April 10, 2014 - Just Like hunting Easter eggs, huh?
I made a mistake of doing research. WHY in the world did I go and do that!?! I always want to tell people “get educated, be your own advocate, ask questions”, but boy did that backfire on me again. I went and read up on lipomodeling. I saw images of lipomodeling. I now don’t think I want to go through lipomodeling. I recall I made this very mistake back before signing up for the mastectomy. Late one night while visiting my sister, I stayed up until like 3 in the morning researching images of mastectomy scarring. Those images of early day mastectomy haunt me to this day. That whole night haunts me to this day. Well, you would think I had learned my lesson with that tragic internet inquiry. But noooo, my curiosity got the best of me, and I searched out information to be a little better informed. Well let me just say…the thought of a suction tube being shoved in and out of my skin to retrieve and then deposit fat into my breast envelop to lessen the “thinning” risk over the implant has got me all freaked out. I lie in bed at night and see the image of pinching an inch, inserting a suction tube…..ahhhhhhh!!! Serenity now, my friend! Are you telling me that some people do this on purpose all for the sake of beauty? Surely they had no idea what was going to be happening to them. Surely they didn’t just elect to do this on purpose. And on top of that you get to syringe it with a long needle into your boob in just the right places to provide tissue for blood flow. Why can’t I just go into things blindly, huh? Why do I always have to know? I always have to overachieve. And it keeps backfiring on me. What was “no anxiety at all” is now a tad bit (a big bit) of mental discomfort. If you are out there and have had this done, I’m more than happy to have you tell me this is a piece of cake. No more effort than going out to hunt Easter eggs on a nice spring day with trees blossoming all around in the background all while you swish your crisp yellow Easter dress as you stroll through the field and at most having to exert a little energy to stoop down to pluck the tie-dye egg out of the lush green turf. Instantly, you rise back up with a great big smile on your face in recognition of the luck of your find and immediately forget you had to exert a little effort to stoop down to begin with. Mercy me.
April 4, 2014 - Gimme a B!
I’ve unintentionally created a biography. A biography recorded by an eight year-old with a bobbed haircut and the longest fingers and toes you’ve ever seen on a child of her age. Much to my dismay in addition to her super cute appearance, she has an incredibly accurate and lengthy memory. Years ago (and for this update) as a term of endearment I called her “Wonton”. She hears everything and absolutely nothing slips by her. It’s almost eerie. And at the moment when you least expect it, out of her mouth will come a story or line from your past that you don’t even remember saying. She truly has total recall. Hopefully, what you hear is a memoir of the time you left the hamburger meat from your grocery visit out of the refrigerator overnight only to find a horrible smell wafting from your kitchen the following morning. These are fun stories you like to recall. Other times, the story you would rather let pass-by without notation, but wonton just happened to catch you in the moment of verbiage regurgitation which is then forever sealed in the vault of her genius.
It was totally unintentional, I promise, as I did not at the time have full use of all of my faculties. I was under the influence. Slightly held captive by an outside force. A trio cocktail of intravenous kidnappers. Versed, you know you are to blame along with your nasty roommate, Propofol, and the guy down the hall, Dilaudid. You are to blame for her exposure to my temporary insanity. Most of you know the story already. You read it almost a year ago this week, but if you missed it you can check out “April 8, 2013- Houston, we have a problem”. You’ll recall an over-zealous excitement of mine after learning I did in fact get my Implant returned. I came out of the OR, recovered in the PACU, and led each of the nurses, a surgical fellow, and even my husband, who unfortunately didn’t have the foresight to duct tape my mouth closed, in a rounding chant of Implant....Gimme a “I”, gimme me a “M”, gimme me a “P”, gimme a “L”….well and you get the big picture. We were all chanting at the top of our lungs pouring out our excitement for this crazy lady (that would be me) in the OR who was beside herself when she found out she got her boob back. And it doesn’t even end there! When they rolled me up to my room on the surgical unit, I followed it up with another just as glorious version of Gimme a “B”, gimme me an “O”, gimme another “O”, gimme a “B” while laying right there in the hallway as they swung my bed through the doorway. Holy moly, I did it again all in one day and this time with my entire family, several floor nurses, and low and behold total-recall-genius WONTON in attendance. Oh my, oh my, oh my. Anyone but Wonton! When my trio of kidnappers had faded into the background, and I learned of my verbal mishap, I was mortified. And don’t forget I work with these people! As months pass by, I secretly hoped that Wonton will slip into early dementia and forget the day I fell trap to the medication bondage. I’m oh so very hopeful that day will come. Surely it will come and my dignity may be restored for the long-term.
Just a few days ago a family member was scheduled for back surgery. A soon as Wonton heard about the upcoming surgery, she called up the family member and said “Are you going to talk crazy in your head like Sally did? Give me a “B” Give me an “O”….! Except you can spell B-A-C-K”. Hanging my head down in shame that another year has passed and the memory has only been solidified in her vault to be shouted out at any opportunity. I couldn’t be more excited to know my next procedure is scheduled on a school day. I might just slip under her radar. And Ron, maybe a little better wing man action this go round to prevent me from further total humility in the building where I come and go from work every day. Just saying.
It was totally unintentional, I promise, as I did not at the time have full use of all of my faculties. I was under the influence. Slightly held captive by an outside force. A trio cocktail of intravenous kidnappers. Versed, you know you are to blame along with your nasty roommate, Propofol, and the guy down the hall, Dilaudid. You are to blame for her exposure to my temporary insanity. Most of you know the story already. You read it almost a year ago this week, but if you missed it you can check out “April 8, 2013- Houston, we have a problem”. You’ll recall an over-zealous excitement of mine after learning I did in fact get my Implant returned. I came out of the OR, recovered in the PACU, and led each of the nurses, a surgical fellow, and even my husband, who unfortunately didn’t have the foresight to duct tape my mouth closed, in a rounding chant of Implant....Gimme a “I”, gimme me a “M”, gimme me a “P”, gimme a “L”….well and you get the big picture. We were all chanting at the top of our lungs pouring out our excitement for this crazy lady (that would be me) in the OR who was beside herself when she found out she got her boob back. And it doesn’t even end there! When they rolled me up to my room on the surgical unit, I followed it up with another just as glorious version of Gimme a “B”, gimme me an “O”, gimme another “O”, gimme a “B” while laying right there in the hallway as they swung my bed through the doorway. Holy moly, I did it again all in one day and this time with my entire family, several floor nurses, and low and behold total-recall-genius WONTON in attendance. Oh my, oh my, oh my. Anyone but Wonton! When my trio of kidnappers had faded into the background, and I learned of my verbal mishap, I was mortified. And don’t forget I work with these people! As months pass by, I secretly hoped that Wonton will slip into early dementia and forget the day I fell trap to the medication bondage. I’m oh so very hopeful that day will come. Surely it will come and my dignity may be restored for the long-term.
Just a few days ago a family member was scheduled for back surgery. A soon as Wonton heard about the upcoming surgery, she called up the family member and said “Are you going to talk crazy in your head like Sally did? Give me a “B” Give me an “O”….! Except you can spell B-A-C-K”. Hanging my head down in shame that another year has passed and the memory has only been solidified in her vault to be shouted out at any opportunity. I couldn’t be more excited to know my next procedure is scheduled on a school day. I might just slip under her radar. And Ron, maybe a little better wing man action this go round to prevent me from further total humility in the building where I come and go from work every day. Just saying.
April 2, 2014 - Pardon my Snafu
I guess I made a snafu on my part. Many of you have let me know I left a crucial notation out of my last post. You know how you plan out your task, make a check box to do list (though you may find it funny that I draw a little box next to my task, but when the task is complete I actually cross out the task. I never said I don’t have issues), then work your way logically down the list until all is accomplished. In the end you have the perfectly planned 20th year high school reunion complete with “guess that student” games, burgundy and gold decorations hanging from every nook and cranny, sequin sprinkles placed on each table top, and the cutest little mascot shaped mints and 1993 shaped cookies on the welcome counter. 6 pm arrives and Voila! You have a DJ, an eclectic décor, but you have no guests! After racking your brain, consulting your to-do list, and phoning a friend, you quickly come to the realization that you never mailed out the invites. There they sit in a neatly arranged tower on your desk in your home office. See, it happens to all of us. You get busy with your best intentions, and number 51 on your to-do list of 100 is left undone. Well, you guys didn’t miss a beat and were very quick to let me know of my snafu. I should hire one of you as my assistant (Erika, send me your resume) to keep me on track and out of the gully.
Well drum roll and spotlight please….. Item # 51 happens to be “April 28th early morning”. Yes, that is when Boob 1 shall meet his maker (Lead Plastic Surgeon) once again for a little reunion party. Lead Plastic Surgeon is probably a bit more excited about the meeting than Boob 1. Boob 1 doesn’t get to pick out a fancy little party dress like most of us do for a reunion. Instead, he gets to make his grand appearance in a flesh colored birthday suit. Don’t people have bad dreams about that very thing??? Walking into a room with all your glory out there and NOT loving every minute of it. I’m planning to talk Boob 1 through his anxiety and remind him that Boob 2.2 will be right there by his side the entire time also in all his glory! Boob 1 will have a bosom buddy right there along for the ride. Now, more importantly who is going to help ME through my anxiety? Well you will be happy to know I have very little anxiety about this. Virtually none. Maybe because 28 days is a long ways away in the whole scheme of things and there is much to do unrelated to this procedure between now and then. Also, it helps knowing it is outpatient. No overnight stay just like my reconstruction surgery. But the benefit being very light sedation or maybe even just numbing – though I see myself advocating for a bit more than that. We can compare it to get a cavity repaired, right? But seriously, do I really want to be aware of someone repeatedly shoving injections into my Imposter? I see me watching the needles come toward my chest and me, out of instinct, whacking his hand away with such force that the syringes fly in slow motion through the air landing in the emerald green eye of the poor OR nurse who got called in unexpectedly last minute after a night out on the town to cover the surgery. Suddenly, all attention turns to her now deflated eye and Boob 1 is left to be rescheduled with VERY heavy sedation. Ah, no. I can say that with quite a bit of certainty that I want to do this once and only once. Oh yeah, and I’m equally concerned for the nurse’s eye.
There you have it. Item #51 is no longer missing and those of your with OCD that need the list 100% complete like I do. You may now rest your weary head with satisfaction. And my apologies for the snafu on my part. Thank you much for caring enough to ask for the missing piece.
Well drum roll and spotlight please….. Item # 51 happens to be “April 28th early morning”. Yes, that is when Boob 1 shall meet his maker (Lead Plastic Surgeon) once again for a little reunion party. Lead Plastic Surgeon is probably a bit more excited about the meeting than Boob 1. Boob 1 doesn’t get to pick out a fancy little party dress like most of us do for a reunion. Instead, he gets to make his grand appearance in a flesh colored birthday suit. Don’t people have bad dreams about that very thing??? Walking into a room with all your glory out there and NOT loving every minute of it. I’m planning to talk Boob 1 through his anxiety and remind him that Boob 2.2 will be right there by his side the entire time also in all his glory! Boob 1 will have a bosom buddy right there along for the ride. Now, more importantly who is going to help ME through my anxiety? Well you will be happy to know I have very little anxiety about this. Virtually none. Maybe because 28 days is a long ways away in the whole scheme of things and there is much to do unrelated to this procedure between now and then. Also, it helps knowing it is outpatient. No overnight stay just like my reconstruction surgery. But the benefit being very light sedation or maybe even just numbing – though I see myself advocating for a bit more than that. We can compare it to get a cavity repaired, right? But seriously, do I really want to be aware of someone repeatedly shoving injections into my Imposter? I see me watching the needles come toward my chest and me, out of instinct, whacking his hand away with such force that the syringes fly in slow motion through the air landing in the emerald green eye of the poor OR nurse who got called in unexpectedly last minute after a night out on the town to cover the surgery. Suddenly, all attention turns to her now deflated eye and Boob 1 is left to be rescheduled with VERY heavy sedation. Ah, no. I can say that with quite a bit of certainty that I want to do this once and only once. Oh yeah, and I’m equally concerned for the nurse’s eye.
There you have it. Item #51 is no longer missing and those of your with OCD that need the list 100% complete like I do. You may now rest your weary head with satisfaction. And my apologies for the snafu on my part. Thank you much for caring enough to ask for the missing piece.
March 31, 2014 - Flip This Boob
Lead plastic surgeon had warned me that my mastectomy and reconstruction would likely lead to several more surgeries. I wasn’t a believer. Or maybe I should say I refused to believe. I am a get in get out kind of girl. One time around. 2 measures 1 cut. Or at least settle for less than perfect if you find yourself with a mistake. Considering I am all into neatness and structure and organization, it’s really unfortunate to admit I settle for less than perfect in my appearance. I rush through make up application each day in less than 5 minutes, I marginally match my attire (Ron is way more in tune with style and fit than I), and I may or may not look in the mirror before leaving the house and more often not. I have absolutely no qualms about running to the mailbox or even the grocery store in my PJs or gym attire. Knowing all of this about myself, I was very surprised when I had been noticing and also bothered by a quadrant of Imposter #1 and a much smaller quadrant of Imposter #2.2. I think they were worried I had forgotten about them. Tossed them aside after all we had been through together. I guess in many ways I had. And I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt about that. Not all relationships are intended to stay in the forefront, but I guess Imposter #1 felt differently. He was mourning my relationship with him. He felt….overshadowed. Imposter #2.2 (formerly Imposter #2) had already one-upped him with an extra surgery. He declared infection and worked his way back into my every day thoughts last April. But what Imposter #1 didn’t know was that the extra surgery made me a little bitter towards #2.2. #1 was in my favor! ..... Until now.
