
Must-sit-up. Super bad idea. Lady leans over to guide my head back to the pillow. Faint realization.... I must be in recovery and this strange lady must be my surgical nurse. More realization...Oh no, it really happened! Where is Ron???? I really needed him here when I woke up. That was so important to me. Where is he???
Glancing down, I can see every bit of my abdomen. My pelvis. My leg. My foot. NOT my breasts! They really are gone. My thoughts were not of how great this is to no longer be at risk for breast cancer. Nor of how great it is that we have these medical advances available to women like me. Not of God's unfailing provisions. My thoughts were instead of my selfish human perspective of "they truly are gone." Under this surgical vest, there lie absolutely nothing. Nada, zilcho, zero. Instead, scarred leftover tissue that made the cut for use later in reconstruction. Deflated pouches of nothingness. 20 years of development gone in a poof! Abra cadabra. Zippity Zam. 4 surgical hours. Gone! Fast shallow breathing. "I need you to get my husband!!!!" "Please, I need Ron!" It wasn't frantic, just a super strong request that got her attention.
There is a lot of grey here. I remember bits and pieces. Some of this, some of that. Rolling down to my hospital room for my overnight stay. Climbing out of bed to go to the bathroom with four nurses helping my transit (I was super groggy and wobbly). I honestly didn't fully know where we were. That grogginess had an intense hold on me. Then, the unthinkable...vomiting. Nothing like vomiting while walking. Vomiting after chest surgery where every movement can be felt down to your toes. Vomiting on someone else's shoe. Vomiting when you haven't eaten in 12+ hours. Now, desperately wanting to make it to that bed two feet away without face planting myself in a drunken stupor on the not so soothing cream color vinyl floor. Why is my backside so cold? Please don't tell me I walked down the hallway with my gown wide open. Please, I know some of these people! Chick-fil-A. Wonder if someone can get that for me? Can someone PLEASE make that beeping sound stop! (See, anesthesia really messes with your mind).
We made it through the evening with my thoughts slowly returning to rational with each passing hour. I did get my chicken sandwich, but I guess the airway tube scratched up my throat so much I couldn't really eat it. But, not for lack of trying. Then, it got dark. I have no idea what time it was, but Ron was sacked out in a recliner beside my bed. A faint yellow light trickled in under the door and blue lights from my infusion pump making the room an odd greenish hue. It's funny to me that I remember that so vividly. I lay starting at the ceiling wide awake feeling pretty lonely...and weird...and different. (Recall: I'd had a lovely four hour drug induced surgical nap earlier in the day so I felt no need to sleep.) Once again groggy from the repetition of pain meds every three hours. Because the continuously infusing IV fluids, I was ringing the call bell every 2 hours or less for yet another wobbly shuffle back to the bathroom. Surely, I was becoming a high maintenance patient nurses talk about out at the front desk. "Oh no, there's Old Lady McCollum's bell again. How many times can one person need to go to the bathroom? All she says is 'Get me this, get me that'. Rock, paper, scissors. Karen loses and heads to my room. But those nurses were oh so kind when they crossed my threshold. Happily getting me ice chips, or meds, or escorting me back and forth for the umpteenth time. Always smiling despite it being three in the morning on a super long shift with all rooms full. Grateful was I. Grateful. And I tried to consciously remember to thank them at every turn. I wanted to be low maintenance. But those stupid IV fluids...
Then, at six, in came the surgical fellow and I lit up like a Rockefeller Christmas tree. See, I knew that surgical fellows meant morning rounds and that was the only thing standing in my way from a paid ticket out of here and a car ride home to a comfy cozy no more wide open surgical gowns, IV lines, loud beeping noises, too tight compression stocking living room! Come in, say what you need to say. Blah, blah Percocet every four hours, blah blah sponge baths, blah blah this and blah blah that. Surely Ron was getting all of this down. Come on very nice fellow, can't you be any quicker? My couch is calling my name.
Fellow : "Mrs. McCollum, I need to take off your vest so we can check the surgical incisions..." SCREECHING halt!!!!! Slam on the brakes! Hold all your stinking horses. Wide eyed terror filled expression (Me, not the fellow).
Me thinking: Huh? What??? Where's my lead surgeon who told me not to even THINK about opening it and looking? You are doing what and why? This very minute?
