March 20, 2015 - My house is not my home.

I can't adequately explain the timing of this picture, which most have you have seen by now via my social media page, but to say it had a profound impact on me in my "tiny enormous life" adventure (see link here to catch up Enormous Tiny Life) would be an understatement of grand proportions. I wish you could have been in my head the many minutes prior to opening my garage door that morning (anxiety, selfishness, greed) and then again in the many hours afterwards (hope, trust, faith) in seeing this view. That moment of "voila, I make all things whole!".  My mind: the contrast as of speckled to solid, gelatinous to sturdy, wavering to confident, pitiful to whole. I, in a stark moment, became acutely confident of God's sovereignty when he calls to you to trust in him.

Ron and I have been seeking clarity and discernment in an issue that matters all to much to me. In our quest to find tiny, we are being prompted, asked, tempted(?)  to give up something quite precious and comfortable. Our house. My perfect little house of the exact proportions suited to my needs. The right level of comfort and content and location. My dream house of reasonable dreams. The house that made perfect human sense for the state of life in which I find myself.  And to my introverted self, my haven. MY home. What???

Being prompted, asked, tempted (?) to give up your home can bring you to your knees in a few seconds flat. Take my sweater - yes that one that I couldn't part with in my closet because I wore it twice last year - as it is certainly now very easy to give up in comparison, but do not take my home. Everything is relative, right? And yet there it sits, the prompting, the asking, the tempting, day after day as I find myself swinging from greed, to trust, to disbelief, to pride, back to trusting, then straight to the greed of square footage funneling in the vat of mindfulness all in a span of 3 minutes. This confrontation of faith versus self is seriously challenging and takes a toll on every moment of your day! Give up our home? Anything but that. I'm happy to offer you my material anything else.

What started as a prompting to be more purposeful in our days, and more in tune with having a little less of the American dream, became a prodding of minimization and freeing up our finances and lifestyles to whatever was around the next corner for us, not by our planning and manipulating, but by God's choosing for us...whatever that may be. There wasn't a stark revelation, but rather an underlying current moving us to toward less of this and more of that. A desire to be more aligned and better tuned so that we were simply better at life. It's murky in that we have no idea what that will look like, but very clear at the same time that only good will come of that. And in that process our "movie screen" paused on a picture of our house, something we held very dear. (I blame Ron. He started all of this. Wink). My house, which represents everything my soul does not. And it holds my everything. Every tangible possession I've collected throughout. It's my treasure collector. It's my safe zone. It's how I shut the rest of the world out after a frustrating job-filled day with one closing of the garage door. And there the question was being brought to the forefront "can you give up your house?". It was a definite change in events and out of left field. It came screeching around the corner in Amtrak Speed and precision. But it was certainly not on our schedule and surely it wasn't pulling into our station. With one sound of the train whistle, the movie plot got play-dough thick.

As we continue to sort through the current character development plot, I am finding that I'm not entirely sure if it is a specific outcome that is to be reached. I'm not sure this house or that house is the end point. Current square footage, lesser square footage, more square footage. Current zip code, different zip code, no zip code. I believe it all can bring great things when you heart is aligned. But I am quite assured instead that this process of trying to hear God's voice is growing Ron and I in ways that had not been measurable before. Am I WILLING to leave it all behind? That is the first most evident question we are being asked. This short month of contemplate is taking us places we had not traversed in the 6 years prior, and the richness of that is astounding. For our marriage, for our trust in God's provisions, for our view of the world around us, and for introspective searching and revealing of the condition of our hearts.  I'm not confident God is commanding me to leave my home, this structure of plank and nail, but rather revealing to us the whether we love him enough to do that which we would have previously considered absurd if he were to ask us t, particularly when the outcome is not yet known. Our pride and greed had us in a fingertip grip of massive proportions to the frame of our dwelling door. And in that we are finding that living a life fully devoted to him is willingness to leave it all behind if asked. And to recognize that not only in that will you find content, but you will find fulfillment and joy beyond anything imaginable in plank and nail. This house is not my home. The planks of wood not my confident. This garden tub not my sanctuary. And I'm beyond certain that my life through him is my eternal reward. So step away from me, luxury granite counter top! You shall have no hold over me!  (....though for full disclosure just last night when viewing another house, I was desperately embracing my 2 car garage. I'm trying, I'm not perfect. It's a struggle that is very real for us all.
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Our conflict seems absurd on a secular level. Most of those around us will find us idiotic. And that is not lost on me. (Who leaves their "perfect house" when there isn't a reason to? No job loss, no relocation orders, no need for more space.) It makes no sense. We certainly aren't all on the same path here in life. But he path for Ron and I is ours and we are right in the middle of it and it's our Here and Now. Are we willing to let our faith be our walk? I know not where I will lay my head 4 months from now, but I know where I want to lay my heart. May I be more in tune tomorrow than I am today.

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Disclaimer: Before you abandon this blog ship, I do realize these past 2 posts have drifted quite a ways from the blogging of mastectomy. And for that I offer awareness of my faux pas. Mastectomy is a piece of my whole. Surgery #6 in August will bring us all back around in no time. For now, I am basking in a few months of life outside of mastectomy and giving you a glimpse of the rest of me. Maybe next week I will be back to the hilarity that can be found in my adventures at the grocery store. Commitment issues don't bode well when picking out fresh mozzarella (or new houses for that matter!).
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For extra reading that landed on my plate this week: 

1)  Homesick - by DesiringGod.org)

March 17, 2015 - The enormous tiny life

I'm on a tiny journey. I'm not even sure how I got here. It's been a process over the last 6 months or so but becoming more readily apparent in the last few weeks. It's a movement of an enormous life becoming less enormous. I'm pulled here, I am pulled there, constantly filling my schedule with this, with that, buying one more table to fill that tiny hallway space, hodge-podging life, its circumstances, its possessions, to make it "more" than it was 3 minutes before. Unfortunately, more has made me feel like so much less. I feel weighted, dragging, bogged down with the ins and out of this enormous life. I've made it to my worldly goal, but in that accomplishment, I find little rest. Instead, I am seeking yet another goal after goal after goal to stay ahead of the time tables. As I watch everything grow, I'm being squashed out of what I was intended to be. 

So if growing this enormous life is making me feel so tiny, could the opposite be true?  What if I could make life so tiny that in fact it began to feel enormous, but in an entirely different way - full of purpose and content? I don't know if this mastectomy played role in that. I'd have to say it did, as every life shaking experience brings an inward evaluation. It propels you closer to the clarity of a God focused lens and away from the fogged up spectacle of humanity that we so easily embrace. So yes, maybe in some ways, Ron and I leapfrogging through mastectomy, the death of a parent, job transitions, and such all piled up into a 2 year span became a springboard for this process of re-evaluation of what this enormous life really meant to me. And realizing that focusing on becoming smaller could in fact merge me into something better - a whole different kind of enormous.  In that smallness maybe we could find depth.

As Ron and I started feeling this stir, we had no idea exactly where it would go. In fact, we still don't know. But we are finding that the life we spent the last 6+ years nurturing and fabrication together piece by piece is filled with things of the here and now. The stuff. The gunk. The life-fillers that bring me closer to someone else's dream and less to that of what we think God placed us here for. As we spent our time making life bigger, we found we were missing our intended mark of making life smaller. More purposeful. More focused. More you focused. Less me focused. Less driven by someone else's standards of life. And there we sat, supposedly happy as a lark, in the defines of the Johnny Joe's standards. Three bedrooms two baths - check. Two cars - checks. Eight winter coats - check. Six pairs of jeans - check. More money coming in than going out - check. Job advances- check. But "happy" was becoming more transparent and that transparency brought about a reality. Was this what life was intended to be? Did this checklist of someone else's goals create in us a joyful and purposed reality? Was I more of a person today because of that newly acquired bracelet? Did my heart for other people grow when I added one more calendar event to my schedule? 