How shall I describe what he has gone and done? There is a gully? A trench? A line? A rippling? A dimpling in the form of a line. Yes, that is a very close visual description. There is a line of dimpling that extends from midline to under the armpit across Imposter #1. It’s not the Grand Canyon, but it could easily be the Cape Fear River with aspiring goals. He looks tired and worn out. He looks to be imploding on himself. He most certainly needs a sick week to recoup and get his implant back under him. He appears marginally deflated (though not possible with High Profile Smooth Round Gel Implants). But he’s doing a good fake out all the same. It’s minor. It’s trivial. It’s pathetic to even consider. But it’s noticeable to the gal who leaves for work without looking in a mirror and goes to the grocery in rather unflattering attire.
I’ve been told it’s not uncommon. In fact it may be more common than not. My surgeon had warned me that this day would most likely come. I had warned him “no, not me, not ever!” in return. I have no problem at all pointing out where he is wrong. To which he said “well, we can hope”. In fact, the last time I saw him I had made a convert out of him. It was a year ago exactly -can you believe that?- that Boob #2 went rogue and picked up cellulitis requiring emergency surgery and replacement thus introducing Boob 2.2. In an appointment following that surgery Plastic Surgeon said I may in fact defy the odds and never require “upkeep” since otherwise they were visually doing so well. Score one for Sally! Well, a year later I have been robbed of that score and now found myself scheduling an appointment for his input on the dimpling. Twice I almost cancelled the appointment. Even the night before, I went back and forth. “Is this silly of me?” “Have I suddenly lost all sight of common sense?” “Am I worried about something when I should just be grateful I have a boob at all?” I sought the consult of a friend who had only a month ago experienced a similar out lash from her own imposter. I sought the consult of family. I felt petty. I felt vain. Yet every morning when I look down at Imposter #1 and he looks up at me, I felt unsettled. I knew something was up.
Well, the good news is I went to the appointment a few weeks ago, and I no longer feel petty. I no longer feel vain. Lead Plastic Surgeon took one look and said “yep, we absolutely need to fix that and if you don’t fix that it is only going to get worse.” Thankfully, he didn’t gloat. He put on his cheer me up smile. I think he thought I was going to tear up right there in his office when he said we needed to fix it. I wanted it fixed, but I didn’t want it to NEED to be fixed and to go through the actual process of fixing it. I simply wanted a visit with the magic eraser. Scuff up, scuff down, dimpling trench gone in 3.5 seconds, head back out of the office and call it a wonderful day. I didn’t want a “procedure” or an operating room time slot. But in the end I got both. As he explains it: this dimpling, this rippling, this trench of the Cape Fear is being caused by the lack of fat and good blood flow under the skin. Basically, the area and skin over the implant is thinning and losing blood supply. You’ll recall that during the mastectomy itself they scrape out every ounce of breast tissue and fat under the skin. During reconstruction the surgeon either refills the area with fat to make a new boob (I wasn’t a candidate for this procedure because of all of my radiation exposure) or they place an implant in a sling under the skin envelop (my procedure). Because I only had an implant (no fat), once the implant settled into the new home gaps began to appear between the skin and the surface of the implant. Dimpling, rippling, trenches. Also, because there’s no tissue inside the imposter other than the exterior skin and the gel implant itself, there isn’t a great blood supply to the area. Well, the great news is this procedure (I refuse to call it surgery) will help rectify this and should be easy cheesy in the whole scheme of things. All I have to do is lie on the OR table for an hour or so and take the best nap known to man - and he even said I might be able to get by with just localized anesthesia and then I would be awake for it all. We will decide that day. Get in, liposuck some fat from somewhere in my body, place some stitches, inject the fat over the imposter (maybe more stitches???), and get out. Go home to recover for a few days with the help of some pain meds. No drains (can you hear the angels singing!?!?!?). Minimal scarring. Improved blood flow to the area as the recycled repurposed green-way-of-doing things fat (maybe I will get a tax break?) will provide a surface for blood vessels to regenerate in the area. We will show Boob #1 who is boss and hope he takes the hint for this to be a one-time occurrence. Let him feel the love he evidently needs then move on, and at the same time hope Boob#2.2 doesn’t feel left out. Lead Plastic Surgeon warned me the dimpling is starting there as well so this time when he said “you will likely need to do this again in the future for either or both imposters” I gracefully backed down and simply nodded a “yes sir”. I guess I can’t be right all the time.
Well, it turns out that what they say is true. A mastectomy may be a one-time occurrence, but the reconstructive process can be (and appears to be for me and evidently many others out there as well) an ongoing event. While my vanity and a twinge of worry took me into the appointment, I left knowing there was in fact a need to investigate remodeling and boob design tips for medical reasons to increase blood flow to the area and lessen ongoing dilapidation. “Flip This Boob” coming to a station near you in April. Slap in a little spray on insulation and watch the value sky rocket! Boob #1 will be back on the market good as new!
(By the way, don’t give me a second thought. This is so very minor. But in my desire for transparency for those reading during their own journey, it needed to be told for full disclosure. You might want to think about Ron though. Boy does he win the award for For Better or Worse. )
How shall I describe what he has gone and done? There is a gully? A trench? A line? A rippling? A dimpling in the form of a line. Yes, that is a very close visual description. There is a line of dimpling that extends from midline to under the armpit across Imposter #1. It’s not the Grand Canyon, but it could easily be the Cape Fear River with aspiring goals. He looks tired and worn out. He looks to be imploding on himself. He most certainly needs a sick week to recoup and get his implant back under him. He appears marginally deflated (though not possible with High Profile Smooth Round Gel Implants). But he’s doing a good fake out all the same. It’s minor. It’s trivial. It’s pathetic to even consider. But it’s noticeable to the gal who leaves for work without looking in a mirror and goes to the grocery in rather unflattering attire.
I’ve been told it’s not uncommon. In fact it may be more common than not. My surgeon had warned me that this day would most likely come. I had warned him “no, not me, not ever!” in return. I have no problem at all pointing out where he is wrong. To which he said “well, we can hope”. In fact, the last time I saw him I had made a convert out of him. It was a year ago exactly -can you believe that?- that Boob #2 went rogue and picked up cellulitis requiring emergency surgery and replacement thus introducing Boob 2.2. In an appointment following that surgery Plastic Surgeon said I may in fact defy the odds and never require “upkeep” since otherwise they were visually doing so well. Score one for Sally! Well, a year later I have been robbed of that score and now found myself scheduling an appointment for his input on the dimpling. Twice I almost cancelled the appointment. Even the night before, I went back and forth. “Is this silly of me?” “Have I suddenly lost all sight of common sense?” “Am I worried about something when I should just be grateful I have a boob at all?” I sought the consult of a friend who had only a month ago experienced a similar out lash from her own imposter. I sought the consult of family. I felt petty. I felt vain. Yet every morning when I look down at Imposter #1 and he looks up at me, I felt unsettled. I knew something was up.
Well, the good news is I went to the appointment a few weeks ago, and I no longer feel petty. I no longer feel vain. Lead Plastic Surgeon took one look and said “yep, we absolutely need to fix that and if you don’t fix that it is only going to get worse.” Thankfully, he didn’t gloat. He put on his cheer me up smile. I think he thought I was going to tear up right there in his office when he said we needed to fix it. I wanted it fixed, but I didn’t want it to NEED to be fixed and to go through the actual process of fixing it. I simply wanted a visit with the magic eraser. Scuff up, scuff down, dimpling trench gone in 3.5 seconds, head back out of the office and call it a wonderful day. I didn’t want a “procedure” or an operating room time slot. But in the end I got both. As he explains it: this dimpling, this rippling, this trench of the Cape Fear is being caused by the lack of fat and good blood flow under the skin. Basically, the area and skin over the implant is thinning and losing blood supply. You’ll recall that during the mastectomy itself they scrape out every ounce of breast tissue and fat under the skin. During reconstruction the surgeon either refills the area with fat to make a new boob (I wasn’t a candidate for this procedure because of all of my radiation exposure) or they place an implant in a sling under the skin envelop (my procedure). Because I only had an implant (no fat), once the implant settled into the new home gaps began to appear between the skin and the surface of the implant. Dimpling, rippling, trenches. Also, because there’s no tissue inside the imposter other than the exterior skin and the gel implant itself, there isn’t a great blood supply to the area. Well, the great news is this procedure (I refuse to call it surgery) will help rectify this and should be easy cheesy in the whole scheme of things. All I have to do is lie on the OR table for an hour or so and take the best nap known to man - and he even said I might be able to get by with just localized anesthesia and then I would be awake for it all. We will decide that day. Get in, liposuck some fat from somewhere in my body, place some stitches, inject the fat over the imposter (maybe more stitches???), and get out. Go home to recover for a few days with the help of some pain meds. No drains (can you hear the angels singing!?!?!?). Minimal scarring. Improved blood flow to the area as the recycled repurposed green-way-of-doing things fat (maybe I will get a tax break?) will provide a surface for blood vessels to regenerate in the area. We will show Boob #1 who is boss and hope he takes the hint for this to be a one-time occurrence. Let him feel the love he evidently needs then move on, and at the same time hope Boob#2.2 doesn’t feel left out. Lead Plastic Surgeon warned me the dimpling is starting there as well so this time when he said “you will likely need to do this again in the future for either or both imposters” I gracefully backed down and simply nodded a “yes sir”. I guess I can’t be right all the time.
Well, it turns out that what they say is true. A mastectomy may be a one-time occurrence, but the reconstructive process can be (and appears to be for me and evidently many others out there as well) an ongoing event. While my vanity and a twinge of worry took me into the appointment, I left knowing there was in fact a need to investigate remodeling and boob design tips for medical reasons to increase blood flow to the area and lessen ongoing dilapidation. “Flip This Boob” coming to a station near you in April. Slap in a little spray on insulation and watch the value sky rocket! Boob #1 will be back on the market good as new!
(By the way, don’t give me a second thought. This is so very minor. But in my desire for transparency for those reading during their own journey, it needed to be told for full disclosure. You might want to think about Ron though. Boy does he win the award for For Better or Worse. )
www.breastcancer.org
Found this great website www.breastcancer.org if you find yourself needing additional information or resource tools for your journey.
February 1, 2014 - The laundry room floor
February 1: I found myself very angry one day this week. Grit your teeth want to bite down on a pillow kind of angry. (You’ll be relieved to know my anger has absolutely nothing to with the imposters.) I knew I was at risk for anger because I’ve been a little edgy this past month with all of the transitions going on. The loss of Ron’s dad, time away from home week after week, the moving from one job to another (which I ended up adoring by the way), the need for vacation, chores stacking up right and left in each corner of the house, tasks, to-do lists, and taxes. First world problems cluttering my day and stupid selfishness allowing it to tweak me. And when I get edgy, I get vulnerable. So this morning when I woke up too late to take someone to the airport and then when I asked Ron to return a purchase and got an edgy response (he’s been on edge as well for far more valid reasons that I have to offer), I snapped! Broke in half! Crunch, crackle, splat. No more edge, the edge was long gone and now replaced with full blown anger! Huff, puff, stomp away, tears running down my face, can’t even make a full sentence blubbering kind of anger. Silly really, but there it stood in all its glory- the ugly side of Sally. And every single thing I hate about my angered self bubbled up to the tip top of my cup and spillith over into a pool of ungodly.
I left the room to go gather myself together, get my wits about me, find my loving forgiving self, and instead as I straightened up the pillows and picked up clothes off the floor, I seethed! The anger percolated and at that very moment both (as there can’t be more than two!) unkind words Ron had ever said to me can to mind (I was really scraping the bottom of the memory bucket) and fueled my evil wicked witch ugliness until the top could no longer be contained! “I’ll get you my pretty and your little doggy too!” I purposefully grabbed my crooked wooden broom and GPSed my self-righteous self into the laundry room where Ron happened to be washing clothes and let it all come spewing out of my bitter hearted self. I will overcome! I will tally my score! And I will leave the room cold hearted and in triumph! He will see my amazing perspective and puddle himself in a pool of regret at the bottom of my newly found ruby red glitter slippers. Gone is the you-are-my-better-half mentality and instead sat every bit of my you-would-be-a-better-man-because-of-me stupidity.
Well, it’s several hours later and it didn’t exactly turn out like my innate human self-centered person had planned. I did throw my anger driven point of view right into the center of the laundry pile along with all the dirty socks, shirts and towels, and spewed out my words in pitiful heart-filled tears escalating with every robust vowel and swirly consonant. Then, I left the room in nothing but empty lonely disgust. Though not disgust for Ron as would only be natural to think, but rather in full disgust for my horrid unworthy self. It’s not at all that surprising, knowing what I know. We so often wait to have the perfect words for the perfect situation. The boss that comes in to deliver that 12th agenda item right on top of the 11 others that stand precariously perched on the one below on the corner of the now too small office desk. Does he not see that pile? Does he think I sit around all day purposed for his every need and call? Or the friend who canceled your dinner plans for the third time because she was running behind from another appointment. Yep, she can’t be on time for her own funeral. Does she not respect my time just as much as she seems to respect her own! Or when the daughter comes in and tosses a now tattered Elmo book bag (which was purchased just last week!) in the middle of your living room table and each and every crumbled sheet of homework paper, or yellowed pencil shavings that just minutes before were shoved into the zippered pocket come tumbling out on your newly vacuumed rug. ARGGHHHH! I can’t take another second of you ungrateful people! Do they not know my struggles!!!! I am RIGHTEOUS, people, and worthy of your every single thought and gratitude!!!! I can also find myself very miss-guided.
• James 1:19-20 “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.”
• Exodus 34:6 “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness..”
• Numbers 14:18 “The Lord is slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiving sin and rebellion…”
• Nehemiah 9:17 “….But you are a forgiving God, gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love. Therefore you did not desert them…”
• Joel 2:13 “Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity.”
• Psalm 130:4 “But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you.”