Background: Lead surgeon was brilliant in instructing me not to open it for any reason. She knew nothing good could come of me seeing her master piece (it's common knowledge surgeons love to show off their work.) Yet she, being the heart felt clinician that she was -as you would have to be working in breast oncology- wanted to save me from seeing the aftermath. She knew from my very first consult appointment that I was overly grief stricken about the period between surgeries. She had seen the tears as she described the before and after. She even got watery eyes with me. So she brillantly disguised the true intent (salvaging my sanity) with medical lingo and reasoning to camouflage the plan. "Sally, do not look under this bandage".
Fellow: "It's policy for me to check the incision sight to ensure you are safe for discharge."
And there in lie my quandary. If I want to go home, I have to let this 20 something young man, fellow in training might I add, open up this surgical vest for him, myself, and Ron to view it's content. You see, I had absolutely no plans to let ANYONE see this handiwork. Surgery #1. Stay all bandaged up for two weeks. Surgery #2. Voila! Normal chest again! This silly surgeon wanna-be is destroying my brilliant, sanity saving, well devised and lead surgeon approved master plan. What-is-he-doing???
The unmistakable sound of Velcro. (Insert the now famous fast paced shallow breathing.) Right side off. Left side off. All I could think was Holy moly! That looks awful. More than awful. Devastatingly awful. Unrecognizable. Not of this world. Embarrassingly horrible. First, one tear down this cheek, then their watery salty friends join in for good measure because they hate to be left out.
Super delightful fellow in training closes the vest back up, hands me my paper work with last minute instructions and quietly walks out the door with well wishes floating in the air behind him. I, however, sat dazed and speechless staring at my now closed vest. What once was a well concealed package with mysterious and only faintly imaginable contents now became a fully discovered, undeniable, messed up reality. The image now burned into every single memory cell of my brain ready to cause me anguish for some time to come. Don't get me wrong, Fellow was delightful and under any other circumstance extremely likable. Professional and thorough. Rule follower. But at this very second, he was Judus with a shiny new coin in his hand after the last supper. And now my heart, my positive demeanor, and master plan sat crumbled on the hospital floor. And there sat my amazing Ron, who had just seen the unfolded package himself, holding my hand.
Afterward: As irony would have it, 15 minutes later the lead surgeon walked in with her trade mark friendly smile to check on me. "Sally, don't forget to just keep it all bandaged up until our next appt. There's no need for you to ever open it or look at it. It will heal best if you just leave it alone until our next appointment." - She had driven in super early in attempt to beat the rule following fellow to my room. I tell her it's too late. She had just missed him. Her face falls when I told her he checked the incision. Now her well intended thoughtful master plan for me lie crumbled next to my pieces on the hospital floor. She, too, stood holding my hand.
In hindsight, I imagine God even had a purpose for this expecting unveiling and for this Judas. I'm still sorting what that might be. Maybe I needed that experience. Maybe, I require a true vision of the mastectomy leftovers to better prepare other women that might struggle with the emotional adjustments of delayed reconstruction. Or just maybe that event wasn't even for me, but rather for something in the kind Fellow's journey. After all, I've always thought a Christian's life is rarely for the benefit of self but more about becoming a vessel focused on impacting the life of others. I may never know the true why of that morning. But I do know God has purpose. He has a strategic kingdom impacting plan. He sees my big picture and he sees your big picture. Even in the "awful".
Aug 25, 2012 - A rendering of Aug 7- Day #0, Part 1 (First surgery)
Day 0 Part 1: I realize I never captured the actual day of the mastectomy. Early on, I didn't yet know if I could commit to going public with this specific journey. I wanted to advocate, but was i ready to put it all out there? It seemed all to personal a topic. It seemed foreign. It seemed unreal. Well it quickly became very real when we got in the car that morning to go to the hospital. I don't even recall what we talked about in the car. I do recall my saying everything is going to be different when I wake up and I warned Ron I didn't know how I was going to react. I'd pictured it a hundred times by now and I knew it would be not so good but reality is powerful. This part made me very nervous.
When we got there and walked in, there sat my mom, dad, sister, in laws, and sister in law. That got me! Just to know they came out of support for this decision we had made. It made my moment.