We feel our hearts shifting to something smaller. I want to be in a place where there is more of me to give. Less of me to take. Though I don't yet exactly know what that is going to look like. I begin by standing here in the center of my closet with my 15 long sleeve t-shirts. And my 8 pairs of flip flops. And my 12 skirts (all the numbers being reasonable estimates). And as I struggle to purge down to 5 sweaters, I become acutely aware of my shallow heart when I can't bear to part with something I wore only twice last year. And if my heart couldn't part with a poly-blend sweater, how in the world could my heart part with anything else in a quest to make my life fuller? That closet, with the sizes too small or too large that I hope (or don't hope) to one day return to could instead be a new outfit for that single mother of 6 looking for a job with nothing to wear to the interview. As I sit frustrated in my closet day after day trying to find something among the 100 items to wear, there she sits trying to find anything that she could get her hands on without taking food off her table. And that drawer full of blankets, did I need 5 just in case North Carolina becomes a frozen tundra in year 2235, while she would be grateful for just one blanket so they all could sleep in their own bed? My "just in case" was a reflection of my stingy heart, while her "wish for" was a stark reality of how selfish I could be. 

With that realization (and many others over the past so many weeks) came the motivation to purge, and as I watched my material possessions becoming smaller after this prodding of my heart, in great proportion my inner peace was growing larger. It all started with the closet, and I am eager to see where it goes next as I evaluate where my heart is for all matters of life. My schedule - being selective and purposeful with what and who gets to fill a time slot. My relationships - adding more people that fill me with wisdom and peace so that I may focus on giving that in return to those seeking the same. My home - making it a place that is safe so that people want to visit and that they may leave feeling full. My job - bleeding optimism and encouragement instead of pulling coworkers down into my negativity. My health - becoming a better me so that God may use me wherever he needs a vessel. My perspective - this world isn't about becoming great, but becoming small so there is less of me and more of you. And in that I hope you find there will be more of me to love and more love for me to give in return. I share this not as a testament of "look at me", but as a reflection of where I want to go and the prayer request to help get me there. May he finish the task he has started in me, and may I not be so stupid as to get in the way.

I'm giving thanks for moments like mastectomy where focus can be better tuned and a tiny life more enormous.

Click  www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts. 

March 6, 2015 - "Why"

What is your “why me” story? Which moment in your life did you find yourself seriously questioning the reality of your most recent unwanted “calendar appointment”? What had you digging through the recesses of your mind wondering what in the world you did to anger the “upper management” so much so that they sent you “reprimand”? It’s so easy, even to point of being comfortable, to go through life looking for the cause in such great minutia that if not found in rapid pace, the event is almost missed altogether due to our compulsion and addiction of finding blame. We've become a human race obsessed with knowing why. We feel self-entitled as an outright constitutional right to know the “why” so that we can, with great detail and self-righteous commitment, offer justification or blame.

I remember several such moments in my life where this saga of “why” came to my forefront. One was a particular breakup of my youth. I remember very specific and incessant thoughts of needing to know why I wasn't chosen over the other. I couldn't accept the outcome of rejection until I had analyzed the path into unrecognizable shreds of pitiful becoming self-absorbed, bitter, and paranoid of being “less”. It consumed me. In hindsight I can now see that not knowing “why” was almost more harmful to me that the reality of breakup. (I now know why and find myself so grateful God leaves some prayers answered in opposition to my own will.)

A second event carries a bit more weight. The room was very dim, I’m assuming out of necessity, but it cast an eeriness over the moment. I can still see what little light there was reflecting from the steel (?) arm, supposedly carrying the cure, craning above me in a parallel to where I lay. I lay below it naked on a rotating table of steel and discomfort shamelessly padded with bed sheets as a miserable excuse for padding. The light was cast in the room from the right side, steadily growing dimmer as it cascaded to my left. Linoleum tile created the floor below, and mirrored above the steel arm hang a checker board arrangement of 20x20 ceiling panels. The room lacked color. It was a blah collection of steel and beige scattered with a smattering of sterile this and that. A few steps away, behind a lead lined wall containing single square window was the technician, whom had just gotten me settled onto the mobile table. He evidently controlled the cure. Yes, a he (some days a different she), and yes me, naked on a table. A quick click of a remote control had him sending me and the table into parallels and latitudes. Over-estimating sent me right back into the direction I had come to a lesser latitude. Again, again, there. And then similar traversing with the steel arm above only this time there were red laser pinpoint beams shooting down from the steel arm. The beams were navigated this way and that to line up with tattoo dots on my chest, abdomen, under arms, chin. Then silence as the arm and my table end their romantic swaying dance. Over the speaker: “Ok, Sally, hold still, we are ready to go” followed by 8-10 seconds of this rhythmic clicking sound. I can’t believe I have forgotten the time count. Was it 8 seconds, 12? 15? And after you counted in your head the beats of the seconds you finally hit the moment when there was no sound at all. We were done, until tomorrow, when we would do it all over again in the exact same order as my mother sat out in the waiting room listening to horrific music (which she adored) and putting together jigsaw puzzles while she nervously waited my return.

Nothing about the moment was normal. Everyone else I knew of any merit in my current world was sitting in English class, and then algebra, and then French. No steel arm, no padded table, certainly no nakedness, and I’m absolutely sure cliffs notes on Keats or Thoreau, instead of invisible doses of radiation, were their cure. There was no sadness in that moment for me (that came earlier). There were no frustrations (that too came earlier). A previously abnormal moment, after 30+ days of such, was now a very normal moment for me, and even that was abnormal. But, on one specific day as I sat counting the clicks that the machine regurgitated into the stillness of the room, I recall for the first times in the past 2 months the word forming on my lips… “why?”. Why was I the one on the table? Why was I stripped down to nothingness lying on a table when I could be commiserating “if x = 1, then y = 3” with the rest of the sophomore class. There were plenty of “mean girls” that could easily take my place, right? There surely could be a better substitute for me. That was the mind of an immature 16 year old processing the events of the moment. I may have uttered the word “why” before that very moment, but I don’t recall it. I am also sure my parents had uttered the word “why” on some occasion of this trauma, though I wasn't privy to it. But now, for whatever reason, as I lay shivering on a padded mobile table while counting clicks, the word “why” became my here and now.

There sat a grapefruit-sized tumor in the center of my chest, to the right of my heart, several inches down in depth from the surface, nestled on my lungs like a nest holding its prized egg. I don’t know how long it had inhabited its space, but its picturesque likeness on the grayed-out screen left no denying its existence. I carried a scar of tumor biopsy at the base of my throat and a jagged seam reflecting spleen removal at my abdominal center line. These signs were there pointing me to the reality of the situation, but I could find no tangible merit or guarantee of the “why”.  And there the “not knowing why” sat…with me…in the darkened room…on a frigid steel table…under the talkative steel arm carrying my cure. And it sat. And it sat. Fully exposed just as I was in the center of the beige cube.

It’s as if we can question something out of existence. If we can discover and then in turn discredit the reason, then immediately, in response, the disastrous earth-tilting event no longer exists. It will dissolve itself into nothingness the moment the “why” is deemed faulty. If I could prove I was indeed not worthy of a lymphoma diagnosis, then at that very moment the tumor would recognize its mistake,  fill out forms of relocation, and make its way down interstate 40 towing all of its blood vessels and ick in tow. If I could prove I was on my way to model appearance, he would stick it out. If I could show, I was without fault, I would still have that employment. No tainted words, no broken friendship. Knowing the “why” would propel me into perfection. But nowhere on that CT scan of my chest was anything that remotely resembled “why”.  And no amount of pondering, digging, begging could produce it. How can I blame someone if I didn't know the “who” behind the “why”????? ARRRRGGGGHHHHHHH! And this consumed me for several weeks, each day as I climbed back up onto the table and under the steel arm.

I’m learning in my adult years that there can be great fault with this incessant discovery of “why”. The prodding and poking for the purpose of discovery, and in turn blame, carries little more than profound long-living bitterness. “Why” for the sake of blame, while it carries some relief initially, as time goes on, it equates each moment in life as a negative effect of cause. I admit there are moments when finding the “why” brings great revelation and truth, but in the case of blame it becomes a burden of worry and strife while we continue to obsessively plow our way to its discovery. I don’t want to discredit the value of knowing “why” when there truly is a fault of your own because you then have the opportunity to do self-growth in correcting possible a flawed behavior. I've had moments of that where I would have been much better off not uttering the harmful words to a friend. Recognize, growth, think with a heart of love before you speak. But in most moments of true calamity, I am finding the incessant and belligerent searching for “why” only duct tapes myself in paralyses in the moment, preventing me from embracing and overcoming better on the other side.