• Genesis 2:24 That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.
Well, James 1:19-20 sure knows how to make you pick your now lost anger up out of the middle of the laundry pile and walk away with your head down and tail between your legs. No matter if I had been right or wrong about the “what” of the situation, I found myself anything but right in that pitiful display of verbal regurgitation of my built up frustrations. I had been anything in the last 15 minutes but what I wanted to be to my husband. The same husband who has a servant’s heart I crave to mimic. The same husband I would give my everything to honor. Well, today, I failed miserably. Epic failure to respect that we all feel broken at times and without a single shred of anything left to give another person. My perspective may be right, but my reaction was 100% wrong. I let my point drive my anger and instead of finding unity, I tore a gash into our oneness with just a few spoken self-centered words. When will I master the art of choosing grace over circumstance? We are fall victim to our poor choices at times. Stupid, stupid Sally. Next time…I will do better.
This, I know. Ron and I are much wiser than any ridiculous laundry room spat over a silly errand. And I’m wise enough to know I can be an idiot. As I let my sometimes destructive guard down, in came the swell of forgiveness and overwhelming adoration for this man God placed in my path. Forgiveness. Chosen. God chose me. Ron chose me. And I chose them both in return. Is there anything better? We’ve had a crazy few emotion draining few weeks in light of the passing of Ron’s dad. We’ve been running on minimal gas. And that was the perfect fuel for this ridiculous task motivated storm. I’m guilty, but praise the Lord, I am forgiven, and therefore have the perfect example of how to muster up my knowledge of grace and spirit and use the next few hours to mold myself back into the wife I know I should be. Ron deserves that wife. God deserves that obedience. I so much better love myself when I fall into a pattern of respect for the role Ron serves in my life, the love for him that drives me into mutual submission, and the grace that lets me remain fully aware that I am not immune to self-driven stupidity. I’m going to pull it together and knock his socks off in amazement. Ok, well, I’m going to at least go pick up the sock off the laundry floor and carefully fold it just the way he likes it.
I left the room to go gather myself together, get my wits about me, find my loving forgiving self, and instead as I straightened up the pillows and picked up clothes off the floor, I seethed! The anger percolated and at that very moment both (as there can’t be more than two!) unkind words Ron had ever said to me can to mind (I was really scraping the bottom of the memory bucket) and fueled my evil wicked witch ugliness until the top could no longer be contained! “I’ll get you my pretty and your little doggy too!” I purposefully grabbed my crooked wooden broom and GPSed my self-righteous self into the laundry room where Ron happened to be washing clothes and let it all come spewing out of my bitter hearted self. I will overcome! I will tally my score! And I will leave the room cold hearted and in triumph! He will see my amazing perspective and puddle himself in a pool of regret at the bottom of my newly found ruby red glitter slippers. Gone is the you-are-my-better-half mentality and instead sat every bit of my you-would-be-a-better-man-because-of-me stupidity.
Well, it’s several hours later and it didn’t exactly turn out like my innate human self-centered person had planned. I did throw my anger driven point of view right into the center of the laundry pile along with all the dirty socks, shirts and towels, and spewed out my words in pitiful heart-filled tears escalating with every robust vowel and swirly consonant. Then, I left the room in nothing but empty lonely disgust. Though not disgust for Ron as would only be natural to think, but rather in full disgust for my horrid unworthy self. It’s not at all that surprising, knowing what I know. We so often wait to have the perfect words for the perfect situation. The boss that comes in to deliver that 12th agenda item right on top of the 11 others that stand precariously perched on the one below on the corner of the now too small office desk. Does he not see that pile? Does he think I sit around all day purposed for his every need and call? Or the friend who canceled your dinner plans for the third time because she was running behind from another appointment. Yep, she can’t be on time for her own funeral. Does she not respect my time just as much as she seems to respect her own! Or when the daughter comes in and tosses a now tattered Elmo book bag (which was purchased just last week!) in the middle of your living room table and each and every crumbled sheet of homework paper, or yellowed pencil shavings that just minutes before were shoved into the zippered pocket come tumbling out on your newly vacuumed rug. ARGGHHHH! I can’t take another second of you ungrateful people! Do they not know my struggles!!!! I am RIGHTEOUS, people, and worthy of your every single thought and gratitude!!!! I can also find myself very miss-guided.
• James 1:19-20 “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.”
• Exodus 34:6 “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness..”
• Numbers 14:18 “The Lord is slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiving sin and rebellion…”
• Nehemiah 9:17 “….But you are a forgiving God, gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love. Therefore you did not desert them…”
• Joel 2:13 “Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity.”
• Psalm 130:4 “But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you.”
• Genesis 2:24 That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.
Well, James 1:19-20 sure knows how to make you pick your now lost anger up out of the middle of the laundry pile and walk away with your head down and tail between your legs. No matter if I had been right or wrong about the “what” of the situation, I found myself anything but right in that pitiful display of verbal regurgitation of my built up frustrations. I had been anything in the last 15 minutes but what I wanted to be to my husband. The same husband who has a servant’s heart I crave to mimic. The same husband I would give my everything to honor. Well, today, I failed miserably. Epic failure to respect that we all feel broken at times and without a single shred of anything left to give another person. My perspective may be right, but my reaction was 100% wrong. I let my point drive my anger and instead of finding unity, I tore a gash into our oneness with just a few spoken self-centered words. When will I master the art of choosing grace over circumstance? We are fall victim to our poor choices at times. Stupid, stupid Sally. Next time…I will do better.
This, I know. Ron and I are much wiser than any ridiculous laundry room spat over a silly errand. And I’m wise enough to know I can be an idiot. As I let my sometimes destructive guard down, in came the swell of forgiveness and overwhelming adoration for this man God placed in my path. Forgiveness. Chosen. God chose me. Ron chose me. And I chose them both in return. Is there anything better? We’ve had a crazy few emotion draining few weeks in light of the passing of Ron’s dad. We’ve been running on minimal gas. And that was the perfect fuel for this ridiculous task motivated storm. I’m guilty, but praise the Lord, I am forgiven, and therefore have the perfect example of how to muster up my knowledge of grace and spirit and use the next few hours to mold myself back into the wife I know I should be. Ron deserves that wife. God deserves that obedience. I so much better love myself when I fall into a pattern of respect for the role Ron serves in my life, the love for him that drives me into mutual submission, and the grace that lets me remain fully aware that I am not immune to self-driven stupidity. I’m going to pull it together and knock his socks off in amazement. Ok, well, I’m going to at least go pick up the sock off the laundry floor and carefully fold it just the way he likes it.
January 14, 2014 - No longer welcome here
I’m sitting here on my last week of work thinking about transitions and how exciting, un-nerving, self-reflecting, encouraging, overwhelming they can be. I stepped out on a limb in my faith and quit a portion of my job without having a backup plan in place. I know, some of you are nursing broken ribs and having to pick yourself up off the floor right now after reading that. Those of you that know me know that this is 100% uncharacteristic of the Sally you’ve come to know and rely on. Putting it mildly, I’m a planner. I’m a detail oriented to-do list crosser offer. I always know my last steps, my current steps, and my next steps. So this thing I have done has scared me to death for the last few months leading up to and the last month leading away from. You know I must have had some intense motivating factors to choose this seemingly irresponsible path. Something to push me over the edge. Well the “IT” pushed for almost a year and finally after several altering events, I chose. So here I sit potentially under-employed. I’ve done it. There is no denying it. I’ve been living it for a month now and it feels scary and foreign. And you know what else? It feels….a little affirming! Faith affirming as I trust (and beg) God to guide me…and then I wait…
I’ve done something seemingly drastic (not mastectomy kind of drastic, just drastic in its own right). And I went about it a whole new method. No planning for a definitive outcome. No lining up my ducks and mapping out a route – well I tried that method months ago and then when nothing lined up I decided to abandon my usual course. I sort of just jumped! Head first into a grey hole of maybe, maybe not. A hole of what ifs. I turned in my resignation (with a definitive date but without a definite plan) and there I swam for over a month waiting to see if a lead would come about. My swimmies were working overtime! My emotional skin became a little waterlogged. I had some head bobbing and maybe a few moments of choke on sea water, but time and time again my little head would pop back up above the surface. Surprise, surprise! Maybe I had found something new. Maybe my years of careful planning and carefully measuring each and every step wasn’t the only foolproof method of getting from here to there.
Therefore, I ask myself what method is correct. That is always the infamous question lurking on your agenda. Clearly calculated? Relying on an educated instinct? Reactive spontaneity? Passive fluidity? How do we guarantee effective outcomes in decision making (or lack thereof)? I’ve spent my whole life worrying if the decision is right. Is it in God’s will? Sometimes, I am paralyzed by that thinking. Other times I’m motivated to positive outcome in careful thought. But there is definitely a fine line there between productivity and paralysis for me. Marry or stay single? Children or no children? Private school? Home school? Do we take a pay cut to increase life balance? Do we move to Oregon to be closer to family? Stay in Texas for opportunity? Try the chemotherapy? Buy the car? Choose the mastectomy? Roll the dice? It’s exhausting and it’s never ending! There is always some decision to be made, some risk and benefit to balance out. And for us Type A go-getters, there exists a good bit of turmoil in the process of choosing correctly. Choosing what you, my support system, will approve of, choosing what God would honor, choosing with minimal impact to the spouse. Choosing, choosing, choosing! There is pressure in that people! Some serious, intense, often paralyzing pressure! Ten years ago, I would have never made this decision I just made about this job. Not because it would have been the wrong decision to jump ship, but because I would have been immobilized by the thought that it MIGHT have been the wrong decision. I’m a pleaser. I’m a right and wrong kind of gal. Step away from the risk of a bad decision, Sally! Surely you, too, have been there. Maybe you, like me, own a condo there that you visit with too much frequency. Sometimes it’s easier to stay put and endure the whatever rather than go out on a limb of change. Sometimes refusing to choose is the only choice you can make and survive the risk of emotional collapse. (I truly hope at least one of you can relate to me in this and that I’m not the sole freak of decision bondage out there.) I have to ask myself if lack of choice is God honoring? Sometimes the easy way out, in this case avoidance, is in fact the very sin (or wrong decision) you were so desperately trying to avoid in the first place. Or stressing over a decision to a point of exhaustion - it can rob you of all joy in knowing and trusting in God that can result from choice. I exude stress about making the decision that would please God and in the process am robbed of the flourishing that can come from seeking out wisdom in the Holy Spirit. Guilty poster child, right here in the flesh, on too many occasions to speak of!
The question becomes how do I as a Christ-follower break from this pattern? Dare I say it, this bondage of self-doubt and fear? I think it’s important for me to recognize that I do in fact desperately seek God’s guidance with the best motive and intent. I truly trust His plan more than anything I could come up with on my own. I listen, I wait, I seek counsel. My sin doesn’t originate in that as that is exactly what God desires. My sin comes in allowing Satan to get his arm in the battle. He’s there. And he’s ruthless. And He is in hot pursuit of me as he knows perfection and a fear of being out of step is my very weakness and his knowledge of that gives him the advantage. He knows me as well as I know me and he calculates. He speaks the words in my ear that infiltrate me with doubt. I lose my trust in Christ and instead focus on my doubt of self. Don’t get me wrong, doubt can serve a very worthwhile purpose. It can keep you from making stupid self-driven decisions. I have to ask myself is this God-inspired doubt? Is it Sally’s human inspired doubt? Is it Satan doing his thing to muddle my course? How do you tell? So if doubt can be Satan in some circumstances, Sally in others, and yet even the Holy Spirit’s nudging to listen in another, I can easily find myself in a dilemma, a swirl of racing thoughts, a puddle of doubt driven bone and flesh. The lines get blurred. How in the world can I have confidence in my decision in those circumstances where God is seemingly not pointing me in a certain direction? How do I not end up paralyzed and afraid to move in any direction at all?
Well you see, I am learning. Boy, has it been a process most evident in the last 5-10 years. I am learning to have that thoughtful discernment and seeking of wise counsel. Let me tell you, it is not innate for me. I’m learning to rely on little nudges that help decipher. I’m looking at the big picture and not each and every single plausible individual piece in minute excruciating detail. I’m also recognizing that God just wants to be part of the process. He doesn’t want our hectic chaotic FEAR driven digging and dissecting in an attempt to please him in our decisions. He wants our respectful TRUST driven rational approach while paying attention to the details at hand, actively listening to prompts He may give, and acceptance of He is bigger than my decision. Some things will be black and white, truly right and wrong. Those are a given. And others may be neither black nor white, neither right nor wrong. Either choice will be an opportunity to honor God. Do you move to Oregon- sure! God will honor your decision to focus on family and use you to impact those around you. Do you stay in Texas- sure, God will honor you attention to work ethic and use you to impact those around you. Do you have children? Sure, they truly are a blessing from Him to you. Do you not have children? Sure, if your motive is in check and you use yourself accordingly. What God wants from me is to seek Him in the process. Converse with him. Look for true black and white, if it exists, and when it doesn’t rationally (not in fearful chaos) proceed with a choice and watch for God to confirm. Even if I make a poor decision, no doubt even in that He can make something great, or else he can grow me through consequence. So there is even trust in that if I actively seek Him in the process of decision making. Sometimes He will instruct me to watch and wait. Other times he will very distinctly ask me to act. And other times, He just wants to know that I cared enough to ask him and the decision is all mine to make, no wrong answer. He will Honor me in my choice of choosing him along the way. So I ask myself again, what is the right method of choice? They can potentially all be right in certain scenarios. Some of us will decide with passive fluidity. Some with careful calculation. Some with reactivity. That’s the beauty of personality. Many times it’s not the how, it’s not the what, it’s the who. He meets me where I am-after all, He was the one who purposely designed me to be Type A.