"Mrs. McCollum, please come to the registration desk." I had put off signing in to the very last minute. I didn't want then to know I was there early for fear they would take me back early. Delay, delay, delay. The kindest lady say at the desk. She asked my name, address, etc. Then verified I was in for a double mastectomy. Well, darn it. Hearing that word "mastectomy", and I busted our into tears again. The precious lady responded with " you're beautiful now and this won't change anything." I could have kissed her cheek had I not been wiping my face so frantically. I knew that, but boy was that kind for this stranger to say to the girl crying at her check in counter. Angel, I tell ya.
I had to go back by myself at first. Crying the whole way deem the stupid cream colored hallway. They're always cream you know. The poor intake nurse, she must have not even known what to say to me. She just shined her kind smile at me and held my arm. Another angel. Then, the cubical room. Get changed into the lovely air conditioned gowns I adore. The scrub cap. Get my vitals. Start the IV line (it only took four attempts! I'm an iv line nightmare.) Then wait. By myself. While my mind wanders. Wait some more. Wait. Look at the monitors. Notice my super high blood pressure. Wait. Count the heart beats. Make up a song to the rhythm. Wait. Curse the iv line that is killing my arm. Curse hodgkins disease. Curse medical literature. Curse me reading literature. Wait.
Finally, there I see Ron smiling at the cubical curtain. He gets to come back so we can have our final consult with the surgeon. Off comes the gown I so pain stakingly had just put on, fashionably tying it in three places. Out comes her lovely black magic marker. By the end of this, I look very much like a tattoo artist's playground who was testing every pattern available to a wishy washy client. Dots here. Lines there. X marks the spot. She even signed her initials on her handiwork. This is a requirement for all surgeries to verify patient and MD agree what is happening. She is amazing, but really there is NO dignity in this journey. Next, a chat with the anesthesiologist (she knew I was a pharmacist) and in the end a spinal block would be my best friend and fate along with another arsenal of inhaled agents. Then, they ask Ron to leave. Now, why did they have to go and do that? Here come those stupid tears again! I'm a sap. A true sap. For the record: I didn't cry even once with my knee surgeries. If he leaves this room....
Lights, camera, action! I'm in the OR with about 12 clinicians all doing this and that. It's like an ant farm! Last thing I remember is the syringe of the eye catching milky white propofol being hooked in. They know I detest the taste and smell of milk, right? Wonder who that lady is that is holding that tubing? There are those cream walls again. Wonder what Ron is thinking....
When we got there and walked in, there sat my mom, dad, sister, in laws, and sister in law. That got me! Just to know they came out of support for this decision we had made. It made my moment.
"Mrs. McCollum, please come to the registration desk." I had put off signing in to the very last minute. I didn't want then to know I was there early for fear they would take me back early. Delay, delay, delay. The kindest lady say at the desk. She asked my name, address, etc. Then verified I was in for a double mastectomy. Well, darn it. Hearing that word "mastectomy", and I busted our into tears again. The precious lady responded with " you're beautiful now and this won't change anything." I could have kissed her cheek had I not been wiping my face so frantically. I knew that, but boy was that kind for this stranger to say to the girl crying at her check in counter. Angel, I tell ya.
I had to go back by myself at first. Crying the whole way deem the stupid cream colored hallway. They're always cream you know. The poor intake nurse, she must have not even known what to say to me. She just shined her kind smile at me and held my arm. Another angel. Then, the cubical room. Get changed into the lovely air conditioned gowns I adore. The scrub cap. Get my vitals. Start the IV line (it only took four attempts! I'm an iv line nightmare.) Then wait. By myself. While my mind wanders. Wait some more. Wait. Look at the monitors. Notice my super high blood pressure. Wait. Count the heart beats. Make up a song to the rhythm. Wait. Curse the iv line that is killing my arm. Curse hodgkins disease. Curse medical literature. Curse me reading literature. Wait.
Finally, there I see Ron smiling at the cubical curtain. He gets to come back so we can have our final consult with the surgeon. Off comes the gown I so pain stakingly had just put on, fashionably tying it in three places. Out comes her lovely black magic marker. By the end of this, I look very much like a tattoo artist's playground who was testing every pattern available to a wishy washy client. Dots here. Lines there. X marks the spot. She even signed her initials on her handiwork. This is a requirement for all surgeries to verify patient and MD agree what is happening. She is amazing, but really there is NO dignity in this journey. Next, a chat with the anesthesiologist (she knew I was a pharmacist) and in the end a spinal block would be my best friend and fate along with another arsenal of inhaled agents. Then, they ask Ron to leave. Now, why did they have to go and do that? Here come those stupid tears again! I'm a sap. A true sap. For the record: I didn't cry even once with my knee surgeries. If he leaves this room....