I was 16 and likely failed miserably at any form of triumph on this area. I fumbled the ball with each passing day becoming self-absorbed in the teenage years. But over time I did go on to accept and embrace having had a cancer diagnosis. It can bring about miraculous things if we let it. And even in death, it can bring about miraculous things for those around us, if they let it. That’s choosing the outcome instead of floundering in the “why”. It’s choosing joy over bitterness and blame. It’s encompassing light despite circumstance and despite the possible bitterness of “why”. I’m working to flip this switch in my thinking with greater frequency and success.  

So I ask myself again. What is my “why me” story? Which moment in my life did I find myself seriously questioning the reality of my most recent unwanted “calendar appointment”? What had me digging through the recesses of my mind wondering what in the world I did to anger the “upper management” so much so that they sent me “reprimand”? And I hope that as the years have gone by that I can identify less and less stories where the why even mattered at all. Instead of focusing on the forefront of my story of cause, I can instead relay in much greater detail the saga of joyful outcome.

Therefore
I ask you, surgery #6, what joy do you bring me next?

February 6, 2015 - "Surgery #6, I KNOW what I would do..."

If I've learned anything at all, it’s to “never say never”. It’s so easy to find yourself thinking you know exactly what you would, or more likely wouldn't, do in any given situation. You watch your friend going through a life struggle and you have it all figured out for her even before she finishes telling you her challenge. It is so easy to think we have it all figured out or we know what is best for us (and for everyone else around me!). I know exactly how to raise YOUR kids. I know if he is the one you will be with this time next year. I know what you should say to your boss when he comes down with new demands. It’s amazing more people don’t consult me, right? In all honesty, deep down, I also know that if I sit back and really give it merit, I actually don’t KNOW any of that stuff at all. I certainly may not KNOW what is right for you. I may have inklings and discerning moments, but I never TRULY know what is the best path for someone else. Now, when it comes to ME, I certainly KNOW what is the right thing to do, right? Well, I’m even finding in that, I am not always as certain as I would like to be. Sometime life isn't so black and white and you just have to do the best with what you have at that given moment. It’s not a crap shoot. It can become an educated faith-approved selection after a period of time seeking wisdom and truth.

 So there Ron and I find ourselves at a decision crossroads. We have to decide what to do with this surgery decision. Surgery #5 had not resulted in correction, and we are left facing a more invasive repair. I admit that initially I was paralyzed by the task. I had told Ron back in November, when we discovered the issue, that I would have to be pulled kicking and screaming back into an Operating Room ( I KNEW exactly what I would not do. I was not going back to the OR.) And now faced with that decision in reality, clarity of what I KNOW was nowhere to be found. Frustration ruled my roost. Disappointment fueled my furnace. A swirling concoction of “are you kidding me?” rolled up with a fresh coating of “only in Sally’s world!” and a sweet and tangy glaze drizzle of “I just don’t want to. You can’t make me!” lay on my plate. This consumed me for days while I endorsed the avoidance approach of decision making. You’ve been there haven’t you? Staring a decision in the face but finding yourself so paralyzed by the decision itself that you end up falling into the passive decision abyss by not actively choosing anything at all. It’s very comfortable and yet quite uncomfortable all at the same time. Comfortable at really not having to make a decision at all, and uncomfortable at awareness that you chickened out in avoiding the decision all together. Avoidance is very unusual for me and in contrast to my instant gratifier approach to decision making. Seek wisdom-weigh the pros and cons- pick one-move forward-don’t second guess-don’t look back. This is how I do life. It’s my thing. I’m actually pretty good at it. I am rarely paralyzed by anything. So how come I was finding myself courting frustration paralysis and teetering on that abyss? And why now of all time? The only thing I could do was bundle myself up into a prayerful cocoon and wait it out. I waited for clarity and rational to arrive at the doorstep with discernment and confidence in tow. And I waited.

Surprisingly, only after a few days, it became very clear to me that waiting wasn't the track I should take. I was getting nowhere. Frustration will still planted on my welcome mat and it wasn't producing anything of merit. Get over it, Sally! The facts about surgery are there. They aren't going to change over time. No amount of waiting will change the pros and cons. I became acutely aware that frustration and disappointment was not to be waited out. What I needed to do was to make an active decision to put those negative influences in hindsight and choose purposeful clarity and rational thoughts. To me, this was to be an active process, not a passive one. Choose to let my emotions control me or choose to control my emotions. It was amazing how quickly God brought me peace in that, not only about the process, but also about the outcome. I was being nudged forward. It was almost as if the moment I decided to not let the emotions consume me, God replaced them with confidence and clarity. He made himself known reminding me that this is his story, and all I needed to be was faithful. Sometimes faithful takes you to place you might not would have chosen to go. And always does faithful trump anything you could come up with on your own. I’m not claiming faithfulness as in God chose for me to go through mastectomy surgery #6. I’m claiming faithful in that I will not make decisions under irrational fear or disappointment or frustration. I sought him when I started this journey so I will seek him now with next steps with how it unrolls. I can have confidence in the outcome and know that taking the easy passive route is not always the path to joy.

We became active. We put it all out on the table and flung away the fear and dread of another procedure. We got down to the core and let the rational juices flow. We didn't fear the drains or incisions (though I still readily admit a very strong dislike of them) and we landed with embracing them one more time. We tried the easy, which wasn't successful, and now we choose the more difficult and ask for God to be there with us. So to you, Surgery #6, we allow you to join this story. We know not what you hold but we ban you from inducing negative thoughts, fears, or frustrations. And if and when they seep in, we claim faithfulness, and joy, and wisdom, and discernment have been my guide. You have no power over me.

 Six more months to be surgery free and recover from this past surgery. I started in August, I hope to end with Surgery #6  in August when I will step into the arms of mastectomy and reconstruction just one more time. You make me weary, but you make me wiser.

(For more information on how we got here see previous post from January 22- “When Opposites Don’t Attract”. http://tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com/2015/01/january-22-2015-when-opposites-dont.html

January 22, 2015 - When opposites don't attract.

I have to admit I was really torn about releasing this post. I knew I wanted to write it, for myself and for clarity seeking, but I wasn’t sure if it was one I would put out there for others to process. Also, I didn’t know the correct timing of the post. Is it too soon to put information in front of others, particularly when I am still in the “sort” stage? But I wanted, at a minimum, to capture my immediate raw response. As I read other blogs about mastectomy, I see circumstance (this happened, that happened), dNates, time, places, facts, but I don’t often see emotion and I think recognition of potential emotions, risks, complications involved is important when evaluating whether you yourself want to choose this mastectomy path. I promised myself I would do what I could to open myself not only to recording the timeline of events but also how it impacted me as a unit and us as a family. That’s risky, I know. It opens myself to judgment of pity-seeking, or intense scrutiny of decisions, or floating thoughts of “who does she think she is?” all of which too often plagues the female community, but in contrast it also opens yourself to the kindness of great people. More importantly, it moves me closer to my commitment to God to do whatever he wants to do in all of this, including my writings. So I choose the latter two outweighing the inherent risk of the former several. My mother offered me the kindest response to my most recent hurdle when she said “…and my advice is, for me not to offer you any advice at all” followed by all the love a mother can offer. Ron and I want to sort for a bit, but my best advice to myself is Be still, and know that he is God. Then, the reminder of trust him in this story and let my faith be bigger than my fears.

Earlier this week I found myself back in that Lead Plastic Surgeon waiting room. This appointment had been planned for a 3 month follow-up from my most recent surgery. And there still, as if I hadn’t miss a day, sat the many faces of breast cancer. I’m very observant in this particular waiting room as I know I am absolutely surrounded by stories of hope, fear, passion, intensity, struggle, triumph…and the list could never end. I so very much want them to see the “you can do this!” in my eyes, and not the anxiety i was facing. So there I sit, just taking it all in. To catch you up, this past October I had a procedure to repair a “slipped implant”. It is the goal of an implant to stay exactly where it was placed. An implant tooth? You certainly don’t want it to find its way to your esophagus. And cochlear implants should be nice and cozy in your ear. So I could only assume a breast implant should want to stay on the breast where they were intended to be. That is a reasonable goal, right?