So after a year, or more intensely after six months, of seeking guidance, I actively and rationally chose. I have limited fear of right or wrong as I know I sought him in the process. Even if this next opportunity proves to be a poor match, I have no doubt that God will redirect me. He cares for me even more than I care for Him! I resigned from a position without a firm plan for my future, truly a first for me. And you know what? There exists an overarching feeling of peace. Sure, some doubt lurks underneath. Some fear of “what have I done?” is right there waiting to bust out. But covering it all, there sits peace. And that, my friends, is confirmation of God’s presence in this process. Peace. For those inquiring minds, I got confirmation just yesterday that guess what? God showed up not only with peace, but with a plan! I finish this job on Friday and start a new perfectly designed for me opportunity on Tuesday. Step away paralyzing fear! We have to quit meeting like this. You are no longer welcome here.
I’ve done something seemingly drastic (not mastectomy kind of drastic, just drastic in its own right). And I went about it a whole new method. No planning for a definitive outcome. No lining up my ducks and mapping out a route – well I tried that method months ago and then when nothing lined up I decided to abandon my usual course. I sort of just jumped! Head first into a grey hole of maybe, maybe not. A hole of what ifs. I turned in my resignation (with a definitive date but without a definite plan) and there I swam for over a month waiting to see if a lead would come about. My swimmies were working overtime! My emotional skin became a little waterlogged. I had some head bobbing and maybe a few moments of choke on sea water, but time and time again my little head would pop back up above the surface. Surprise, surprise! Maybe I had found something new. Maybe my years of careful planning and carefully measuring each and every step wasn’t the only foolproof method of getting from here to there.
Therefore, I ask myself what method is correct. That is always the infamous question lurking on your agenda. Clearly calculated? Relying on an educated instinct? Reactive spontaneity? Passive fluidity? How do we guarantee effective outcomes in decision making (or lack thereof)? I’ve spent my whole life worrying if the decision is right. Is it in God’s will? Sometimes, I am paralyzed by that thinking. Other times I’m motivated to positive outcome in careful thought. But there is definitely a fine line there between productivity and paralysis for me. Marry or stay single? Children or no children? Private school? Home school? Do we take a pay cut to increase life balance? Do we move to Oregon to be closer to family? Stay in Texas for opportunity? Try the chemotherapy? Buy the car? Choose the mastectomy? Roll the dice? It’s exhausting and it’s never ending! There is always some decision to be made, some risk and benefit to balance out. And for us Type A go-getters, there exists a good bit of turmoil in the process of choosing correctly. Choosing what you, my support system, will approve of, choosing what God would honor, choosing with minimal impact to the spouse. Choosing, choosing, choosing! There is pressure in that people! Some serious, intense, often paralyzing pressure! Ten years ago, I would have never made this decision I just made about this job. Not because it would have been the wrong decision to jump ship, but because I would have been immobilized by the thought that it MIGHT have been the wrong decision. I’m a pleaser. I’m a right and wrong kind of gal. Step away from the risk of a bad decision, Sally! Surely you, too, have been there. Maybe you, like me, own a condo there that you visit with too much frequency. Sometimes it’s easier to stay put and endure the whatever rather than go out on a limb of change. Sometimes refusing to choose is the only choice you can make and survive the risk of emotional collapse. (I truly hope at least one of you can relate to me in this and that I’m not the sole freak of decision bondage out there.) I have to ask myself if lack of choice is God honoring? Sometimes the easy way out, in this case avoidance, is in fact the very sin (or wrong decision) you were so desperately trying to avoid in the first place. Or stressing over a decision to a point of exhaustion - it can rob you of all joy in knowing and trusting in God that can result from choice. I exude stress about making the decision that would please God and in the process am robbed of the flourishing that can come from seeking out wisdom in the Holy Spirit. Guilty poster child, right here in the flesh, on too many occasions to speak of!
The question becomes how do I as a Christ-follower break from this pattern? Dare I say it, this bondage of self-doubt and fear? I think it’s important for me to recognize that I do in fact desperately seek God’s guidance with the best motive and intent. I truly trust His plan more than anything I could come up with on my own. I listen, I wait, I seek counsel. My sin doesn’t originate in that as that is exactly what God desires. My sin comes in allowing Satan to get his arm in the battle. He’s there. And he’s ruthless. And He is in hot pursuit of me as he knows perfection and a fear of being out of step is my very weakness and his knowledge of that gives him the advantage. He knows me as well as I know me and he calculates. He speaks the words in my ear that infiltrate me with doubt. I lose my trust in Christ and instead focus on my doubt of self. Don’t get me wrong, doubt can serve a very worthwhile purpose. It can keep you from making stupid self-driven decisions. I have to ask myself is this God-inspired doubt? Is it Sally’s human inspired doubt? Is it Satan doing his thing to muddle my course? How do you tell? So if doubt can be Satan in some circumstances, Sally in others, and yet even the Holy Spirit’s nudging to listen in another, I can easily find myself in a dilemma, a swirl of racing thoughts, a puddle of doubt driven bone and flesh. The lines get blurred. How in the world can I have confidence in my decision in those circumstances where God is seemingly not pointing me in a certain direction? How do I not end up paralyzed and afraid to move in any direction at all?
Well you see, I am learning. Boy, has it been a process most evident in the last 5-10 years. I am learning to have that thoughtful discernment and seeking of wise counsel. Let me tell you, it is not innate for me. I’m learning to rely on little nudges that help decipher. I’m looking at the big picture and not each and every single plausible individual piece in minute excruciating detail. I’m also recognizing that God just wants to be part of the process. He doesn’t want our hectic chaotic FEAR driven digging and dissecting in an attempt to please him in our decisions. He wants our respectful TRUST driven rational approach while paying attention to the details at hand, actively listening to prompts He may give, and acceptance of He is bigger than my decision. Some things will be black and white, truly right and wrong. Those are a given. And others may be neither black nor white, neither right nor wrong. Either choice will be an opportunity to honor God. Do you move to Oregon- sure! God will honor your decision to focus on family and use you to impact those around you. Do you stay in Texas- sure, God will honor you attention to work ethic and use you to impact those around you. Do you have children? Sure, they truly are a blessing from Him to you. Do you not have children? Sure, if your motive is in check and you use yourself accordingly. What God wants from me is to seek Him in the process. Converse with him. Look for true black and white, if it exists, and when it doesn’t rationally (not in fearful chaos) proceed with a choice and watch for God to confirm. Even if I make a poor decision, no doubt even in that He can make something great, or else he can grow me through consequence. So there is even trust in that if I actively seek Him in the process of decision making. Sometimes He will instruct me to watch and wait. Other times he will very distinctly ask me to act. And other times, He just wants to know that I cared enough to ask him and the decision is all mine to make, no wrong answer. He will Honor me in my choice of choosing him along the way. So I ask myself again, what is the right method of choice? They can potentially all be right in certain scenarios. Some of us will decide with passive fluidity. Some with careful calculation. Some with reactivity. That’s the beauty of personality. Many times it’s not the how, it’s not the what, it’s the who. He meets me where I am-after all, He was the one who purposely designed me to be Type A.
So after a year, or more intensely after six months, of seeking guidance, I actively and rationally chose. I have limited fear of right or wrong as I know I sought him in the process. Even if this next opportunity proves to be a poor match, I have no doubt that God will redirect me. He cares for me even more than I care for Him! I resigned from a position without a firm plan for my future, truly a first for me. And you know what? There exists an overarching feeling of peace. Sure, some doubt lurks underneath. Some fear of “what have I done?” is right there waiting to bust out. But covering it all, there sits peace. And that, my friends, is confirmation of God’s presence in this process. Peace. For those inquiring minds, I got confirmation just yesterday that guess what? God showed up not only with peace, but with a plan! I finish this job on Friday and start a new perfectly designed for me opportunity on Tuesday. Step away paralyzing fear! We have to quit meeting like this. You are no longer welcome here.
January 8, 2014 - Strangely, Empowered!
I bet you didn’t expect to find me posting. I didn’t expect to find me posting. The outcome presented itself after repeatedly finding myself in places of people asking “what happened to you posts? I miss them” or “how am I supposed to keep up with you now” or “I was sharing this with a friend who was working to embrace mastectomy through your experience, now there is nothing to share…” I experienced this a good bit over the holidays and it prompted me to re-evaluate why I stopped writing, but more so it propelled me into this one post as an update to so many of you who have inquired and got my usual “good” canned response. To quote Ron when he asked me what I am working on as I sit here typing- “what in the world?” I’m surprised myself to see these words entering the page.
In quick summary: I am doing very well post mastectomy! It’s been a quiet 8 months since my last revision surgery on the imposters. I’m good and all is well with both Boob 1 and Boob 2.2. They found a new home and I accepted the new tenants. What more could I ask for? I still want my old boobs back, if given the choice, simply because they were mine purposed for me by my ancestors (Thanks Sarah and Jane!) but these imposters are a good second option since it came to that. That is the short and sweet reader’s digest version.
The in depth, more detailed, more analytical response is something, more like: I’ve successfully embraced mastectomy and all its triumphs and woes and surprisingly feel more accomplished as a female. The latter of that statement being the key point that has caught me off-guard. I have fake boobs, but I have success and a new oomph propelling me. I dodged breast cancer and gained a perspective I doubt I ever would have obtained without the mastectomies. Is it possible to lop off two sacks of saggy fat and find empowerment in the process? I once posted in response to Jolie’s choice to undergo prophylactic mastectomy. I was dissecting the attribution of “brave” I kept finding in the media. I struggled with that description early on. Now, I have a better understanding of that term. I do in fact think I’m more in tune with actively (as opposed to passively) engaging challenging situations after choosing mastectomy. Call it brave, call it empowered. It’s as if I found a “if I can choose this, I can choose and maneuver through anything” mentality. It’s of course not all success and triumph, we all recall my battle scars (and physical scars), read my old posts if you have forgotten, but I have risen above that, instead incorporating it in to a goulash of adjectives that go with this drastic medical procedure. I’m taking it all as a lump sum instead of selectively opting for some over the other. No longer do I grieve. No longer do I slink in and out in self-conscious movement. I’m out of my fog of unfamiliar. Instead, I just am. I’m empowered by the goulash of mastectomy. That’s a triumph, right? So yes, there is hope for you if you find yourself in the six week/ six month/ one year jumble of post mastectomy fog. I fully admit I don’t think there is any way another person that can fully prepare you for all that comes, but I will bet with great confidence that you will find yourself on the other side of those surreal emotions to embrace the journey with a perspective of “I just did that. I just did that. Really, I just did that!” Score: 1000! Looking back at past posts, I would question the how I got from there to here. But I did. And I don’t have to understand the how. There, all wrapped up in one long paragraph. As if.
This past week, Ron and I went through the loss of a parent. Ron’s dad lost his largely triumphant 2 year battle with recurrent melanoma. Five days before Christmas, after an admission to the hospital for abdominal pain, he decided he wanted to finish out his time in Home Hospice. So the family took him home for the remainder of his care. It was an intense week of caregiving, grieving, learning, observing, analyzing, loving, and the list goes on. He lived 9 more days at home. The last weeks/months of a cancer diagnosis can be intense. So many make it to overcome the disease, others are left with the outcome as Ron’s dad had. I, having been a lymphoma survivor and now a dodger of breast cancer, found myself whirling in the thoughts and emotions that come with being the survivor in the presence of someone still in their battle. Being in the career I am in, I battle this awareness on a daily basis, often subconsciously, others, as in the case of Ron’s dad, fully aware of the blessing (and curse) of survivorship. Likewise, I’m not naive to the blessing in the passage into the hereafter for those that succumb to the pains of advanced disease. Cancer carries a spectrum of manifestations, several of which are heart breaking for not only the patient, but the family. This understanding is what propelled me to the mastectomy choice I made. While amazing incredible life changing outcomes can be birthed from a cancer diagnosis, at times, it can carry a heartache that is challenging to soothe for all involved. Mastectomy most likely will save me and my family from the depths of a second cancer diagnosis. I was fully aware of that decision these last few weeks. Ron’s family navigated the emotions of a cancer death, but they also absorbed the riches that can come as well to those left behind. The incredible outpouring of community (over 600 people attended his visitation). The nostalgia of celebrating life. The inward pull of family propelling each other into the next day. They will not only survive this, they will enhance so many lives around them in the process of the journey. They found the blessing that can flow from confusion and illusion of the unfair. It’s a testament to what can happen when you actively seek out blessings in chaos. I’m grateful to have been there to observe it all.
I want to help people navigate it all. The choices, the outcomes, the ups, the downs, the complex ins and out of malignancy. Be it the active choice to lessen your risk through drastic decisions like mastectomy, or the journey that ensues following the diagnosis. I want people to see the triumph in survivorship, the triumph in death, and the amazing outcomes that can spawn from the despair of loss for those left behind. I truly believe in reason and purpose. I’m a survivor of life because of reason and purpose. I may have factory manufactured spheres of gel on my chest, but with that comes perspective and active seeking of what next. I gained an empowerment because I chose imposters. Face forward and navigate. There is much to be gained. And be sure and laugh a little at the absurdity of it all. That helps too.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
In quick summary: I am doing very well post mastectomy! It’s been a quiet 8 months since my last revision surgery on the imposters. I’m good and all is well with both Boob 1 and Boob 2.2. They found a new home and I accepted the new tenants. What more could I ask for? I still want my old boobs back, if given the choice, simply because they were mine purposed for me by my ancestors (Thanks Sarah and Jane!) but these imposters are a good second option since it came to that. That is the short and sweet reader’s digest version.
