October 17, 2014 - Surgery #5 - Post Op Day 1 - Anchors

Post Op Day 1. Disclaimer: I am still feeling the anesthesia so I have no idea how streamlined this blog post will be so hang in there with me if I am all over the place or you notice drool on the screen.  I’m keeping it short sweet and to the point.

The strange moment of the morning, looking down and seeing that the 5 men in the operating room put my surgical bra on inside out. Men, they know how to take bras off but not how to put them on! Had me laughing. It’s really inconsequential, but I noticed it because I was itching on one side and when I peeked in to see what was what I saw the Velcro there that should be on the outside to hold drains. At least they did a good job of cramming it full of fluff for comfort, but don’t laugh at me if you are walking behind me and see all the tags hanging out on the outside. That’s why all men need the help of a good woman, of which there was only one other than myself in the operating room. But all in all surgery went very well, minus the 45 minutes of trying to get IV access when I arrived. I’m well known for very poor veins and when you are dehydrated from not being able to eat or drink, that doesn't help the issue, but finally 2 anesthesiologists tag teamed and after 3 pokes they found a vein in my wrist and we finally had access and could get the surgery rolling. Lead Plastic Surgeon said it went very well, and he told Ron and my Mom that I kept them all very entertained while lying on the table when they were trying to get me under. Thankfully, he also said, what happens in the OR stays in the OR, but I am hopeful I didn't say too much to embarrass myself. I have stories, you know, like this from previous surgeries. Good thing Ron was not around to hear it and tell me all about it. I will say I have an amazing surgeon. I have very vivid memory in the OR while they were trying to get me sedated. I recall them saying over and over “sally, you have to breath deeper, your breaths are too shallow” and I recall feeling so much anxiety about that. The surgeon must have seen the fear in my eyes and he reached over and grabbed my hand and held it the entire time until they got me settled. It literally brought tears to eyes in the moment at that kind gesture. Of note, He, Ron, and I have been through a lot on this journey, and it’s obvious he is very invested in me since we've had some bumps along the way.

We were at the hospital about 9 hours, much longer than we expected but only because I had some difficulty post op with getting my cognitive function back. It took a lot to get me under and therefore it took me a while to come back out of it. But by 7pm we were home and settled in and had gotten through this “moment”.  It was a good procedure and my pain is very well controlled.  I’m not enjoying this surgical vest, but it can come off tomorrow when I shower so I’m looking forward to that.

 I was a little sad to see how large the incision is, spanning the entire width of Boob 1 but it is placed on the underside where I won’t really be able to see it without looking in the mirror (I know about the incision because of all of the black marker marks he used in preparation during the ever so much fun show and tell session right before going into the OR). And I don’t really plan on checking it out in the mirror as you will recall from surgery 1-4. Combine this new scar with the old scar and I have what resembles a nautical anchor. That alone is worth a little giggle. Don’t most flotation devices come with nautical themes?  It’s surely entertaining to view. But I will wait a bit. Ron will see it tomorrow when we take the bandage off so he can give me the scoop then.

The only remaining item is I am running a low grade fever. Fevers can happen post operations, so as long as it stays low and doesn't rise, all is well. I haven’t had a fever before following any of the previous operations so we are just staying on top of it. That’s an ok item for your prayer list if you are just sitting around there at your desk thinking “I wish I had something to pray for”. Boob#1 has come through with flying colors and if I can get this grogginess to resolve, keep the pain tolerable with the least amount of itching and nausea (been nauseated a god bit), and the fever to go away we will really be doing well. I couldn't be more pleased with how I feel seeing as my surgery was just 24 hours ago. God is good.

Hugs to each of you for enduring all these surgeries with me. It’s so much easier to face when I have this team behind me and ongoing encouragement. More later when I am in a better state of mind. And those of you going to the fair, have a grilled corn and chocolate funnel cake in my honor and send me a picture! 

October 12, 2014 - Don't fear the soap suds.

This weekend I went to church not knowing we were having a guest speaker. Guest speaker/Nationally known comedian, Michael Jr. He’s a hilarious father of 5 who draws on his life growing up with a reading disability. His reading disability resulted in him dissecting words in about 7 different ways to find their meaning even though he couldn’t “read” the word in the traditional sense. This ability to find 7 different view-points propelled him in to a life of comedy being able to use those same angles to find humor in the everyday life, where the rest of us may see nothing- an example being when he was working with the writing team for the Jay Leno show. They were working on that week’s segments and working on new stories and resultant punchlines. A NFL star had received an eye injury when a flag was thrown on the play and the flag hit him in the eye. He sued the league for millions of dollars because he lost vision in that eye. When the team wanted to write about that law suit and the millions he would make but couldn’t come up with the punch line, Michael Jr. popped right in and said “he won’t see the half of it!”  Maybe you had to be there, but it was hilarious and most of us wouldn’t have found the humor in it.