Back in November, I noticed something seemed “off”. As a reminder, last summer I had noticed my breast implant, while technically in my chest region, was subtly and then not so subtly traversing (slipping?) down my chest thus creating and ‘drunkard off kilter” appearance compared to the opposite side. It alone wasn’t so problematic because it almost made it more natural looking on that side (as opposed to the perky perfectly round boobs found in bikini swim suit shots), but because we have TWO breasts, you certainly want each of them to reside in the same general vicinity – not one up and one down. I reached out to the surgeon who confirmed that yes, the implant was not well supported by the chest wall and it was starting to slip (See posts from July 2014 if you want more details). So we planned a surgery for this past October to “tack up” the implant in a relatively simple procedure, knowing there was no guarantee it would work, but hoping it would so as to avoid a more invasive option which would increase my risk for infection (been there done that already the previous year).  What I didn’t divulge to you in much detail was the status of the opposite boob. More on that in a few.

Ok, so the procedure took place in October and now fast forward to November when I notice that the operated boob seemed a little “off”. While there were some things that were better, the overall “slipped” appearance remained unchanged- more specifically it  looked almost the exact same after surgery as it did before, minus a few improvements, thus I was suspecting a less than successful surgery. I promised myself to put it out of mind because we were entering the holidays and quite frankly I just needed a break from it all and would re-evaluate at my next appointment scheduled in January. There wasn’t a thing I wanted to do or confirm until then.

Now I sat in the waiting room with Ron for my follow-up appointment and then we get called back. My suspicions were correct, unsuccessful procedure, with the exception of a few minor improvements that I won’t really go into here. Stepping back to big picture, it wasn’t so much the slipped boob that was the issue. What I didn’t really divulge before was that it was so noticeably slipped because in fact the OPPOSITE side was starting to constrict upwards because of the formation of scar tissue at the incision sight. So when you put those two together, you had a slipped boob 1 on one side and a constricted scar tissued boob 2.2 on the other thus making it an unsightly mess. I could give you all kinds of mental images on the constricted side, but I will spare you. 

The goal was to fix the slip, because this was the easier and least invasive option with the least risk, with hopes of evening things out and also preventing worsening droop. We were successful in stabilizing the implant to prevent worse droop, but it didn’t lift up like we had expected. (Have I lost you yet? Hysterical! I am picturing your faces all scrunched up trying to follow all of this. See, I can still laugh at this if I step back to the 4500 foot level. I’m still very weeble-wobble-humpty-dumpty in the booby area. I'm pretty sure these impostors won't be making an appearance at mardi gras this year, though lead plastic surgeon gave me the complete go ahead. Rest assured, mom, it will never happen.)

Now that you are totally up to speed (or maybe wanting to stick forks in your eyes because this description is so confusing), to say I was a bit on the sad side would be a gross understatement. In contrast, to show how simple I can be, my prayer request to my mother prior to the appointment was not that God would fix the implant, but that he would give me the oomph to hold it together without crying during the appointment. It’s the little things, right? I admit I failed there, but that wasn’t God’s fault, I got the emotional crying gene when it comes to things like this. I am 100% hold it together in a high tense emergency situation, but stuff like this can make me tear up. I honestly simply felt the wind knocked out of me (which is strange because I already suspected this outcome), but the confirmation of my suspect had some definitive effects: sadness and the feeling of defeat. Then there was the anger of a wasted surgery and the realization of it having been a 5^th surgery. Not exactly wasted, some things were improved, but it still felt less than purposeful on many levels. Insert a little conflict on balancing choice, and on and on. My emotions were raw and I have difficulty trying to define those to you here, but I wanted to acknowledge them to show what an emotional roller coaster this mastectomy/reconstruction process is. However, I could claim faith in what I already knew – that those raw emotions would be temporary, the initial 24-48 hours of response, and then the rational would follow.  It always comes and clarity is approaching.

Now that I am approaching a more rational state, our very frustrating decision to make is to decide if I am willing to do the more invasive option, which we were originally trying avoid: open up the constricted breast, remove the implant, breakdown and remove the scar tissue, and put back in a new implant. Way different than just taking the skin and tacking it up as we did this last time on the other side. I have to weigh out the risk and benefit and make a choice, and if chosen determine when that timing would be (I need to go 6 months without a surgery! Is that too much to ask???),….and very simply just traipsing through another surgery. I'm frustrated!!!!

Clarity and wisdom. Putting that on God’s to do list. And also appreciating that my sphere of life feels lighter today than it did yesterday.Isaiah 40:31

"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."



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December 30, 2014 - The club you never wanted to be in

I opened the email to read that this very morning she had been tested for the BRCA (breast cancer) gene. Her mother had breast cancer in her 40’s and the daughter’s gynecologist recommended she get tested. Insert that dreaded feeling of having sent off for a test and now waiting the weeks for a determination. Not a fun few days, I imagine. I was surprised to find that the email was asking me for words of advice. My reply was a simple “no words until you have a definitive answer” and uttering on about panties in a wad for no reason, hoping for the best, may be a moot point. But the email had my mind pondering. What WOULD my words of opinion be?

A few summers ago I pondered this question for myself in a blog post titled “The Burning Question” (http://tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com/2013/05/may-5-burning-question.html). I recall asking Ron “did we make a mistake in doing this?” As we dissected that question and in turn wrote the words on the screen, I realized regret would not be in my vocabulary of this experience. I don’t want to answer that same question from someone else regarding what path they should choose. It is a personal decision that no one can really walk you through or to. We can share our experiences, but a choice to undergo prophylactic mastectomy is not a decision I want to help you make. Not because I don’t deeply care for you and want to support you, but because I don’t want anyone to ever look back with regret and think of my words of advice. Nor do I want you to find yourself grateful for your decision and think back to my words of advice. Instead I want the decision to be all yours but based on being informed either through the eyes of my experience or that of someone else you may know on this same path. You may fly through with flying colors, or you may find yourself status post multiple surgeries and complications. I simply want you to know that each surgical outcome is individual and not necessarily predictable. You may find yourself consumed with emotions or you go in the OR one day and leave that same day all the same. It’s not predictable. And experiences are certainly not transferrable.

In prophylactic mastectomy:

·        You may feel guilt. As one person put it “we just picked up our ball and went home before the game even started.” We chose to dodge the bullet instead of facing the beast. There’s guilt in choosing that path as so many women face breast cancer. You can at times feel lesser of a woman as a result. But as another friend put it “no one looks down on you for saving your life”. There is no shame in being proactive.

·        You may feel vain. You lop off both boobs in a life sparing measure and find yourself maybe not totally loving their reconstructed counterparts. It would be less vain to remain boob-less indeed, but as I learned in mastectomy, these things carry a powerful sense of self that you would never guess until they are no longer at home on your chest. Sure we banter and prod each other with jests of sag and droop and sizes of miniscule and boulder proportions, but the minute they are no more, you find that sag and droop was absolute perfection. These breasts that use to be a nuisance now carry with them a sense of womanhood and you find just how endearing they can be when you choose to make them no more. My one point of advice I will offer, if given the choice, do immediate reconstruction. If you don’t have that choice, just know you may feel some things you have never felt before during the waiting period. And it’s normal.

·        You may feel pride, and that emotion will surprise you! There is a sense of pride when you can bring yourself to choose removing your breasts. Kind of a feminine empowerment. Or maybe a sense of if I can do this, then I certainly can do (insert whatever you want)…. It’s subtle, but it may be there underneath the other emotions that take forefront on any given day.

·        You may feel financial burden. Even when covered by (and even encouraged to pursue) insurance companies still only pay the majority. The reminder is still rather pricey. So know this in advance. Ask questions up front and get price estimates and quotes from your hospital. Insurance companies are required by law to cover reconstruction if they cover mastectomy, but it still isn’t 100%.

·        You may feel frustration. You will have many restrictions immediately after surgery. You can lift this, you can’t life that. You can take a sponge bath, you can’t shower. You can’t change your own bandages, depending on where they are. You can’t change your clothes by yourself when you can’t lift your arms. And for risk of being too blunt, you may or may not need help in the bathroom. You will have to rely on someone to help you in many areas and for those of you that are super independent, this is incredibly frustrating.