The in depth, more detailed, more analytical response is something, more like: I’ve successfully embraced mastectomy and all its triumphs and woes and surprisingly feel more accomplished as a female. The latter of that statement being the key point that has caught me off-guard. I have fake boobs, but I have success and a new oomph propelling me. I dodged breast cancer and gained a perspective I doubt I ever would have obtained without the mastectomies. Is it possible to lop off two sacks of saggy fat and find empowerment in the process? I once posted in response to Jolie’s choice to undergo prophylactic mastectomy. I was dissecting the attribution of “brave” I kept finding in the media. I struggled with that description early on. Now, I have a better understanding of that term. I do in fact think I’m more in tune with actively (as opposed to passively) engaging challenging situations after choosing mastectomy. Call it brave, call it empowered. It’s as if I found a “if I can choose this, I can choose and maneuver through anything” mentality. It’s of course not all success and triumph, we all recall my battle scars (and physical scars), read my old posts if you have forgotten, but I have risen above that, instead incorporating it in to a goulash of adjectives that go with this drastic medical procedure. I’m taking it all as a lump sum instead of selectively opting for some over the other. No longer do I grieve. No longer do I slink in and out in self-conscious movement. I’m out of my fog of unfamiliar. Instead, I just am. I’m empowered by the goulash of mastectomy. That’s a triumph, right? So yes, there is hope for you if you find yourself in the six week/ six month/ one year jumble of post mastectomy fog. I fully admit I don’t think there is any way another person that can fully prepare you for all that comes, but I will bet with great confidence that you will find yourself on the other side of those surreal emotions to embrace the journey with a perspective of “I just did that. I just did that. Really, I just did that!” Score: 1000! Looking back at past posts, I would question the how I got from there to here. But I did. And I don’t have to understand the how. There, all wrapped up in one long paragraph. As if.
This past week, Ron and I went through the loss of a parent. Ron’s dad lost his largely triumphant 2 year battle with recurrent melanoma. Five days before Christmas, after an admission to the hospital for abdominal pain, he decided he wanted to finish out his time in Home Hospice. So the family took him home for the remainder of his care. It was an intense week of caregiving, grieving, learning, observing, analyzing, loving, and the list goes on. He lived 9 more days at home. The last weeks/months of a cancer diagnosis can be intense. So many make it to overcome the disease, others are left with the outcome as Ron’s dad had. I, having been a lymphoma survivor and now a dodger of breast cancer, found myself whirling in the thoughts and emotions that come with being the survivor in the presence of someone still in their battle. Being in the career I am in, I battle this awareness on a daily basis, often subconsciously, others, as in the case of Ron’s dad, fully aware of the blessing (and curse) of survivorship. Likewise, I’m not naive to the blessing in the passage into the hereafter for those that succumb to the pains of advanced disease. Cancer carries a spectrum of manifestations, several of which are heart breaking for not only the patient, but the family. This understanding is what propelled me to the mastectomy choice I made. While amazing incredible life changing outcomes can be birthed from a cancer diagnosis, at times, it can carry a heartache that is challenging to soothe for all involved. Mastectomy most likely will save me and my family from the depths of a second cancer diagnosis. I was fully aware of that decision these last few weeks. Ron’s family navigated the emotions of a cancer death, but they also absorbed the riches that can come as well to those left behind. The incredible outpouring of community (over 600 people attended his visitation). The nostalgia of celebrating life. The inward pull of family propelling each other into the next day. They will not only survive this, they will enhance so many lives around them in the process of the journey. They found the blessing that can flow from confusion and illusion of the unfair. It’s a testament to what can happen when you actively seek out blessings in chaos. I’m grateful to have been there to observe it all.
I want to help people navigate it all. The choices, the outcomes, the ups, the downs, the complex ins and out of malignancy. Be it the active choice to lessen your risk through drastic decisions like mastectomy, or the journey that ensues following the diagnosis. I want people to see the triumph in survivorship, the triumph in death, and the amazing outcomes that can spawn from the despair of loss for those left behind. I truly believe in reason and purpose. I’m a survivor of life because of reason and purpose. I may have factory manufactured spheres of gel on my chest, but with that comes perspective and active seeking of what next. I gained an empowerment because I chose imposters. Face forward and navigate. There is much to be gained. And be sure and laugh a little at the absurdity of it all. That helps too.
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July 21, 2013 - Mid-life schmid-life
July 21: Remember when you were a kid and you went over to your Aunt’s house for the afternoon and you thought to yourself- “Oh my goodness, what a stick in the mud! Thirty-eight is knocking on death’s door.” I’m thirty eight. Hannah (name changed to protect the guilty) is having a mid-life crisis. I didn’t think that was possible until you were scratching at fifty…or maybe even sixty. But I must have been mistaken as it must be thirty. Her being a tad older than I, I guess I’m four years from it being here full force. I already feel it for my husband (though he doesn’t even have a twinge of it). How in the world is my husband 41???? Honestly, I don’t feel a day over thirty. I can’t be married to someone closer to fifty than thirty. We are closer to retirement than the start of our career. Do I need to put money down on a patio home (wait, I’m already in a patio home)? If I really sit and think about it all, I could easily be guilty of inducing my own mid-life crisis. It’s probably right behind my grocery list in this mind of mine. Yep, it’s there lurking as I think of my parents being closer to a nursing home than a single’s party. It’s coming. I’m right there on the cusp. And hearing my friend Hannah, this past week, speak of her cusp I realize I am teetering on my own.
But I’m also embracing this perspective that comes with getting past the selfish days of twenty something. I adore not having to keep up with the Joneses (whoever they are and how did they become so famous?). Materialism actually irks me instead of drives me. I greatly appreciate watching the mothers around me sort through the strategy of child rearing. How do we make this little human being now in our care a meaningful contributor to society? Trial and error can be a hoot to observe. But there is also some immense satisfaction as you watch a niece or nephew (even those that are honorary) choose to be a Christ follower or observe them sincerely mourn on behalf of a sibling that got knocked down on the playground. I don’t miss those days where I would have criticized you for wearing pink with red. I crave giving to the Mission instead of to the local boutique. If only I could have made this wisdom come years ago. And what incredible knowledge of mid-life still awaits me over the next few week, months, years, decades? I truly believe it must get better from here. Not that I am saying life itself gets better and that we are immune to the struggles of living here in this fallen world, but maybe the struggles seem somewhat less of a struggle with newly found wisdom found with each passing slice of birthday cake. I’m also not naïve enough to not acknowledge the sorrow of loss that lies in wait as well. That will be my truest test of wisdom. But I think they must end up balancing each other out. Maybe the wisdom of midlife makes the dread of impending loss all the more bearable. Or maybe the ongoing loss of immaturity leads to the maturation of coping skills. An appreciation of the value of relationships around you so that when you lose one, you grow deeper in another that is helping you get by. Surely.
So I’m embracing mid-life (maybe?). Ok, so I am attempting to embrace mid-life. I think of how different my last year would have been had I started this journey of mastectomy a decade earlier. Instead of the worry of what others may think of me or the doom of temporal loss of vanity that would have prevailed a decade ago, in this age of thirty something I feel this sense of wisdom through mastectomy. It took me a year, but I am seeing a newly defined glimpse of the pride of battle scars (Sarah, I now understand what you said eight months ago). I feel more informed, more connected (more disconnected maybe, but in a positive way), just simply more. I love my perspective of life more now with imposters in tow than I did with the original counterparts . The fake have grown on me. I respect the triumph over circumstances. Maybe that is a secret blessing of mid-life. Mid-life knows your husband doesn’t even blink an eye at hottie walking in front of you in the mall. Mid-life means choosing dinner with your parents over dinner with the Joneses at the country club. Mid-life is letting the laundry sit while you walk around the pond with your elderly neighbor. Mid-life is sometimes putting a little away instead of getting the silver bangle. Mid-life is choosing your friends wisely. Mid-life is praying for the coworker that grates your every nerve and praying for yourself to focus instead on her strengths. Mid-life is forgiveness. Mid-life is choosing mastectomy. I don’t know that I would have done that 20 years ago.
All of you in and past mid-life can say the same in your own perspectives. Look at yourself the week before you found out you were pregnant, and now the you two years after delivery. The you the year after your first job, and now the you 6 months after being laid off. You before you miscarried. You before the loss of your mother. You before the diagnosis. You when your spouse battles addiction. You when you see your son choose Christ over society. Maybe I’m Miss Super Positive (I most certainly am a glass half full kind of person), but I truly do believe with every circumstance, even those that seem insurmountable, brings this incredible sense of purpose and perspective that couldn’t be obtain otherwise. Mid-life is the looking rear view mirror for wisdom and running with that wisdom and respect toward the future. A chance to grow closer to your spouse and those around you. A chance to shine for purpose. I think God is brilliant in that. Mid-life was very specifically purposed. However, He doesn’t dictate what you do with it. It’s simply an opportunity for the taking.
I read something to the effect of this just a few days ago “To the female teenagers of the world: Choose the nerd every single time. Trust me on this! Sincerely, Married women of the world a few years older.” Oh how very true! Think of all of those tidbits of information that you wish had darkened your door a decade earlier. (I was lucky to already have that knowledge of marriage very early I life- Thanks, Mom!) So why not be excited of what is to come? Why not sit and wait in intense anticipation? Mid-life crisis, Schmid-life crisis! If God truly wants the best for us, and we decide to believe in that plan despite circumstance, how can the next best thing not be today, and again tomorrow, and again the next day? Today is the best! And tomorrow will be the best! And even if struggle darkens your door (as it most certainly will), mid-life is a reminder of just how surmountable it all can be.
So women, let’s embrace those wrinkled foreheads. A testament that thinking and praying your way out of any situation is much better than chance. Put a little swagger in your fluffy trunk for that fluffy trunk shows eating cupcakes with a 3 years old is far better than choosing solitude while cleaning the house. Hello, mini-van...only a testament to choosing family over self. Graying hair? Survived the chaos! Sagging boobs? Well I wouldn’t know about that. = )
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Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
June 16, 2013 - Rear View
June 16: Because I believe that every single moment in life can be teachable if the student cares to learn, I’ve made it a habit of mine to always maintain a clean, well placed, rear view mirror. I want to not only look forward as my instant gratifier personality traits often drives me, but also remember to turn around and look back at the road just traveled and possibly even those not traveled at all when I came to a junction. So having just left this week what I assume to be my very last breast appointment, I find myself glancing backward at my chosen path evaluating the outcome of my choice. It’s been almost a year to date since I first learned of the new/now old medical data surrounding lymphoma survivors. Ironic that the last appointment fell almost to that exact date of my knowledge of there needing to be a decision. Was it successful? Did everything prove true? I’m one of the few people without the BRCA gene that have chosen this route, maybe one of the first of many to come. I’ve crossed over from the 75%+ chance of breast cancer with limit treatment options to now being <5%. I didn’t “feel” when I cross over that line, but I’m told it happened. I imagine <5% came August 7, 2012 when the scalpel made its very last resection and the final piece of breast tissue left in the skin envelope was placed onto the glass slide for pathology results. At the exact moment when the Lead Breast Surgeon looked down and observed she had in fact finished that OR case after 5+ hours of standing over my chest. I didn’t “feel” the percentage transition occur, but it happened. I’m sure to her I was just another case, maybe better than others since I in fact did not have breast cancer. Her usual mastectomies were not curative, but rather just one modality to help the survival chances better fought with rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. For this woman laying on her OR table, she was in fact taking the sole measure to save my life (from a breast cancer death anyway). I do wonder what her thoughts were at that moment. I know my decision was controversial to her. She gave me options to wait a year or two to ensure I wasn’t planning to have kids. She wanted to be sure I had thought through every aspect of the decision and got other medical opinions (for she knew way better what lie in wait for me). She wanted me to be informed. Well to me, I was informed. 75%+ breast cancer. That was all I needed to hear. I’m usually very quick to make medical decisions (I know those of you that go to a restaurant with me are laughing at this very moment when I am paralyzed by having to choose an option from a menu. Menus are a flaw of mine). Medical decision making is an area I feel confident in. I considered myself stupid NOT to do this mastectomy. So, yes, I was very sure in my choice. Well, as sure as I could be in July 2012 pre mastectomy. I discovered her thoughts later the following morning when she came to discharge me from the hospital. When she instructed me under no circumstances to open those bandages (see post from the Fall titles “Looking back to Day 0 part 1 and 2”). She knew exactly what I was getting in to. Little did I know that a very black and white medical decision led to some very grey aftermath that in many ways would affect everyone in my surroundings, particularly family. Let me tell you my foresight was a far cry from my hindsight in this one. But my hindsight has allowed me to glean some really incredible pearls of wisdom. Some already partially realized pre mastectomy, but better solidified post. Some are brand spanking new to my cerebral awareness.
Husbands come in all shapes, sizes, commitment levels, and emotional intelligence. My husband scores incredibly high in the area of "marriage through thick and thin." Lead Plastic Surgeon as well as Lead Breast Surgeon both said confirmatory statements about Ron at my last appointments with each. Both alluding to “Sally, you don’t know how great you have it. We see divorce after divorce happening after mastectomy.” Well, yes I do know just how great I have it. He’s proven it time and time again this past year. Not like I ever had a doubt but there is definite proof in the pudding. There where those moments when I was standing in the shower, and there he stood with me wet to the core with a loofa in hand since I had no range of motion. “Nooks and Crannies” we joked, me in tears, him pulling me back together piece by piece, then grabbing a towel to get me dry when I was paralyzed in nothing short of shock. Or the 10+ pillows being repositioned night after night since I absolutely could not find comfort in bed. Me having to wake him up every 45 minutes to reposition, him jumping right up at any moment more than eager to help. Then being obligated to empty the contents of clot filled breast drains into a Tupperware bowl hour after hour when I would fall apart at the thought of having to do it even one more time. Or even further back, when I asked him what choice we should make and him not blinking an eye saying we needed to do this. He loved me with boobs, he loved me without boobs (the true test of a man), and now he loves me with imposter boobs and weight gain. And the amazing thing is I never saw a variance in love despite the stage. In fact, we are stronger for it. Mastectomy care is full time, and he abandoned everything of self to be fully devoted to me. There are few men in this world that would be what Ron proved himself to be. And without a lick of preparation! This I learned: Women, wait for quality. It’s out there. You never know when you are going to need someone to empty your breast drain at 6 in the morning when all you yourself want to do is crawl into the fetal position. But slowly, as you watch your spouse step up to the plate time and time again, you find yourself doing the same.