He finds the humor in the mundane, and he uses that to reach audiences around the world and advocate for experiencing the life you were given, be it a reading disability, an abusive past, a miscarriage, or an addiction, and sharing that story so that God can repurpose it in the lives of others, not to grow the glory of you, but the glory of He. He says every story deserves to be heard.  Well, I left that evening no longer feeling guilty for finding humor in a mastectomy (or anything else so crazy in life as well).  Experience life, laugh at it, and share your story for what it is. I find the humor in mastectomy because God created me to see humor and greatness in the mundane.

The timing of this evening watching Michael Jr. was perfect as I was feeling a little down about this coming week.  Down may not be the most ideal word. Instead, picture an owner carrying a long haired mud caked cat into the master bathroom towards a garden bathtub full of soap suds and water. Said feline puts one leg on each lip of the tub, arching his back up as far as it goes, teeth glaring, hisses flying, all in a futile effort to delay the dunk that awaits his fate.  He uses every ounce of energy to suspend himself over the shallow pool of soapy defeat.  Remove cat, insert Sally and you have a similar portrait of my current portfolio.  I was just “not all that in to” this fifth mastectomy related surgery.  So, Mr. Surgery, I hope that didn’t hurt your feelings. Can’t we just call it quits and amicably go our separate ways?

I still want to go my separate way, but after hearing Michael’s encouragement to embrace life as it comes and then later this evening hearing Francis Chan talk about how each event is just a moment, a 3 second millisecond blip, in this eternity, I find myself better able to take this in stride. We have been purposed for every single individual day.  I’m trying to take this next surgery for what it is, accept it as another notch on this mastectomy rope, and go back to finding laughter, at times uncontrollable laughter, in the humor of mastectomy boobs. Let this moment just be a purposed moment and find laughter and fun in that and tell my story.  I mean really, I now have boob #1 and boob 2.2 and perfectly designed pair of imposters. Not many people get to claim a 2.2 for a body part. Or knowing I will soon have a new abstract relic seared forever on boob #1. What used to be a single vertical incision will now be joined with the addition of an equally as terrific horizontal twin transforming the boring ole scar line into a stellar work of perpendicular abstract art. Unfortunately, it’s art no one will ever see (or fortunately in my case), but it is hilarious art all the same.  I can actually, unlike many others, find laughter in that!

Come Thursday when I head into that operating room, I must ask how was this day to be purposed? What did He intend for it? I’m pretty sure it’s not for me to be all worked up with every single piece of “fur” on end, claws out gripping the tub’s edge, and hissing along the way as I approach the soap suds. I don’t know what it is exactly, but likely not that. After an insightful week of being in the right place at the right time and then reading the right words when I very much needed them, I am working to keep the frustration of another surgery in check and be reminded that this is a single moment that was purposed to be something in this story that someone just may need to hear. I don’t have to understand it, that is key for me to know that I don't have to understand everything, but I have to trust my role in it.

“When I am consumed by my problems – stressed out about my life, my family, my job (my surgery) - I actually convey the belief that I think the circumstances are more important than God’s commands to always rejoice. In other words, that I have the ‘right’ to disobey God because of the magnitude of my responsibilities. ” - Francis Chan

www.crazylovebook.com

September 30, 2014 - The Slithering Sleuth

I'm entering the dreaded month, which should be celebrated as it is Breast Cancer Awareness month but I am not feeling quite so celebratory. Ron says he sees it coming - carefully mumbling with glee to avoid the ramifications - “you’re entering into surgery mode aren’t you”?  “What do you mean, Ron?” Me, fully knowing what he means.  “You’re dreading it aren’t you?”

 

Something happens in me a few weeks before a known surgery. I slip into this funky funk of not-so-good moodiness. What normally falls under slide-off-my-back turns into get-under-my-skin-ferociousness. A poorly delivered mail package can put me to tears. A dropped bowl becomes a world-war level catastrophe. I’m bitterly moody and it shows in all areas.  My consciousness becomes tainted with dreaded anticipation of the inconvenience right around the calendar’s corner.