·        You may feel a strong need for a female friend. There are going to be some female things your male counterparts just won’t understand. My husband recognized this early on and called in my mom for reinforcements. Find yourself a gal you want to do life with and put them in your mastectomy pocket. There will be plenty of moments for female laughing (and maybe crying).

·        You may feel indecision. No matter which option you choose, removal or not, you will wonder if you made the right decision. Particularly when things get tough. But as with any choice in life, you do the best you can with the information you have on hand at the time. Do your part to educate yourself, choose, then don’t look back.

·        You may feel nothing at all.

So instead of advice, I can only offer up this 130+ page blog of the triumphs and trials of boob 1 and 2.2. I don’t regret my choice, though it was plagued with 3 more surgeries than intended at the point of the decision, as I am wiser for it and now most certainly to be breast cancer free. After all of this uttered on the many preceding pages of screen, I still would lay down on that table as I did August 7^th. But I know many may not choose that same path given the same experience. In fact, I still haven’t found another woman who chose this fate in my same circumstance (though I am sure she is out there), but I have met many who have chosen his path in response to a BC diagnosis or a BRCA gene confirmation. If you choose to “go for it”, these are women who can share their perspective with you because though we all had very different and similar journeys into mastectomy, I know not one who won’t choose advocacy for you and yours. It’s a club you never want to be in, but once you find yourself inducted, you most certainly feel loved and supported as we all learn the boob is much more complex than we realized and an envelope of skin is never just that. 

December 15, 2014 - Drains, Buttons, and New Boobs. A trio of delight. (Warning: contains pictures)

A few of you were asking a while back for more details on the Breast Drains. Those awful little plastic pliable tubes that create nothing but misery for the beholder. There is no love. Nothing but a loathing that seems to be uniform for all those lucky enough to wake up from a surgical slumber to find them nesting in their breast. They serve a mighty purpose as they literally drain out accumulating fluid that would pool in the breast sack if the drains weren't present. They promote healing time and for some help reduce infection risk. So we have to argue that they are a tremendous addition to both the mastectomy and reconstruction surgical process, but despite their accolades from health care providers, we as retainers of such drains do hate them. Hate is not a word I utter very often, but I do not want you to miss my loathing. I hate drains.

My friend, Rachael, is undergoing reconstruction this month and she sent me some pictures of her drains and buttons (see below) for me to show you and was ok with me disclosing her name. I, in my journey, neglected to capture pictures for you of the drains. I think I must have subconsciously not wanted to give them celebrity status as done in a picture. I wanted them to feel neglected and inconsequential, but in that decision I wasn't able to visually prepare you if you find yourself at mastectomy’s door. She was so gracious to send me her pictures for educational reasons. You can see the drains below – long plastic tubes with bulky bulbs attached at the end. They start inside the breast, then at the exit site they are sutured into place to keep them from shifting around or completely falling out. The bulb has a “button” on the end, which is opened and closed a couple of times a day and emptied after recording the volume amount for the surgeon. Less drainage, better healing time, and the sooner you can pop those babies out! What you can’t see of the drain is inserted and coiled up inside the breast. At times you may have 2 drains (usually following mastectomy) and at times you may have 4 (usually following reconstruction).  If you hate drains like I do, your surgeon may refuse to tell you how many you will have when you wake up from reconstruction so you actually will show up for the procedure and you don’t dread it so much. Oh so kind. The cumbersome details of the drains is you have to “hook” them to your clothing. They are heavy and if they aren't hooked, you risk them dropping abruptly and yanking on the sutures where they are inserted into the breast. And that, folks, is a ton of fun. It’s like a day at the circus, but without all the cute performing animals, amazing acrobatic tricks, and fluffy pastel cotton candy. Ok, so it’s more like a dental procedure without anesthetic. Full disclosure, right? Just trust me, you want to do everything in your power to prevent that “yank” from occurring.

What you do and don’t want to do with drains, and I may or may not be speaking from personal experience (smile):

1. Do NOT clip them to your waist band. You risk heading to the bathroom, pulling your pants down, forgetting they were there and find that you have pulled on the suture stitch. You will know if you have done this because the scream can be heard all the way at the grocery store down the street.

2. Do NOT clip them to you shirt. You find you go to change shirts, forget they are clipped and find that you have pulled on the suture stitch. Again, You will know if you have done this because the scream can be heard all the way at the grocery store down the street. (However, the shirt is the better option than the pant if you have to choose.)

3. DO consider wearing a beautiful ribbon, tie it around your neck, and clip the drains to the ribbon. It’s fashionable and reduces the risk of tugging on the sutures. Also this ribbon can be hung in the shower, once your surgeon clears you of course, to hold your drains up out of the way. Obviously your pants and your shirt fail here.

4. Do NOT let your husband “milk” the drains trying to get every drop of fluid out of the drain line. He may want to do this is if he is a handy-man, or in some cases an engineer, as it is in his nature to have complete removal. This milking causes a suction pressure to develop within the breast and it will create another scream that can be heard around the world. Open the bulb head, empty drain into a measuring cup, record the volume, close the bulb, and then reattach the bulbs to ribbon. That’s all you need to do. No awards for the clean drain lines, my friend. Trust me, you can skip that and save you some not so pleasant experiences.

5. DO feel free to throw a basin at your husband should he accidentally forget to ever so gently lay the bulb on the table while he goes to empty the drainage in the sink. The first time is a freebie, the second you should at least yell “duck” before you hurl the basin in his direction.

6. DO consider cutting a “v” notch in the side of your sports bra.  This V allows the lines of the drain to slip out under your bra without having the tension of the sports bra’s bottom band pressing on the drain. Every bit of pressure on the drain pulls on the suture stitch more.

7. DO consider using some medical tape to “tape up” the drain so that you create some give around the insertion site and allows something between your insertion site and the accidental pull should it occur. The “pull” will be stopped by the tape instead of by the suture stitch.

8. Do NOT feel bad if you have a few tears because of the drains. They aren't comfortable. In fact they are downright uncomfortable. But you will get through it and they will be out in no time flat (you should expect several days up to a week or two depending on how soon your drainage lessens.)

9. And here is a freebie that I observed in Rachael’s pictures. DO wear a tube top! It’s brilliant in that it is so much easier not to have to navigate sleeves when you are restricted to not being able to raise your arms up above your head. Brilliant! And now I wish I had figured that one out for myself as I picture those nights Ron, my mom, and I were fighting the wardrobe issues at the end of an exhausting day.

On to the “buttons" seen in the picture below. I did not have this procedure done but wanted you to have this information should you need it. Buttons are used to hold grafted skin in place. Sometimes during mastectomy, so much (hopefully all) of the breast tissue is removed that you find the area under the skin becomes super thin. When that happens, the surgeon will take donor skin and attach it to your skin to provide extra thickness. The skin graft is held in place by buttons while the donor skin incorporates itself into your skin. Once that happens, the buttons can be removed.

Bruising. You can see her sides are significantly bruised. And you may recall seeing bruising in my pictures from last April following my lipografting surgery. This happens when fat is suctioned from one area on your body and then inserted into the breast as part of reconstruction. For those women who are candidates, this reconstruction of the entire new breast using your own fat results in a breast that feel and possibly looks more natural. It’s a bear of a procedure though with extensive recovery times from what I hear. For others, like myself, when an implant is used the relocated fat serves as a barrier between the implant itself and the breast skin when thinning and rippling of the implant occurs over time. My radiation exposure history prevented me from being a candidate for the more natural procedure and thus limited me to the use of implants. I don’t know which procedure is more preferable, but I know more and more women are choosing to avoid implants if possible.

Ok, so there you have completed your semester in Impostor Reconstruction 101. This information will be covered on your midterm exams. Study up! Extra points to Rachael for sharing her pictures with us so we could give you a mental picture if the process. Be praying for her as she is right in the middle of her journey as a breast cancer survivor and balancing life as a wife and mother of young kids. She's an advocate for women navigating breast cancer and is a champ in this process!

You can check back later in the week and we may have more pictures posted.

(Note: The thoughts expressed on this page are my own, so blame me alone if you take issue with anything above. I do know she shares our loathing of drains, but don’t want to misrepresent her.)