Vanity is relative. I have never once in life considered myself vain by the worldly standard of the word. Sure, any woman likes a good hair day or a cute outfit. A compliment from a passerby, but I had long since learned I was not the worldly standard of beauty. I’ve always struggled with my weight since my lymphoma therapy as a teenager. I very much remember the day my coach told me my weight was out of control. That was my first realization I had a twinge of vanity. I didn’t keep up with the fashions per se. I wore what I had. I definitely never once thought I would get cosmetic surgery (other than my mandatory cleft lip repairs) particularly breast implants. I remember when Lead Plastic Surgeon told me I wasn’t a candidate for the natural tissue reconstruction - removing fat from the abdomen and making breast tissue out of it - since I had received so much radiation to my abdomen as a teenager. I was devastated. That felt like a more “real” option to me, and I desperately wanted to go that route. Instead, I had one option: Implants. And when last July I started searching the net to see the pictures of mastectomy reconstruction, I quickly found myself experiencing vanity first hand. I began having panic attacks about the scarring I was seeing in those pictures. I remember that afternoon after having spent a majority of the night on the web now sitting on my knees in my sister’s craft room painting a baseboard. My mom and sister were up on ladders working on the wall, and all of a sudden I just lost it into a full fledge sob. Those scars were etched into my mind and I could get them out. Well, ladies, let me tell you that the moment that resident pulled off that bandage (Post titled Looking back to Day 0) and I saw the scarred contents that remained, I would have shoved a cantaloupe under my skin and called it a day. I very much found myself the recipient of unapologetic full fledge vanity. Who had I been kidding all that time? I’m just like any other person out there. So this too I learned: 1) Don’t look at scarring on the internet. Procedures are amazing now and I have the best scars ever (considering). I'll show you if you ever find yourself in this position. 2) Vanity exists in all of us and you quickly can change “what I would never do” when you find yourself in a situation of needing implants very badly. 3) If you do look at pictures on the internet, don’t commit to painting a room covered in old brown wood paneling. Awful place to have a breakdown. However, if you are stupid like me, make sure both your sister and your mom are there so they can absorb all the newly found curse words that fly out of your mouth in that given moment both over the paneling and the scarring. (Sorry mom.) And also win the lottery so you can buy your sister a suitable painter.
Don’t let anyone you know go through mastectomy alone and more importantly don’t allow yourself to go though it alone. I don’t know why in life we consider so many things “private affairs”. Why in the world would God bring us (or allow) a certain event in life and want us to be hush hush about it when this whole entire world is about His kingdom. It doesn’t have a single moment of orbit around me. So by sharing the journey, we grow with others, through others, and just maybe someone will grow because of us. About the only thing in life that might should be considered private is finances. We shouldn’t hide miscarriages, we shouldn’t hide infertility, we shouldn’t hide the death of a loved one, we shouldn’t hide job loss, we shouldn’t hide mastectomy (at least from very close friends). Sure we need to grieve on our own for a period of time, but we also need to make ourselves vessels and also allow others to teach us in the process (my opinion anyway). Mastectomy being about a breast, I understand why you would want to crawl into a hole and hide the whole battle from everyone around you. But I don’t think that is what God intended for us. He designed us for community not for self. And I for one would not have fared even remotely this “well” had I not had each and everyone one of you involved. I get it. You don’t want to air out your boobage in front of all of the world (you don’t have to be so drastic as to do a social media update), but those close friends who have been there time and time again…. Involve them. And friends, involve yourself! Get nosey and get into the lives of those around you. You might just be amazed at what comes from that either for yourself or the person standing in front of you. I regained a college roommate because of this journey. I met some incredible new people. I even found some new pieces of me I didn’t know where down there. I truly think God has a plan in that if we can just learn to get out of ourselves for long enough to let him do something with our muck.
A bra, is not a bra, is not a bra. Particularly a surgical bra. Just last week I threw mine away. I’m kicking myself for it. I should have kept it for show and tell. I should have kept it as a reminder to myself. And these fancy underwire things we shove ourselves into for beauty….well keep on doing it ladies! I’ve always known lipstick goes a super long way for a cancer patient in the midst of treatment. Well so do fancy bras for the post mastectomy. They may be a pain in the boob, but they serve their purpose after being restricted to surgical and sports bras (and no bras for that matter) for months on end! Vanity bad, vanity good. I still laugh (and cry out of joy) when my mom had to go bra shopping for me and she came back with 6 or 7. I just COULD NOT for the life of me find comfort for even one more minute in that surgical bra clinching my drain sites and bringing me to tears. It had-to-come-off-stat! So there mom went store after store after store all for little ole me. A bra, is not a bra, is not a bra, nor is a mother. You need a good one of both. Score!
If you decide to start a mastectomy blog, hang on tight! It will change just about everything, particularly if you promise transparency which I 100% recommend. It has its setbacks. You may be sitting in an office meeting with people who now know the new shape of your impostor or who read about your drain drama from the evening before. Or you walk into a crowded room where you just know the face of the person across the table, but they know every detail of your previous day when you woke up that morning with blood running down your arm. But at the same moment there just may be a woman in Iran who is struggling with the loss of a breast who needs to read your words, because she lives in a country where she can’t speak openly about sexuality or anything that remains covered by native attire. You may be her only source of an outlet. She may be reading your words finding a source of triumph that she isn’t alone. I’m learning that I have to at time expose my own weakness and ineptitudes so that some other woman may not feel utterly alone. I also like to find you laughing at my High Profile Smooth Round Implants when earlier that morning you had a fight over the breakfast cereal. But transparency has it’ sown benefit for me. It forced me not to hide under the shame you want to feel in all of it. It keeps me in touch with the realities of tough journeys and one day you look back and find you are on the other side. And not only are you on the other side, you are stronger on the other side.
I’m more of a woman than I was on August 6, 2012. And I hope at this very moment I am less of a Godly woman than I will be on August 6, 2022. I’m getting older, and hopefully wiser….and I have brand new quirky boobs that absolutely will grow old with grace.
Hugs to each of you. You have made my journey brighter and more laughable.
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Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
June 9, 2013 - Lopsided?
June 9: Deep sigh. Deep, deep, deep sigh. I’m grateful, oh so very grateful in all circumstances, but boy oh boy is this one giving me a gut check of walking the walk! I can hands down say this had been the longest 10 months I ever recall having. God has been there at every turn. I see that on so many levels. Likewise, my challenges made themself evident. It wasn’t one thing or another, it was the whole big bucket all lumped together. I can only imagine what this year would have resulted in had He not proven himself time and time again thus allowing me to claim His will be done in even these 10 months. Deep sigh. Deep, deep, deep sigh.
Friday, I was leaving work on the late side and was walking back through the buildings to the garage. I didn’t see a soul for many minutes on end. The outpatient hallways carry an eerie demeanor in the evenings. The day times are filled with a hustle and bustle as comes with a trauma center of this magnitude, but after hours in the clinic areas it’s like a ghost town. So there I walked reflecting back on the day and week lost in thought as I meandered through the tunnels. I turned a corner to transition buildings and look up to see Lead Plastic Surgeon coming my way. This was a first. I have yet to run into him or anyone else on my care team outside of an official visit setting. This is a benefit that comes with working in a building of such size, anonymity. But not today. I think he was just as surprised to see me as I him. I’m scheduled to have an appointment with him this coming week. Hopefully, my last! Good riddance! Not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy a good impromptu show and tell (I don’t!) but I am beyond ready to be boob appointment free. It’s been 7 weeks since the last antibiotic infusion, 10 weeks since the last surgery. I’m ready to be done. Imposter 2.2 is coming along nicely! It’s at home and well loved, but I want to find my way back to this being my past instead of my current. I want to not have to juggle this against that. We always want greener grass, don’t we? Sometimes we seem entitled to greener grass. How dare we? Why do we do that? (There is some noteworthy greener grass: I still can’t believe I have escaped mammograms for the rest of my life. Score 1 for Sally, Score 0 for mean ole boob presser)
After initial greetings of such I asked if this chance encounter could count as the last appointment. He replied “see you next week.” You can’t blame a gal for trying. I am a grateful. And also grateful to move to another pasture. Or at least ready to incorporate it into who I am and focus on something entirely different for a bit. Mental note: reminder to ask for a new implant ID card when we meet next week. I don’t think 2.2 was ever documented in a card and given to me. Must rectify that for my hallway implant shadow box display. Gotta be prepared for that recall! I’d hate to be walking around with a recalled implant and not even know it. Embarrassing and a definite fashion faux pas!
It’s interesting how now that the swelling of boob 1 and 2.2 has diminished, you can see (well, I can see) just how different these things are from month to month. And 2.2 is not an identical ancestor of 2 as one might would have expected. Shouldn’t all Smooth Round High Profile Gel implants all be the same? Maybe they are, but their positioning certainly is not. Dare I say there is a little lopsidedness? What, too much information? It’s comical really. I wouldn’t really notice except boob 1 is so perfectly placed. Boob 2.2 however, not so much and it gives me a little chuckle. Dare to say you would never notice, but me, I notice and it makes me chuckle. Why would I not laugh? Somehow I ended up with implants. The irony of that is not lost on me at all and therefore I am able to see some humor in its placement. A lopsided boob. It’s a bit endearing on some levels much like a birthmark that you couldn’t dare part with. Lopsided is the new thing. It provided Boob 2.2 with some personality. Makes it seem a little less fake. Or maybe it seems even more fake? Now I’m picturing each of you the next time we meet trying to detect the imperfection. That too makes me chuckle.
I’m a stronger woman for this journey. Collateral benefit I suppose. I could name all of the ways. I SHOULD name all of the ways. I will name all of the ways…one day. For now, deep sigh. Deep, deep, deep sigh while basking in His grace and promise to work all things together for His purpose. I have no doubt the purpose is great and one day I hope to be privy to that. I already see some great and I hope there is more to come if not for me, then for you. Great is His faithfulness. Trying to make equally as great MY faithfulness.
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Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
May 18, 2013 - Brave Heart
May 18: I'm intrigued by reading other people's perspectives around the mastectomy topic, particularly prophylactic mastectomy. Perspectives are everywhere you turn in recent days as Angelina decided to make her journey public, though after the fact. I kept receiving emails, post, calls "have you heard?". Then the news ran story after story of her journey calling her "brave", "inspirational", "applaud worthy" and the accolades go on. It made me think even further about "perspective" around this type journey and how different that perspective is for the one's viewing the journey compared to those walking it. If I had to bet, Angelina never once felt brave, inspirational, or applaud-able.
I asked Ron to try and describe to me that perspective from the outside looking in. Bravery to me is running into a house being consumed by flames to extract a stranger. Putting aside all thoughts of self while embracing the life of other. Choosing to honor someone else over your own self. This whole nation is captive by selfishness and the need to make our self the center of all motive. But then, as I continued to mull around thoughts and perspectives it started to click for me. Bravery is also putting aside one's own fear even to better the outcome of self. And then I saw it, the bravery of mastectomy.
You see, before now, to me it wasn't about bravery, but about survival. It was just the choice that needed to be made. Honestly, last summer, Ron and I saw it as a decision that was a no brainer. Really not even a choice at all. I didn't really see God leading me toward it, I didn't see Ron and I kicking and screaming and running away from it. It just made since to choose life over death. Wouldn't everyone do that? Just a decision we made and very quickly moved forward with. In fact, on some levels I considered myself selfish for making the decision (very far from brave) as I was greatly impacting Ron in this process as well, and my work team as I was needing to pull out of work for 8 weeks leaving them to sink or swim with one man down in the middle of a massive project. This would be my fourth surgery in 3 years. There was definite guilt for how this would impact people around me. Yet, as Ron and I continued to talk this week and him highlighting that he doesn't know if he would have made the same decision had we been talking about him instead of me, it started to bubble up that maybe this was something not just "reactive", "necessary", a "no brainer", an "instinctive" response to possible death but rather "brave", "inspirational", and "applaud worthy". (Prior to now the brave one to me was those that chose NOT to do it in my situation). Maybe I did choose something your average person would have struggled greatly with choosing. I have to admit, there wasn't much thought for me in the choice other than worrying about it's impact on family and potentially finances. My great thought came after the decision had been made and the first scalpel inserted. Maybe it's because I tend to choose rational over emotional (not that emotions are avoided, because I had those). But the rational choice to me was taking 65-95% chance of breast cancer and turning it to whopping < 5%. Bravery? I don't know, but I am starting to understand that is what those outside of this bucket perceive. Maybe had I known what would happen in those 3 months following mastectomy and had I chosen it anyway, then one could call me brave. Now, knowing all of what I know of mastectomy, I definitely can now in hindsight call it a brave choice from a brave heart.