Lights, camera, action! I'm in the OR with about 12 clinicians all doing this and that. It's like an ant farm! Last thing I remember is the syringe of the eye catching milky white propofol being hooked in. They know I detest the taste and smell of milk, right? Wonder who that lady is that is holding that tubing? There are those cream walls again. Wonder what Ron is thinking....
Aug 25, 2012 - Day # 18 - Breaking out
I breaking out of here tonight even if it kills me. (Shhh! Our secret!) A craving for sushi calls for desperate measures. I'm going stealth ninja.
Four hours later.... Best-breakout-ever! I dressed in black so I would blend in with the night, sat down low in the back seat of the car with tinted windows, held my belly to disguise myself as a pregnant woman, talked without making eye contact with the man taking our order, and held my head low while shuffling back to the car (sadly all of those things are true but can be explained by the mastectomy, however it works well for the ninja story). The only thing missing was super stealth speed. I just didn't have that in me to muster up.
Four hours later.... Best-breakout-ever! I dressed in black so I would blend in with the night, sat down low in the back seat of the car with tinted windows, held my belly to disguise myself as a pregnant woman, talked without making eye contact with the man taking our order, and held my head low while shuffling back to the car (sadly all of those things are true but can be explained by the mastectomy, however it works well for the ninja story). The only thing missing was super stealth speed. I just didn't have that in me to muster up.
Aug 24, 2012 - Day # 17 - Enough!
Have I mentioned I'm done? Over this. Enough! It's bad when you are even dreading the pillow throne and its lack of comfort. Please let tomorrow be a tad more successful.
Aug 24, 2012 - Day # 17 - No room for dignity
Day 17: Long gone are the signs of my spunk, my zeal, the new novelty of it all, the "what's around the next corner" outlook. Today, I'm blah, blah, blah with a little not feel good thrown in for good measure. Last night, the pillow throne was arranged and rearranged upwards of four times and still her highness felt miserable. Some inconsolable pain at my drain sight and some abdominal cramping and weakness had the tears back. Being stuck in this house with five more days to go (if we are lucky and things go as planned) deflates me. I need a dinner out. I need a trip to the store to buy anything at all. I might would even settle for a ride in the car up and down the 20 ft driveway. I'm like an eager beagle sitting at the front door panting, pacing, jumping, scratching, waiting for his owner to get home for the afternoon run. Me, no jumping, just sitting instead. Deflated. Done. Over this.
Transparency, right?
There's also no room for dignity in this process either. Everyone in this house has seen my every nook and cranny between sponge baths, showers, bandage revisions, and bathroom visits when I can't move my arms. A real good time for everyone involved. (Mom deserves an award.) Yesterday, after our drain mishap, mom and i worked myself into 4 different surgical vests/sports bras trying to find something comfortable around these four drains. Again, all while not being able to lift my arms. I can't even smell a hint of dignity. Not a puff or a poof or even a particle.
But.... I know there's always tomorrow. So there is a slight glimpse of positivity left. Everybody has a slump day to feel what you need to feel. Tomorrow, the ole Sally optimist will be back in full force. Surely.
Meanwhile, I'm craving Chili's chips and salsa. Maybe some homemade guacamole on the side. Wonder how Ron is with an avocado.
Transparency, right?
There's also no room for dignity in this process either. Everyone in this house has seen my every nook and cranny between sponge baths, showers, bandage revisions, and bathroom visits when I can't move my arms. A real good time for everyone involved. (Mom deserves an award.) Yesterday, after our drain mishap, mom and i worked myself into 4 different surgical vests/sports bras trying to find something comfortable around these four drains. Again, all while not being able to lift my arms. I can't even smell a hint of dignity. Not a puff or a poof or even a particle.
But.... I know there's always tomorrow. So there is a slight glimpse of positivity left. Everybody has a slump day to feel what you need to feel. Tomorrow, the ole Sally optimist will be back in full force. Surely.
Meanwhile, I'm craving Chili's chips and salsa. Maybe some homemade guacamole on the side. Wonder how Ron is with an avocado.
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