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November 26, 2014 - The Silent Spouse

Ron has a friend whose wife has breast cancer and recently underwent mastectomy. I've never met this couple, though I have prayed for them. Ron checked in on them a few weeks ago to see how surgery went. The response was similar to “…going well, we made it…!” Just this week we received a follow-up out of the blue that she was at that very moment being unexpectedly admitted for breast cellulitis.

My heart immediately sank as Ron told me the news. I knew almost to the letter what she was thinking and feeling. That fear of knowing you had made it through the tough surgery with flying colors only to find out you had an unexpected scary complication most likely resulting in a long course of antibiotics and potential removal of everything your breast surgeon had just finished adding. Your new breast is now defunct, damaged goods, lacking quality. It has found itself diseased with bacteria, and honestly …that just sucketh. Plain and simple. It is a bummer of bummers in breast surgery. You find yourself very close to where you started wondering if you have to do it all over again and the past many weeks falling dangerously close to wasted time.

I immediately recalled exactly what I felt, but was quite surprised to hear Ron continue the story without missing a beat to say “Sally, that was the scariest part of our journey for me.” And at that very moment the red light flickered in my head. The thing taken slightly for granted that surfaced from my subconscious. Ron, being the spouse, experienced the same journey and had his own emotions that are often missed in this process, much less supported and advocated for.  I had not really thought about the fact that there were moments he was scared, or worried, or frustrated and that he was often left to maneuver that alone. And more so that those moments of past impacted him enough to immediately want to reach out to this spouse to check on him and offer encouragement and support (which he did and it made my heart melt in love for him). I wish I could have him capture his experience on paper. I would like more insight into that, but I know this Ron and that he is very private and would struggle with finagling the thoughts to a written page. He processes in his own way and quite honestly doesn't adore the literary side of the world. But hearing his simplest of words (Sally, that was the scariest part of our journey for me) and propelling my thoughts to “our journey” (refocusing me that this wasn't my journey alone) and “for me” (bringing to my forefront that he had so much he was sorting through simultaneously as I was) now actuates me to want to advocate not only for the struggles of the woman in mastectomy, but the spouse who is just as blindly navigating something that he perceives to be scary and concerning and so many other things. He’s simply trying to get his wife through the experience intact, and I imagine that leaves him in all sorts of internal quandaries he never once utters aloud as he places her needs over his own. It is its own story. And I think that story virtually remains sadly untold.

This Ron is amazing. And I know I had the luxury of having the most incredible spouse at my side during this life event as he was selfless and supportive and kind beyond words during my emotional outbursts at crazy moments in the day. He changed bandages when I just couldn't bring myself to view the incisions and emptied drains hour after hour when I just couldn't get myself together. He missed sleep. And administered medications so I could get some rest. He cried when I cried. I realize not all men would be so stellar in such moments, but I don’t want to discredit that each spouse feels SOMETHING. The magnitude may vary, and the response will differ on a continuum from amazing to even less than stellar. But underneath the response we must realize there is a motivator. They feel something. Without realizing it, Ron highlighted that point in his concern for this husband and his wife now embracing breast cellulitis.  He very much wanted to support this man who in a flicker of a moment found himself mimicking a main character in our story. And in that role he most certainly would be feeling something.

I’m reminded that I am not a monologue, but instead one voice in a dialogue of many. There is a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a child, and very much so a spouse who is swimming (dog paddling? gasping for air?) as fast as they possibly can in the very same stream and often in silence. I don’t want to forget that. And I want to advocate for supporting the many supporters of mastectomy, particularly the male spouse who may struggle in silence.

If you find yourself in prayer today, please add this friend and her husband to your words. I imagine they need a pick me up and a miracle of healing, both emotionally and physically. Underneath the silence of the one who supports you very well may lie a soul needing a little support of its own.

  

November 17, 2014 - Turning intentions into quilts

In the past week, I've learned of two new breast cancer diagnoses. It seems to be everywhere. 1 in 9 seems to be an inflated number as I have at least 7 women in my casual or immediate influence who have had the diagnosis and that is who was willing to make it public and I recall. I was particularly struck by one lady in particular who I actually have never met. I was told the story of several women whom got together to create a breast cancer quilt. Each woman working on the quilt had also survived the diagnosis and want to be a supporter of this lady. It was the cutest (albeit non-conventional) quilt covered in cartoonish drawings of various colorful bras. I can’t describe it adequately and that hilarity of the design, which was rather endearing an approaching adorable, isn't the point. The point is that these women got together purposefully, in measurable support, for another lady navigating the breast cancer map. To say I was touched is a lousy description. I kept coming back to the time and energy and purpose. They wanted her to have this quilt in time for her reconstruction surgery. So they set a goal and got it done. So many of you do that well. You see a need. You trampoline yourself right into the middle of it with intention. You show love at every turn and it’s almost auto pilot for you. I don’t know that I want the bra quilt itself (or maybe I do, it was quite magnetic in its draw almost a trance you didn't know you desired) but I know that I want to exude that sort of support for other people. And I fall short of this on almost every level with missed opportunity after missed opportunity. My well intentions become exactly that…intentions. Woe is me.

And therein lies the question, how do I become less “me” focused as I traverse my every day and instead become more focused on you and whatever event is at your doorstep? Isn't that what we all should be about? God commands not only to intentionally love others, but to love them as you love yourself. Screeching halt! I love myself, A LOT! I can even dare say I love others, but how do I show radical love (inconsistent with today’s society) and support consistently, intentionally, and regardless of whether I get love in return. And how can I ensure that love is a priority for me and not just a well intention? It certainly is not innate in me. Well the love is innate, I’m rather good at that, but the active showing of that love often finds itself with the dirty laundry (which I also had intentions of washing last week) in a heap on the floor. This I know….I am really good at thinking about you. I may even drop a card in the mail to you. I cry behind closed doors for you. But am I going to sit for hours on end quilting a bra quilt for you? And with the goal of no personal gain and instead to brighten your day in the midst of your diagnosis? Oh I want to be these women. I want to be more than a few encouraging words found on the pages about Christmas Boobs, or Impostor (implant) ID cards, or concave chests and tears in the shower. I want the drains to be circumstance that fuels action instead of passive words from me to the screen. I certainly don’t want to fail you in your time of need, whatever that need may be. And I painfully know I have failed many of you in the past. I don’t know the breast cancer diagnosis, but I know the road to and from mastectomy. It would be a lost journey if I didn't translate that into measurable love and active support for you and yours. So this is what I am working on. Less passive. More active. Love you more than I love me. “Bra quilts” to show you I mean business. I promise you no bra quilt, but I do promise you I am working hard to be selfless. These boobs shall carry me! (How would you like to see that on a calling card? Mercy! Would you not immediately catapult it into the trash and call for backup! My apologies. Laughing all the same). Just a little insight of life application going on for me right now.

And to the Impostors. Surgery #5 is tidied up in a big red bow and ready for send-off. The fog has lifted and sunny skies are forecasted, meaning I am no longer running into door frames or answering “apple” when you ask me where the sticky note pack is. As delightful as that was, I no longer want to experience that and will have to be losing liters of blood and at risk for death to go back to the operating table. Implants that have fallen to the knee cap can be its own fashion trend and will certainly make gardening or installing hardwoods much easier for me. I will not go back to the OR! (Famous last words, right?) I still have the stitches, which should dissolve after about 12 weeks. I don’t love them. But nowhere, that I am aware of, is it commanded to love your stitches, so no judgment please. They get caught on stuff and the tugging is less than fabulous. I am a weakling with incisions, this is no new revelation to you, and it is what it is. This changed with mastectomy for whatever reason. They sit there underneath the sports bra and I tolerate them. I go back to the surgeon in January for another follow-up. I haven’t yet decided if I will actually go (wink).

Mastectomy is complete, and because of reconstruction I have perky boobs. If only it could be summed up truthfully in that one little sentence as if it was a piece of cake. Oh how much I have learned.

Matthew 22:36-40: ³⁶ “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?” ³⁷ Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’^{[a] 38} This is the first and greatest commandment. ³⁹ And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’^{[b] 40} All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

Galatians 5:14:  For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

(See Matthew, Mark, Luke, Galatians, James, Romans for more instances of this command).