So I applaud Angelina Jolie. And I applaud those many women not engulfed in fame that are taking these steps to choose something a bit more complicated than a "no-brainer" decision. This will be a very difficult journey for some. For others, they may sail through with flying colors. The trouble is you don't know which road will be yours. And therefore, I now see the bravery in it. Just know that for every thing you've heard or read about mastectomy, there is a much deeper layer there few speak of. Ask my spouse. Ask my mom. Ask my sister. Ask Nancy, Content, and Amy who cried with me in a restaurant booth. Ask my work team who allowed me to cry in a conference room. But then also ask about the incredible moments in mastectomy. Cause it is there too. Hard to be summed up in the brief paragraphs in appropriately titled "My Medical Choice" by Angelina in the New York Times May 14th, 2013. But the bravery is there all the same if you were able to view the behind-the-scenes of the journey.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
I asked Ron to try and describe to me that perspective from the outside looking in. Bravery to me is running into a house being consumed by flames to extract a stranger. Putting aside all thoughts of self while embracing the life of other. Choosing to honor someone else over your own self. This whole nation is captive by selfishness and the need to make our self the center of all motive. But then, as I continued to mull around thoughts and perspectives it started to click for me. Bravery is also putting aside one's own fear even to better the outcome of self. And then I saw it, the bravery of mastectomy.
You see, before now, to me it wasn't about bravery, but about survival. It was just the choice that needed to be made. Honestly, last summer, Ron and I saw it as a decision that was a no brainer. Really not even a choice at all. I didn't really see God leading me toward it, I didn't see Ron and I kicking and screaming and running away from it. It just made since to choose life over death. Wouldn't everyone do that? Just a decision we made and very quickly moved forward with. In fact, on some levels I considered myself selfish for making the decision (very far from brave) as I was greatly impacting Ron in this process as well, and my work team as I was needing to pull out of work for 8 weeks leaving them to sink or swim with one man down in the middle of a massive project. This would be my fourth surgery in 3 years. There was definite guilt for how this would impact people around me. Yet, as Ron and I continued to talk this week and him highlighting that he doesn't know if he would have made the same decision had we been talking about him instead of me, it started to bubble up that maybe this was something not just "reactive", "necessary", a "no brainer", an "instinctive" response to possible death but rather "brave", "inspirational", and "applaud worthy". (Prior to now the brave one to me was those that chose NOT to do it in my situation). Maybe I did choose something your average person would have struggled greatly with choosing. I have to admit, there wasn't much thought for me in the choice other than worrying about it's impact on family and potentially finances. My great thought came after the decision had been made and the first scalpel inserted. Maybe it's because I tend to choose rational over emotional (not that emotions are avoided, because I had those). But the rational choice to me was taking 65-95% chance of breast cancer and turning it to whopping < 5%. Bravery? I don't know, but I am starting to understand that is what those outside of this bucket perceive. Maybe had I known what would happen in those 3 months following mastectomy and had I chosen it anyway, then one could call me brave. Now, knowing all of what I know of mastectomy, I definitely can now in hindsight call it a brave choice from a brave heart.
So I applaud Angelina Jolie. And I applaud those many women not engulfed in fame that are taking these steps to choose something a bit more complicated than a "no-brainer" decision. This will be a very difficult journey for some. For others, they may sail through with flying colors. The trouble is you don't know which road will be yours. And therefore, I now see the bravery in it. Just know that for every thing you've heard or read about mastectomy, there is a much deeper layer there few speak of. Ask my spouse. Ask my mom. Ask my sister. Ask Nancy, Content, and Amy who cried with me in a restaurant booth. Ask my work team who allowed me to cry in a conference room. But then also ask about the incredible moments in mastectomy. Cause it is there too. Hard to be summed up in the brief paragraphs in appropriately titled "My Medical Choice" by Angelina in the New York Times May 14th, 2013. But the bravery is there all the same if you were able to view the behind-the-scenes of the journey.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
May 5, 2013 - The Burning Question
May 5: Two weeks off antibiotics. Anything is fair game (love, war, mastectomies) at this point, but so far we are strolling along with no signs of infection. Gone is the redness and pain that comes with cellulitis. All in all, I'm working to show hospitality to 2.2 while it itself is settling into a new home. And I was trucking along with that welcome until I realized that this coming weekend Ron and I are scheduled to be at the beach for a wedding. Beach = swim suit. Swim suit = just too much right now. Is it wrong to pray for snow in May? I don't know the patron saint of snow fall nor would I think he would listen to me anyway since I tend to bypass each saint and go straight to the Father in a direct prayer line. (So grateful He allows us a direct line.) God, maybe a little snow. Just a tad. I think it would make for beautiful beach wedding pictures. The bride would thank me I am sure. I'm positive of it = I'm a tad selfish.
I'm hearing so much encouragement from each of you. I can't thank you enough for that or even begin to tell you how it boosts my motivation. What is the most remarkable to me in those comments is your ongoing reassurance of how well I am embracing this mastectomy. I can't even begin to figure out how I am supposed to act in all of this. I have no concept of whether I am right on target or off in left field. At times I chuckle at the thought of your impression of me. Yes, I'm positive. Yes, I look for God's activity in my journey. Yes, I desperately want to ooze faith through every nook and cranny of this mastectomy. But boy, have there been moments of negativity, self centeredness, and doubt on an embarrassing ongoing frequency. Last week, when I was failing miserably at balancing the nuisance of this infection, an impossible work week, accumulating house chores left undone for weeks on end, and a self centeredness that even I couldn't stand I looked at Ron and asked the burning question. "Did we make a mistake doing this?"
I was so naive last summer when we were choosing this path. August 7th was to be a quick surgical procedure that would come and go with little more than having to succumb to fake breasts. And while I actually did have "best case scenario" at almost every turn, that whole stinking thing threw me for a very unexpected convoluted loop both physically and mentally. I had an enormous amount of grief. Bitterness found it's way to my doorstep on more than one occasion. Big whopping doses of frustration bombarded my evenings. And maybe I failed you in not allowing you to see more of that. I did strive for transparency and allowed it to show on occasion. But I don't want any one of you to think me immune to the emotions that I myself never once expected for a moment prior to August 7. Instead, I'd rather leave a legacy of Holy Spirit driven perseverance interwoven with the raw human reality. I call it a sandwich of grace, perspective, doubt, bitterness, positivity, faith, sorrow, triumph. I do not, however, want my legacy in mastectomy to be regret. Yet at times, it lurks into an hour of my day. Days when reality sets in of how much easier these last few months would have been had I not had August 7. There would be no April cellulitis had there not been an August 7 mastectomy. There would be no monumental fatigue. There would be less balancing, less adjusting. There certainly would be no dread of a swim suit (ok, well yes there would be but it would be for the old routine reasons, not the new). You know what else there wouldn't be? The amazing growth of self that has happened. The facing of something enormous that I originally anticipated to be trivial. The reminder that just when you think you have it all figured out it can just as easily become flooded with something foreign and unexpected.
I don't have it all figured out. Not even close. But I don't doubt for a second that purpose is being served. And when those moments of regret threaten to surface, I want to dig deep down to remind myself that purpose triumphs (and maybe even when I fail). It's been a tough month. I allowed myself to be bitter. By his Grace, even in that there was purpose. He's sneaky like that.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
I'm hearing so much encouragement from each of you. I can't thank you enough for that or even begin to tell you how it boosts my motivation. What is the most remarkable to me in those comments is your ongoing reassurance of how well I am embracing this mastectomy. I can't even begin to figure out how I am supposed to act in all of this. I have no concept of whether I am right on target or off in left field. At times I chuckle at the thought of your impression of me. Yes, I'm positive. Yes, I look for God's activity in my journey. Yes, I desperately want to ooze faith through every nook and cranny of this mastectomy. But boy, have there been moments of negativity, self centeredness, and doubt on an embarrassing ongoing frequency. Last week, when I was failing miserably at balancing the nuisance of this infection, an impossible work week, accumulating house chores left undone for weeks on end, and a self centeredness that even I couldn't stand I looked at Ron and asked the burning question. "Did we make a mistake doing this?"
I was so naive last summer when we were choosing this path. August 7th was to be a quick surgical procedure that would come and go with little more than having to succumb to fake breasts. And while I actually did have "best case scenario" at almost every turn, that whole stinking thing threw me for a very unexpected convoluted loop both physically and mentally. I had an enormous amount of grief. Bitterness found it's way to my doorstep on more than one occasion. Big whopping doses of frustration bombarded my evenings. And maybe I failed you in not allowing you to see more of that. I did strive for transparency and allowed it to show on occasion. But I don't want any one of you to think me immune to the emotions that I myself never once expected for a moment prior to August 7. Instead, I'd rather leave a legacy of Holy Spirit driven perseverance interwoven with the raw human reality. I call it a sandwich of grace, perspective, doubt, bitterness, positivity, faith, sorrow, triumph. I do not, however, want my legacy in mastectomy to be regret. Yet at times, it lurks into an hour of my day. Days when reality sets in of how much easier these last few months would have been had I not had August 7. There would be no April cellulitis had there not been an August 7 mastectomy. There would be no monumental fatigue. There would be less balancing, less adjusting. There certainly would be no dread of a swim suit (ok, well yes there would be but it would be for the old routine reasons, not the new). You know what else there wouldn't be? The amazing growth of self that has happened. The facing of something enormous that I originally anticipated to be trivial. The reminder that just when you think you have it all figured out it can just as easily become flooded with something foreign and unexpected.
I don't have it all figured out. Not even close. But I don't doubt for a second that purpose is being served. And when those moments of regret threaten to surface, I want to dig deep down to remind myself that purpose triumphs (and maybe even when I fail). It's been a tough month. I allowed myself to be bitter. By his Grace, even in that there was purpose. He's sneaky like that.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
April 17, 2013 - Boobage
April 17: I’ve been carrying all this Boobage (baggage) around the last few days. Saturday I found myself in a funk. It resolved Sunday morning only to creep itself back in with a vengeance Monday. It did not help that I went back to work (work from home due to the infusions) Monday and instead of easing myself back in, I worked 10 hours that day. Everyone keeps saying “take care of your self”, “slow down”. Well that is easy to do under any other circumstance than the one I find myself in now at my job. Monday, it was one thing after another and it just kept building up and building up until when my friend, Cassie (name changed to protect the guilty), came by to bring meal. I opened the door, saw her sweet face, and busted out into tears. Nasty tears! It didn’t help that the previous night, I noticed that boob #2.2 was again feeling warmer than it’s mirror image boob #1. And that’s how all of this started 2 weeks ago. Ron and I went to bed very fearful that the infection was returning. (Thankfully, that comes and goes and is not a constant symptom, so we feel more safe). And then came the waiting to see how that would unfold. Combine those emotions with a super busy return to work and I was a not so faith-filled Sally. I was just having one of those days, make that 72 hours, and I couldn’t part with those emotions. Boobage! And it didn’t help that in that 72 hours I turned 38. I’m not used to this waxing and waning in positivity. I’m pretty rock solid on that. Make that "Was".
I found myself back in the breast clinic today for my first post-surgery follow-up appointment. I do not miss that waiting room. I do however still hold my respect for the women in that waiting room. Despite that respect, I had been super happy-go-lucky for the past 4 months not visiting that location except for professional purposes. I had finally moved on, successfully parted with the emotions that linger post mastectomy. They weren’t fully gone, but they were part of my historical journey. No longer a day-to-day play-by play that invades your every hour. I no longer thought about boobs around the clock. The imposters had incorporated themselves into my person. So to find myself back in the drama of mastectomy again was rather unsettling. I simply wanted to be done. I was done. Now, I’m here again. It’s different, but vastly similar. Similar enough to be more than uncomfortable. And then there were the gowns. And the show-and-tell. And the cold room.
Lead Plastic Surgeon was pleased with the progress thus far. He noted some irritation/redness around the stitches, but we are just watching that. And the swelling. Always the swelling. (Will that ever go away?) I think I was set back 6 months for the swelling. Then he commented casually “we are not out of the woods yet”. The true test will be when we stop the antibiotics next week and it will go one of two ways. Continue to improve no problems. Infection returns because it’s stuck in the deep tissue around the High Profile Smooth Round Gel Implant. Have mercy if that were to occur. I don’t think I care to go through a 4th surgery for these boobs. And he even said he wasn’t sure he could do his “best work ever” a third time. That was just tempting fate! I promised him all would go well. He promised me. And we left with that Pact on the examining table. I never break a promise. Let’s hope he has that same character trait.
Boobage, be gone! I have no place for you. I’d rather be filled with over flowing gratitude. It will return again. It always does. It’s lurking just under the surface.
April 14, 2013 - Castor Oil
April 14: I talked Ron into us going to church last night. It was a terrific idea on paper. I needed a pick me up as I had landed myself in a very foul mood earlier in the day. The reality of what had happened had finally sank in. Whether I had been in a bit of denial or whether I was just riding the energy of the fast paced week eludes me, but whatever it was came to a quick halt Saturday morning and I was fully aware of the current circumstances. I thought a visit to church would provide the swift kick in the hiney I very much needed. A reminder of God's provision and grace. Well, I accomplished reclaiming that reminder, but also found myself very overwhelmed. That's one of my downfalls, I try to rush through the moment. Get this nastiness behind me, be better than I am, heal quicker than the body allows. I wanted to be back in the normalcy of the life of 10 days ago. If I think I'm well, I'm well. I'm also an idiot. I'm not well. Last night was a quick reminder of God's provision, but also a dose of reality that I am walking around life with a PICC line, a whole in my side from where a drain once thrived, and stitches up the front of Boob 2.2, and I'm tired. Very tired. I had gotten rid of Tired back in December. Kicked to to the curb. Well it must have just been lurking next door waiting for an opening. Tired likes me. I dislike tired.