I am already mourning the loss of energy that comes in the 4 weeks after anesthesia. I absolutely detest that sluggish gait and intense need for extensive sleep. I loathe the confinements of the living-room and the helplessness of inactivity, the bandages and the zombified stance the surgical incision invokes. I abhor relying on someone else for every single task. It makes my gut twist and turn in frustration. I’m strangely optimistic that recovery will be swift and purposeful, maybe the easiest of all surgeries thus far! I’m hopeful in that, but the funk is over shadowing that optimism. It slithers into my soul like a sleuth on the prowl – I’m not even aware it’s coming, it’s just suddenly there as an uninvited guest.

So my apologies go to you if you have been the unfortunate intercept of my subconscious turmoil. Know, my true desire is to serve you well and to treat you with the kindest of respects. It’s in the forefront of my thinking, but that sleuth just pushes his way in changing the outcome.  My kind soul is just underneath eager to find its way back to my day and into my interactions.

I’m starting, again, the study of Crazy Love. Though the timing wasn’t intentional, I am so grateful for the placement in the calendar. I need the prompting to re-embrace the overwhelming Love of God for His people and in return find myself swimming in a puddle of love for Him in return. I tend to mold Him like puddy into this spherical glob to perfectly fit inside my heart shaped hole.  Instead, I’d be much better prepared for this world if I put MY whole into HIS heart shaped hole becoming all consumed by his love and grace and mercy and holiness and perfect plan. This slipped implant would barely register on a hill of beans if I focused my thoughts to opportunities of grace instead of funk induced outcomes of poorly delivered mailed packages.  Life can be so very all consuming, instead of my being fully consumed with and by Him. I’m refocusing. I’m eager to have the shift and am being purposeful as purposeful is the only way to make the turn. Waiting around for it to happen is not serving me well.  Waiting permits Funk. Purposeful produces focus.  “I hope it affirms your desire for 'more God' even if you are surrounded by people who think they have 'enough God'."        

Yes, indeed, I am motivated to have “more God” so that my “surgery mode” becomes less commanding, Mr. Frances Chan. For the love of mankind, it’s needed.

So you can pray for my surgery mode to seep back into the nooks and crannies of nothingness and that my spirit of grace finds itself in my lens scope and interactions. I give you permission to hold me accountable to nothing short of that. Rub off on me if you have it mastered as learning from those who have conquered serves me will. I’m eager to be at that place where dropped bowl are sources of comical jokes, orthotic boots are motivators for hysterical laughter, and surgical lethargy is just something you get through with flying colors. Teach me, Father, I miss my dwelling in you. 

September 19, 2014 - Finely tuned lens

I have the luxury of working with children with a cancer diagnosis (plus fatal genetic diseases). It’s amazing how much you can glean about life simply by spending the day with a child, and parents of such, who is facing death. They, both parent and child, are a special breed of human. One that in a single hour of time when the diagnosis is confirmed finds that their lens of life becomes a little clearer. A bit sharper and more finely tuned. Pin point on a single subject and less blurred with the mirage of previously worthy landscape. Some things fall completely off the canvas all together to be replaced with more worthy brush strokes. The all-consuming just became the trivial.  The unimaginable becomes the everything. And the people of your life circles suddenly become more transparent and more intentionally chosen. It could be an incredible life study, these subjects, that could glean a wealth of guidance and insight in finding that “purpose” our culture is so notorious for “hamster wheeling”. There  contains a few examples of the human spirit going terribly wrong, but there are oh so many examples of the human spirit doing life as purposed when confronted with the uncertain.

It’s so easy to get caught up with the to-do lists of this life, the struggles of day to day adulthood, but 1 hour with these kids can bring you to your knees in awareness of what this life is all about. You become better at doing life by observing them navigate theirs. These are a few things I have learned in the process of brushing up against their lives and by navigating it myself a few years back:

·       IV poles are made for decorating and riding on for the IV pole parade.  Nothing more, nothing less.

·       Anything can be made into an arts and crafts activity, including Band-Aids and IV sets.

·       Bugs Bunny Band-Aids are the only way to go.

·       Folding 1000 origami cranes can give you “luck” when you think you are going to die.  And a 9 year old will spend every waking hour accomplishing it.

·       A simple lab result can make or break your day- and you hold your breath from the 30 minutes from when it’s drawn until resulted.

·       One sentence from your healthcare provider can either devastate you or help get you through one more hour.

·       It’s totally fashionable to wear two different colored socks and as many ruffles as your tutu skirt will hold.

·       You will never know what you will choose until that very moment. No matter how much you think you know yourself.

·       In their mind every cough or sneeze is a potential relapse. Don’t down play that.

·       Time doesn’t always heal wounds. Time does provide opportunity to make memories that help sooth wounds.

·       Bald heads represent triumph- not old age.