October 30, 2014 - Do You Have That?

Truth be told, I've been feeling fairly miserable. Miserable is maybe a stretch..more so an isolation or disconnect from the rest of you. Partly to blame was the holed up sequestration to a, mind you, beautiful white sofa for almost two weeks encompassing a confinement to the grey walls and oaked hard woods of my contemporary dwelling. It's a lovely place to be as there is no place like home. But even home doesn't heal all wounds. In part was the mental isolation that comes with any event that holds you stationary while the rest of the world comes and goes from interactions of every day life. The cards of encouragement and texts of "how do you do?" kept a strand of connectivity, but the strand was thin and frayed by design, and instead I fell prey to the loneliness of physical and emotional isolation. And the groggy fog that plagued me much longer than need be did little to help the goal. The newly improved reconstructed boob was no consolation prize. It was starting to feel a little like a sentence. And I do what I tend to do. Embrace the isolation more.  All of those in one big bucket, and I was not the happy go lucky sunny disposition of my usual state. Reconstruction, while imperative from my perspective, is a bear. These impostors were taking it's toll.

I am craving interactions and in need of connectivity to pull me out of my slump. I went back to work, and hoped that would suffice, but work isn't a place for soul healing as we all move around in our hustle and bustle dealing with needs much greater than my own. It's a start, but not a finish. I needed time with women who knew me for what I was the good, the bad, the ugly, and still chose to do life with me along the way. And women who didn't care if my boobs were fresh off of a plastic surgeon's to-do list. It's powerful how much you need and rely on genuine interactions. We as a creation crave true judgement-free connectivity. We long for acceptance regardless of current state. We are a being of relationships. Relationships that matter. Do you have that? Am I that for you? Oh I hope that I am to someone.

So tonight we planned an outing to do some organized painting. People swear it's stress free (it's not, I'm a perfectionist). People swear the outcome will be display worthy (it's not, I'm a perfectionist). People vouch it's a girl's night worth planning (it most certainly is even if you are a perfectionist), particularly with the right people who know how to laugh just because you can when you are recovering from mastectomy surgery. Women who make your cheeks hurt on the drive home because they've been stretched into displays of utter hilarity for 2 solid hours. Women who laugh at themselves because that's simply just worth doing. You walk into the room and you know exactly what you are going to get, and it never disappoints. You feel you have nothing to bring to the table, you pale in comparison in your frumpy frock and disheveled can't-bring-yourself to offer much of anything demeanor. But you find you don't even care because they immediately envelope you in their cocoon of goodness. These women make life worth doing well. And these women make you gasp for air in belly derived chuckles when life has a hiccup. I needed these women more than I realized in foresight, but which became positively concrete in hindsight.

If you don't have such gals in your realm, go and get some stat! (And if you can't find any look me up. I volunteer.) You can do life without them, but that would be a shame and an uphill battle. You need them when you suddenly decide to choose the crazy path. You need them again when you find that the crazy path brings unexpected. And you will need them once again when you find your breast implant at your kneecap, because that's just hysterical and you need someone to laugh at that with you. And when you start to feel the isolation that may follow the hysterical sneak into your oak-floored dwelling, you need them to pick you back up and remind you that frumpy is stylish, disheveled "intoxication" can be laughed at, and droopy boob surgery is nothing like spilled milk.

Bet you can guess which one is mine. I tend to go off road juts a tad when given the option.

October 25, 2014 - A fog, a bruise, and a girl walk into a bar

Ok, well we haven't made it to the bar yet, but we have at least made it out this morning to get my long overdue oil change completed. I figured while I look at the underbelly of the car here at the dealership, I might as well write. The fog is still an unwelcomed guest, but he ventures out each afternoon for several hours to visit someone else, hopefully not you, until the following day when he finds himself right back on my doorstep the following morning. This is day 3 of such behavior, and at least we have a trend. I am hopeful he will soon choose to go out visiting in the mornings as well.

Did I tell you I looked at my scar? I did this on Tuesday as promised and only a few short seconds of spilled tears. But I am getting so much better at this. I think of those women out there that not only embrace their scar, but REALLY embrace it, as in The Scar Project. I am not yet sure how I feel about that, but I do support the awareness they raise and the empowerment they provide. These scars have created a sort of underground (above ground?) society of women all joined by incisions of varying style and degree. But despite the variety, I am sure the incredible box of what they represent are all wrapped in the same paper of emotions though of varying spectrums. I am proud to be part of that society and day by day I inch closer to that embracing and empowerment other ladies of mastectomy said would come. I don't see myself displayed across a canvas, but I do see myself behind the stage in support of getting women through this life event. 1 in 8 is strong number and one I now sit on my mantle in support. Consider me a support bra.

Below is a picture I worked hard to capture tastefully so you will have some perspective of this last surgery should you find yourself there. Only an inch of many, and cropped down to be respectable, I hope. I wasn't able to capture the others, as they are more precariously placed, but this one I could capture on the side. I simply want women to know the scars can fade down to almost nothingness. Well, it will always be something, but I hope more of a badge of honor than an eyesore.

A fog, a bruise, and a girl walk into a car dealership....baby steps.

October 23, 2014- Post Op Day 7 - Intoxicated

A quick update since several of you have been inquiring. I had my first post op appointment with the surgeon yesterday. The incision looks great and now I am only on "bra restrictions" for the next 2 months. Seriously. Makes you chuckle.

The not as good is I am still relatively
"drunk", maybe slightly improved since first thing this morning, from what we think is left over anesthesia. I wax and wane through the day never knowing if the morning will worsen or improve. Yesterday, I started fairly well. I went into work thinking it was do-able and ended the afternoon not well at all. I made it through the day because I had to be there anyway for the late afternoon appointment, but was in tears on the way home. The tears were nothing but a reflection of how how frustrated I was that I felt so "off". We did a panel of labs at the appointment since the surgeon agreed what I am experiencing is not ideal and wanting to make sure nothing bigger was going on that we were missing. We agreed to get some sleep (over 12 hours last night! Mercy), see what the labs show the following day, and see how I am feeling.

Well, today, I'm still "drunk" and have no confidence in driving or doing much of anything else. Results showed an elevated white blood count (but no obvious signs of infection) and an slightly elevated kidney marker.
Nothing specific to help direct us much. The elevated kidney marker happened one surgery before but was much higher then, but we are wondering if maybe my kidneys take a hit with sedation procedures. Kidneys clear the anesthesia out of your system and mine must be working very slowly. We reached out to my Primary Care Physician as well to give her a heads up on what is going on since the surgeon says "I gave up being a normal doctor a long time ago"(Chuckle) and he wants me to follow up with her if things aren't improved by the weekend.

This is SO very frustrating as I desperately want to be back to work and everything else.  I really don't think there is anything that can be "done" for it, just having to wait it out, but I am not the best wait-er, and it's oh not so fun feeling woozey and dizzy and foggy most hours of the day. In fact, it feels pretty debilitating at times.

So that's the quick skinny and about all I feel like typing out right now. In the meantime, Oliver is helping me hold the fort down, but doesn't seem to mind the house arrest near as much as I do.

October 20, 2014: Post Op Day 4 - Messy is better in pairs.

Another night under my belt. I got 12 hours again which is a testament to the lack of fun the previous night. I still can't say I'm rested. I've got this heavy, saturated, damp, occlusive fog persuading my mental faculties from being all they can be. Everything is in slow motion and connected with shifting images. Clear in the center, blurry in the periphery. THIS is why I detest anesthesia (not enough to not get it of course). The detest is strong. It stays with me as an un-welcomed intruder. Nagging and taunting me and laughing when I reach my folly. I haven't had pain medications since Friday afternoon so I know anesthesia is to blame. I loathe it, and it loves me so much so that it sets up residence for days on end. But I'm making do with what I have and apologizing when words come across jumbled, or there is a delay in response to a question asked. Or if I answer "jello" when Ron asks where my shoes are. Ok, that hasn't happened, but there have been some close calls. And the nausea, we have to find a way to part. You're making each hour less love-able.