Speaking of the PICC line- because I'm infusing 7 hours of antibiotics in across my day, I find myself performing said infusions in the most unlikely places. Sitting watching a play or more strangely in the car on the way to church. Ron and I had a chuckle when he parked the car, got out, turned to look back in to ensure the doors were locked and noticed the front seat looked very much like a drug cartel's haven. "RON! If we got pulled over by the cops, we would have a very difficult time explaining all the syringes and lines strewn across the car." They certainly know how to kink a day. Ron starts them when he firsts wakes up to allow me a few more minutes of snooze. Once the first one finishes, he hooks up the second and then I finish everything out with flushes and such 3 hours later. Well today, I was eager to get up and get my shower to get the day started. Got to the bedroom, gathered my supplies, called Ron to bring the Press and Seal and tape to wrap my arm (it can't get wet) only to remember I still had an antibiotic infusing and I can' shower while it's infusing. So my shower had to be delayed until 11 this morning. And here lies my dilemma of how in the world do I get this to function in a way to where I can go back to work? And I still haven't allowed myself to drive. I'm terrified of driving. I don't want to hold arm adjacent to 2.2 up on a steering wheel for a 35 minute commute. And a seat belt can only go so many places. And walk around the office with a pump? I'd like to think I am bigger than all of this and it can be done, but I'm struggling finding a way to fit a 3 hour infusion, a shower and getting dressed, and a 35 minute commute in to the morning, then a work day including a 45 minute infusion/flush followed by a 35 minute commute home, dinner, and a 3 hour infusion into a 12 hour awake day where I still function and produce anything worthy of calling it a result. So instead I'm working at home next week with the exception of the two followup appointments I have. I tend to get more accomplished at home anyway and since I have crazy deadlines coming up, maybe it's a win win. But I admit I feel defeated in that. I want to be able to juggle it all with flying colors. I want to be THAT woman. Isn't it funny how we are the very first person to call ourselves inadequate? God needs to kick me around a little bit more to remind me he chose/allowed this path and I am to do my best. That's it. Just my best. Well my best is here at home in my pajamas working weird hours around weird infusions and laughing at the value of Press and Seal when it comes to keeping a line dry. Score!
It's my birthday. I called my mom last night to ask her what she was doing this very moment at 8:05 pm 38 years (25) ago on the evening before I arrived. "Drinking Castor Oil." (Sorry, Mom!) I think I will take stitches over castor oil. I'm to arrive at 2 pm today (38 years ago). I plan to eat cake at 2 pm. However, it's not lost on me that I should send my mom the cake. She did all the hard work. I just gurgled and cooed. Well, not quite- we had a very rough go at it at my birth with surgeries and near death for mother and child alike. That's how mom and I do things....with a big ole bang! Peas in a Pod she and I. It's not lost on me that we both at this very minute are walking around with central lines (mine a Picc, hers a port). We both have daily (her's weekly) infusions. And just like so many of you say of me, she is the most positive person I have ever met when it comes to her perspective of her health. I let my positivity wax and wane a bit more than she (yesterday is a testament to that). And no matter how crazy her world becomes, she is still more worried about me than herself. That's an amazing mom. She may fall head first into my coffee table while caring for me (previous posts last Fall), but she moves herself right into my spare bedroom and cares for me all the same. And she does provide a good bit of laughter. Thanks, mom, for birthing me. Thanks for giving up six weeks of your life last Fall all for little ole pitiful me and the new Impostors. Thanks for sitting with Ron while I was spelling out I-M-P-L-A-N-T in a drug induced stupor in the OR waiting room a week ago. But more so thanks for reminding me to keep my head high in the midst of chaos. That bit of advice has served me well. And more than anything, thanks for trudging through it all with me. Two boobs in a pod!
Happy Birthday, Sally.
Happy BIRTHday, Mom!
(I will eat a slice in your honor, it's the least I can do).
Speaking of the PICC line- because I'm infusing 7 hours of antibiotics in across my day, I find myself performing said infusions in the most unlikely places. Sitting watching a play or more strangely in the car on the way to church. Ron and I had a chuckle when he parked the car, got out, turned to look back in to ensure the doors were locked and noticed the front seat looked very much like a drug cartel's haven. "RON! If we got pulled over by the cops, we would have a very difficult time explaining all the syringes and lines strewn across the car." They certainly know how to kink a day. Ron starts them when he firsts wakes up to allow me a few more minutes of snooze. Once the first one finishes, he hooks up the second and then I finish everything out with flushes and such 3 hours later. Well today, I was eager to get up and get my shower to get the day started. Got to the bedroom, gathered my supplies, called Ron to bring the Press and Seal and tape to wrap my arm (it can't get wet) only to remember I still had an antibiotic infusing and I can' shower while it's infusing. So my shower had to be delayed until 11 this morning. And here lies my dilemma of how in the world do I get this to function in a way to where I can go back to work? And I still haven't allowed myself to drive. I'm terrified of driving. I don't want to hold arm adjacent to 2.2 up on a steering wheel for a 35 minute commute. And a seat belt can only go so many places. And walk around the office with a pump? I'd like to think I am bigger than all of this and it can be done, but I'm struggling finding a way to fit a 3 hour infusion, a shower and getting dressed, and a 35 minute commute in to the morning, then a work day including a 45 minute infusion/flush followed by a 35 minute commute home, dinner, and a 3 hour infusion into a 12 hour awake day where I still function and produce anything worthy of calling it a result. So instead I'm working at home next week with the exception of the two followup appointments I have. I tend to get more accomplished at home anyway and since I have crazy deadlines coming up, maybe it's a win win. But I admit I feel defeated in that. I want to be able to juggle it all with flying colors. I want to be THAT woman. Isn't it funny how we are the very first person to call ourselves inadequate? God needs to kick me around a little bit more to remind me he chose/allowed this path and I am to do my best. That's it. Just my best. Well my best is here at home in my pajamas working weird hours around weird infusions and laughing at the value of Press and Seal when it comes to keeping a line dry. Score!
It's my birthday. I called my mom last night to ask her what she was doing this very moment at 8:05 pm 38 years (25) ago on the evening before I arrived. "Drinking Castor Oil." (Sorry, Mom!) I think I will take stitches over castor oil. I'm to arrive at 2 pm today (38 years ago). I plan to eat cake at 2 pm. However, it's not lost on me that I should send my mom the cake. She did all the hard work. I just gurgled and cooed. Well, not quite- we had a very rough go at it at my birth with surgeries and near death for mother and child alike. That's how mom and I do things....with a big ole bang! Peas in a Pod she and I. It's not lost on me that we both at this very minute are walking around with central lines (mine a Picc, hers a port). We both have daily (her's weekly) infusions. And just like so many of you say of me, she is the most positive person I have ever met when it comes to her perspective of her health. I let my positivity wax and wane a bit more than she (yesterday is a testament to that). And no matter how crazy her world becomes, she is still more worried about me than herself. That's an amazing mom. She may fall head first into my coffee table while caring for me (previous posts last Fall), but she moves herself right into my spare bedroom and cares for me all the same. And she does provide a good bit of laughter. Thanks, mom, for birthing me. Thanks for giving up six weeks of your life last Fall all for little ole pitiful me and the new Impostors. Thanks for sitting with Ron while I was spelling out I-M-P-L-A-N-T in a drug induced stupor in the OR waiting room a week ago. But more so thanks for reminding me to keep my head high in the midst of chaos. That bit of advice has served me well. And more than anything, thanks for trudging through it all with me. Two boobs in a pod!
Happy Birthday, Sally.
Happy BIRTHday, Mom!
(I will eat a slice in your honor, it's the least I can do).
April 12, 2013 - Jaded at 38 (25)
April 12: Ron and I are not known for our spontaneity or really even our creativity. I decided this year for my birthday, we were going to make plans so it wouldn't be another "here is comes, there it goes" kind of birthday. I don't want birthdays to become the forgotten day that often happens in the craziness of adulthood. Shouldn't we all embrace the Elmo birthday cakes of childhoods gone by? In an attempt to do this, but to replace Elmo with something a tad more fitting and less perky, we decided to take a vacation to downtown Raleigh (about 15 minutes from our house for those of you not from N.C.). Almost a month ago, we bought tickets to see Ira David Wood in "To Kill a Mocking Bird" tonight, then for Saturday we would spend the time downtown scoping our galleries and museums with dinner plans at a new (now old) restaurant downtown called Oro. We'd sum it all up with stay at a local bed and breakfast. I had won the bed and breakfast in a raffle and having never stayed in a B&B before I was super excited for this fun weekend and chance to better explore the very town we live in. Creative, huh? Well, creative for me anyway. I'm turning 38 (or 25 to those of you I've lied to), and I wanted to cushion that with some purposeful excitement particularly considering how crazy this year had been both personally with a double mastectomy and professionally with a project that is running about 350 mph. So I find myself sad. Ok maybe a little bitter. Dare I say angry? Nah, not angry. That's a bit much. Jaded, yep that is a good description. I'm jaded and wishful for the weekend plans we had so carefully crafted for a birthday I really wanted to celebrate (and this is a very different desire from previous years).
Instead of celebrating the successful navigation of the past year with two nights on the local town, I find myself launched right back into last fall (different, but similar) left trying to muster up some normalcy. A good start is my friend Kristen is bringing macaroni and cheese on Sunday. Is there a better way to celebrate a birthday than with some comfort mac and cheese? We are also trying to see if we can still fit in a dinner downtown this weekend. We have to eat right? So what if I look a little scruffy and uneasy on the eye?!? I sh ant let the trials of this week totally unglue the purposeful intention of celebrating 38. But in all honesty, despite everyone telling me how stoic, positive, inspirational I can be, there is a side of me intertwined with all that positivity that feels a good bit bummed. Bummed! Jaded! Don't mistake it - I'm so grateful that God allowed option #1 to occur with the introduction of boob 2.2 (instead of going 4 months with no boob at all where all you would see of me is BASKETCASE!), but I would have been perfectly fine with boob #2 and no surgery at all. I was floating along in a bliss of life is good, work is good, relationships are even better to now find myself sitting on a sofa infusing antibiotics 7 hours of my day, unable to drive, pulling at stitches, cleaning holes where drains once made their presence known, and fumbling with not being able to lift much more than 5 pounds. I want my independence back! I want my birthday weekend! I even want to be at work digging through the trenches with my team. I love that! ( I will deny it if ever asked in public). I DO NOT, however, want to be here. There it's said and out in the open.
Ok so now for the return of the silver lining positive focused Sally that we all know and understand. God is gracious. He has his purpose. I have met some amazing people in the hospital and have been re-reminded of the many friends that love me and would drop their schedule at a moments notice to provide me dinner or drive 45 minutes to visit me in the hospital. I love that! I've always been a person of relationships. They mean more to me than anything else this life can provide. Also, I've been working tirelessly, and maybe God needed me to slow down and be still. To know him as Father and Orchestrator of all things. And as I assumed from last fall during the mastectomy, maybe this journey still has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with someone walking along side me. I should not be so prideful to assume this life is about me. Maybe the reason behind this journey to a new impostor boob will never be fully understood. But this I know, people have great hearts. They can be selfless, they can make life worth trudging through. If it takes boob 2.2 to remind me of this again for fear I had forgotten since last August, it is worth it. (I think!)
So let's raise a slice of cake to 38 (25) which will darken my door this weekend. And instead of mourning the plans uncelebrated (although there is still hope of propping me up in a theater seat with antibiotics), here's to a new boob the ripe old age of 5 days and to a new found remembrance of the meaning of relationships in life. I celebrate each of you! And if you need a reason to celebrate too, I offer up boob 2.2 as a reason to embrace life again. Let 2.2 remind you to accept the good and the bad as God has purpose in it all.
Instead of celebrating the successful navigation of the past year with two nights on the local town, I find myself launched right back into last fall (different, but similar) left trying to muster up some normalcy. A good start is my friend Kristen is bringing macaroni and cheese on Sunday. Is there a better way to celebrate a birthday than with some comfort mac and cheese? We are also trying to see if we can still fit in a dinner downtown this weekend. We have to eat right? So what if I look a little scruffy and uneasy on the eye?!? I sh ant let the trials of this week totally unglue the purposeful intention of celebrating 38. But in all honesty, despite everyone telling me how stoic, positive, inspirational I can be, there is a side of me intertwined with all that positivity that feels a good bit bummed. Bummed! Jaded! Don't mistake it - I'm so grateful that God allowed option #1 to occur with the introduction of boob 2.2 (instead of going 4 months with no boob at all where all you would see of me is BASKETCASE!), but I would have been perfectly fine with boob #2 and no surgery at all. I was floating along in a bliss of life is good, work is good, relationships are even better to now find myself sitting on a sofa infusing antibiotics 7 hours of my day, unable to drive, pulling at stitches, cleaning holes where drains once made their presence known, and fumbling with not being able to lift much more than 5 pounds. I want my independence back! I want my birthday weekend! I even want to be at work digging through the trenches with my team. I love that! ( I will deny it if ever asked in public). I DO NOT, however, want to be here. There it's said and out in the open.
Ok so now for the return of the silver lining positive focused Sally that we all know and understand. God is gracious. He has his purpose. I have met some amazing people in the hospital and have been re-reminded of the many friends that love me and would drop their schedule at a moments notice to provide me dinner or drive 45 minutes to visit me in the hospital. I love that! I've always been a person of relationships. They mean more to me than anything else this life can provide. Also, I've been working tirelessly, and maybe God needed me to slow down and be still. To know him as Father and Orchestrator of all things. And as I assumed from last fall during the mastectomy, maybe this journey still has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with someone walking along side me. I should not be so prideful to assume this life is about me. Maybe the reason behind this journey to a new impostor boob will never be fully understood. But this I know, people have great hearts. They can be selfless, they can make life worth trudging through. If it takes boob 2.2 to remind me of this again for fear I had forgotten since last August, it is worth it. (I think!)
So let's raise a slice of cake to 38 (25) which will darken my door this weekend. And instead of mourning the plans uncelebrated (although there is still hope of propping me up in a theater seat with antibiotics), here's to a new boob the ripe old age of 5 days and to a new found remembrance of the meaning of relationships in life. I celebrate each of you! And if you need a reason to celebrate too, I offer up boob 2.2 as a reason to embrace life again. Let 2.2 remind you to accept the good and the bad as God has purpose in it all.
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