·       IV lines, bruises, shunts, g-tubes, and rashes all at the same time can be badges of honor.

·       Getting the gas bill in the mailbox when you know you have to pay for daily appointments for the next month can bring you to tears.

·       Parents relish having one more day where the kid drops the puff cereal all over the carpet.

·       You can never talk about poop too much.

·       Elmo is universal despite language barriers.

·       You can never eat too much ice cream.

·       Marriages can be lonely when chaos is in your realm. Not every marriage will survive. Some come out stronger.

·       All teenage girls want to go to the prom…with hair. All teenage boys want to go to the prom with a girl…with hair. Wigs have come a long way!

·       Santa can show up any time of the year and princesses are magical.

·       Siblings need time to process.

·       Parents can find delight in hearing their children fight, because at least that means they are still alive.

·       Healthcare providers cry after work too. Tears don’t always make everything better.

·       “Rainbow Connection” is the absolute perfect song for a memorial service.

·       Time at the art table with play dough can motivate you to come back in for one more infusion.

·       You will put purple dye on your tongue to kill infection if I successfully convince you it is like you “just ate Barney”.

·       Big clown shoes make you laugh.

·       Your job isn't even 1/8th as "sucky" as you think it is, these parents would give a million dollars to trade shoes with you.

·       20 medication doses in a day are 19 too many.

·       This event is a stress for parents that parallels little else. They won’t tell their friends, but trust me.

·       Choose friends you actually want to endure life with.

·       3 a.m. is the perfect time for a game of hungry hippo.

·       Kids are more resilient that adults will ever be.

·       Even a bottle of Tylenol can break the bank.

·       You never really have it all figured out.

·       An hour with a child facing premature death can teach you more about your own character than anything else imaginable.

·       Children can vomit six times a day and still find a way to pull every topping of the pizza slice in order and with purpose.

·       Music therapy with a paper cup, ukulele, or bongo drums can be the highlight of the clinic appointment.

·       You can never give out or receive too many hugs.

·       Giggling can turn to tears and back to giggling in 20.4 seconds.

·       Footed pajamas carry spectacular cute factor when combined with a bald head.

·       Surround yourself with people who get it and want to positively influence your life. Remove yourself from people who don’t.

·       God doesn’t always promise healing, but he does promise the opportunity for incredible positive impact on those involved.

·       An empty bed is heart breaking.

·       Grief is life changing. So is laughter.

·       Angels and warriors come in all shapes and sizes.

·       Being surrounded by these kids is totally worth devoting your life to!

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

September 6, 2014 - Boots and boobs!

I have to say I am looking pretty sexy right now. A skirt, newish boobs, freshly styled hair, polished nails and toes….and wait for it… a new highly fashionable cast boot! It’s black, sleek, velcro-covered with a matte finish. Style at its finest. And the timing for such style and sophistication is just perfection.

You will recall when I found out I had to have mastectomy surgery number 5 for the failed implant that I really wanted to wait until after swim season since I was doing daily physical therapy in a pool for my foot/ankle. Also, I had my summer vacation planned with a trip to the beach. I really wanted to go on that trip and not have water restrictions that come after surgery. So we got the surgery scheduled for early October and decided to finish out the summer and my beach trip intact, sagging boob and all, before scheduling the surgery.  That plan was going perfectly well until I started noticing my foot was not only not improving despite multiple interventions but actually was becoming more constant and severe. I had experienced exactly 1 pain free day in 4 months, and this past week I had several days where I was moved to tears by the time I not so gracefully, just shy of face planting, hobbled my way to bed. On a few occasions, no less than five, I woke up in the middle of the night for a bladder piddle and slammed myself into the door frame to keep myself upright. I decided this could go on no more and me retain any sanity on the other end.

Schedule an MRI. Wait 3 hours for results. Land myself back at the orthopedic office the following day to get steroids injected into the interior side of my heel (and let me complain that I didn't even get a sticker or lollipop). Splints to wear while sleeping followed by the Provider pushing me to get a hard cast for the foot.  While I was super excited to try absolutely anything to get me some relief. I was drawing the line at the cast. Step away from the spatula and Plaster of Paris, Woman!

I begged and pleaded explaining how I had successfully delayed imposter surgery for this beach trip and how I very much needed this trip to happen with me at least dipping my toes, if not a full submersion, in the tepid surf. She saw her reflection in the pools about to spill over from my lower lid and found herself guilted into not a plasterized masterpiece, but instead a sleek new booted accessory of black overlay with the subtle aroma of plastic undertone.   We agreed I would wear it off and on while on my trip, but then commit to embracing it full-time at my return home. So I’m lugging this boot everywhere I go, currently sitting under the car dash next to a lone flip flop as we traverse the interstate. It’s excited to see the coast for the first time. I’m excited to get there so I can take it off and chunk it into the back seat. I haven’t told him as of yet that this is his fate. Our secret.