Last night, we, well lets say Ron, checked out the incision again. Ron still described healthy looking tissues, no redness or drainage. And no fever since Saturday so I think the infection risk is virtually gone now. I've shoved gauze over the area to keep the sports bra from tugging on the stitches. That thought alone makes my stomach somersault in rebellion. I'm squeamish with that, as you know and as I've always been since the very first surgery now 2 years ago. I can hardly even believe that? In many ways it seems like last month when I first stepped under those bright OR lights with Lead Breast Surgeon. But in many ways it seems like a millennium ago. This I know, two years is too long of a time to be dealing with a prophylactic procedure. It should be a one stop shop and you move on. That was not my fate though and is a voucher for the mental toll these procedures can take on women and the complexity that can arise when things don't go exactly as expected. And imagine adding in a definitive cancer diagnosis. Mercy me. That would be a whole new level.

Maybe my journey was a little longer because of all of my radiation exposure. Three surgeries routine (mastectomy, reconstruction, and lipografting) and two surgeries from complications (cellulitis and slipped implant plus some delayed wound healing after reconstruction began). Lead Plastic Surgeon had said it could go either way, and that was the very reason his choices were always so conservative along the way. I respect that in him, though it delayed my time course some. Slow still gets across the line, right? I HAVE to think this is the last surgery. Odds point to that for as time goes along, surely the risk of complication lessens in tandem. This was my journey, my moment, and I see the last book chapter on the horizon. It's sitting there beckoning me. Calling my name to ink the last period.

Ron is back at work today. That alone seems a little more familiar. Meanwhile, I'm here drooling on the sofa with Oliver. Once step closer. I'm still shooting for work on Wednesday, in just 2 days. But I just need to get myself "together" a little bit more. Less glassy eyed, a little more confidence and sanity, and a little less wobble. I don;t need coworkers wondering what I am on or scaring them with my less than steadfast gaze. I feel so very little from the actual incision. Again, a blessing of having no nerve endings in my lower quadrant of the breast. At times I feel a tug, or a minimal discomfort, or a menace of an itch. But basically, it's just there coexisting. I'm planning on looking at it myself before I go back to work . It just needs to happen. And I hope you will notice this will be a blow out in timing compared to previous surgeries where it took me months to look. I'm gaining ground you know. I'm not the wuss I once was. Laughing. Ok, I'm still sort of the wuss. And I'm sure I will cry a bit, but then it will be done. I'm figuring out the crying isn't about sadness. I'm not sad.  Not even a bit.The crying when I, or even anyone else, sees the scar is something more primal. The scar is reflective of the decision, and the decision was unexpected, and unexpected is something I am not (I pride myself in being able to get through just about anything with my head held high and my sanity in check with perspective in tow). This "unexpected" for the first time in my life rolled me up into complex ball which tumbled me down the hill as I sorted and analyzed and struggled to grasp at anything that made sense to me. Note, I really am still normal and the same ole rational Sally, but underneath the mastectomy bandage lies something mixed in for good measure. There is something to these breasts that I don't fully understand, but it mingles with an identity. The great news is it doesn't hold me back and in fact it sculpts me into something even better. With each passing month (and surgery!) I'm closer to the design God intended in this moment. I actually can find happiness in my mastectomy. I appreciate the ongoing challenge, and the way it surprised me about myself, and the outcome is surreal. I'm more confident in myself as I navigate this unexpected. I'm also more relate-able as I've grown to truly love everyone around me and value what they bring to my life. Even the unlovable became lovable, as I can see how people are molded by their circumstances and everyone has something underneath that the rest of the world around them aren't privy to. Ron laughs when we are driving down the road and he gets frustrated with a slow driver. I yell out "they may be returning home from mastectomy surgery, Ron!" We all have something. Every single one of us are one decision or one mishap away from "messy". I'm them, they are me. Both messy and getting through it all. So I'm grateful for these 5 surgical moments and it propelling me into a better Sally. I don't have it all down pat, but I'm less embarrassed over crying over a mastectomy scar, more likely to cry with you over yours, and more encouraged as each scar heals what lies within. God is gracious indeed.

My one and only hope for my transparency to you these last two years is that one of you will survive your moment a little more intact, no matter what that moment is, because of something in mine. And that you will see it's ok and totally normal to be  a little "unsettled" and "messy" as you go as long as you are still moving forward and grabbing onto perspective along the way. Your story isn't only for you. Don't deny someone else the opportunity to help you through it or for them to utilize and mimic some glimmer of sanity you may have in the process. It's better to be messy in pairs, I say. Hope is contagious.

Be gone, anesthesia! Your role is now over. You're definitely holding me back. And scar, I've got your number. Be prepared for a formal meeting in the next 24 hour. You don't own me..."and sometimes we just have to deal with what the good Lord gave us".

Joshua 1:9 

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

October 19, 2014 - Post Op Day 3 -Delayed, but finished all the same.

Last night, Ron and I had committed to taking off the surgical bra, the bandage, and finishing a shower. Well sometimes the best of intentions fall to the way side. I had had such a great Saturday feeling great without pain medication. I could barely feel the incision at all and my grogginess was wearing off. Score one for Team McCollum. However, as the evening came about I realized just how tired I was from being up all day feeling great. A few tears during dinner and a hurried step to climb into bed to shut down for the night, but then remembering we still had the tasks with the bandage hanging over our heads. I was committed, simply just to get it off my plate on the day we were supposed to. It was a goal of mine, but as we started the process and got down to the bandage, Ron in his wisdom realized the bandage removal  (it was larger than we expected and every inch covered in tape) was going to be more than I could handle in my exhausted state, much less tackling a shower after it's removal. We decided to abandon ship and delay the removal to today when I was more rested.  What difference does a 12 hour delay make, right? Climb in bed and settled in for the night.

About an hour into my sleep I woke up with severe abdominal cramps and nausea and vomiting. I literally crawled myself back and forth from the bed to the bathroom about every hour. At one point in the night I had a short little nap on the bathroom floor. Yes, I know that is disgusting, but sometimes you have to make do with what you have at that very moment. Believe me when I say, this was not on my life's bucket list, but I can check it off all the same. I was miserable and it had nothing to do with the incision except for when it impeded my crawling back and forth. It would have been a hoot had it not been so pathetic.

Ten 10 hours later and I was a new woman. My abdominal symptoms have almost resolved, just a little lingering nausea, but I am functional and alert and oriented! Strong improvement. We decided to tackle bandage first thing after breakfast to get it done with once and for all. It didn't take that much coaxing, as I was ready to get it over with, but it did take some heavy breathing, a few unneeded tears, followed by begging to stop and count for 5 seconds before tearing more of the tape away (repeat x 30). It actually went quicker than it has in the past, and I equate that to my getting better with each passing bandage. Of note, I still didn't look myself, as I never do during bandage removal, but Ron did as he always does and described it to me so I could start my mental preparation. It's rather large spanning the entire width of the breast and is covered with stitches and a glue adhesive, but according to Ron the tissue looks healthy with minimal drainage. Back into the infamous sports bras and I'm in tact as a whole person once again and back on the sofa.

I'm through the tough part now. I did it. The bandage is off, and I didn't smack Ron upside the forehead. Score two for Team McCollum. I survived the 5th surgery intact both mentally and physically. There never was a doubt really, but I don't love this emotional woman I became with mastectomy. But for whatever reason, I'm now quite taxing with bandages and scars. It is what it is, and it serves whatever purpose it serves. Maybe I'm even better for it on the other side, maybe. At least I know Boob 1.i and 2.2 are better on the other side. Both implants are exactly where they should be, without one slipping down into my knee cap. Talk about fashionably awkward.

Ron is headed back to work tomorrow, and I can't say I adore that, but that is more about my insecurity than my health. That first day he goes back is always tough for me as I worry about the "what ifs" (and I bore easily), but it's always fine and I quickly realize that as I get into my day. I plan on sleeping most of it away anyway. Just the anticipation of that first day that doesn't go smoothly. I'm working hard to get enough energy (still quite the groggy person) and mobility (can't move m arms over my head and have a 5 lb weight lifting restriction) back to go back to work myself on Wednesday. The surgeon thinks it is totally possible (Shhh, it's our secret that he's been wrong the previous 4 surgeries but he doesn't need to know). The sooner I get back to work, the sooner this surgery is behind me. Warning: if you see me at work with my clothes on backwards or inside out, just know I did my best considering. I can't be perfect all the time!