Disclaimer: I truly am thankful for the boot (and wearing it as much as possible) considering the alternative is a cast, and I’m even more grateful in that it gives this foot a full month to heal before I have the boob surgery because a bum foot and a bum boob at the same time will make me a little more frustrated than either alone.

As my boss said earlier today, “Sally, you have the best luck!” (and that most certainly is true, but who else can claim a boot that matches their beach chair - though admittedly black goes with anything). She’s absolutely right! I am a masterpiece of health ( hardly). A pure specimen of genetic perfection (not even close). My body celebrates change and transition with such frequency that the compass is in a constant spin. It has an uncanning ability to keep myself and those around me always guessing at current state. It would be an absolute marvel, if it weren't such a bummer.

Boots and Boobs. They seem to go hand in hand.

August 31, 2014 - Milky white propofol

As promised, here is another re-visit for those of you that joined my journey late. Warning, It's rather emotional. I teared up reading back through it just now. This tells the story of the 24 hours around the actual mastectomy. You may have read this if you have followed me from the beginning. If not, here you go! (Note: it used to be 2 posts, but I've joined them together for one). 

_______________________

Day 0 Part 1: 

I realize I never captured the actual day of the mastectomy. Early on, I didn't yet know if I could commit to going public with this specific journey. I wanted to advocate, but was I truly ready to put it all out there, particularly something so very private by most standard? It seemed all to personal a topic. It seemed foreign. It seemed unreal. Well it quickly became very real when we got in the car that morning to go to the hospital. I don't even recall what we talked about in the car. I do recall my saying everything is going to be different when I wake up and I warned Ron I didn't know how I was going to react. I'd pictured it a hundred times by now and I knew it would be not so good but reality is powerful. This part made me very nervous. 

When we got there and walked in, there sat my mom, dad, sister, in laws, and sister in law. That got me! Just to know they came out of support for this decision we had made. It made my moment. It got me through the waiting room doors. 

"Mrs. McCollum, please come to the registration desk." I had put off signing in to the very last minute. I didn't want them to know I was there early for fear they would take me back earlier than planned. Delay, delay, delay.  There sat the kindest looking lady at the registration desk. She asked my name, address, etc. Then verified I was in for a double mastectomy. Well, darn it! Hearing that word "mastectomy", and I busted out into blubbering tears. The precious lady responded with "you're beautiful now and this won't change anything." And she had this watery look in her eyes as well. She knew to treat me as fragile. I could have kissed her cheek had I not been wiping my face so frantically. I knew that revelation that mastectomy wouldn't change my beauty, but boy was that kind for this stranger to say to the girl crying at her check in counter. Angel, I tell ya.

I had to go back by myself at first. I left everyone, including Ron in the waiting room. I was crying the whole way down the stupid cream colored hallway. They're always cream you know. Hospitals adore cream! And then there stood the poor intake nurse. She must have not even known what to say to me, the girl obviously all messed up in her hallway. She just shined her kind smile at me and held my arm. Another angel. Then, we are at the cubical room. Get changed into the lovely air conditioned gowns I adore. The scrub cap. Get my vitals. Start the IV line (it only took four attempts. I'm an iv line nightmare.) Then wait...By myself...While my mind wanders...Wait some more...Wait...Look at the monitors...Notice my super high blood pressure...Wait...Count the heart beats...Make up a song to the rhythm... Wait....Curse the iv line that is killing my arm...Curse Hodgkin's Disease that got me here...Curse medical literature...Curse me reading the stupid literature.....Wait.

Finally, there I see Ron smiling at the cubical curtain. He gets to come back so we can have our final consult with the Lead Breast Surgeon who also just walked in. Off comes the gown I so pain stakingly had just put on fashionably tying it in three places. Out comes her lovely black magic marker to start her art work on my chest. By the end of this, I look very much like a tattoo artist's playground who was testing every pattern available to a wishy washy client. Dots here. Lines there. X marks the spot. She even signed her initials on her handiwork. This is a requirement for all surgeries to verify patient and MD agree what is happening. She is amazing, but really there is NO dignity in this journey. Next, a chat with the anesthesiologist (she knew I was a medical clinicial) and in the end a spinal block would be my best friend and fate along with another arsenal of inhaled agents. 

Then, they ask Ron to leave. Now, why did they have to go and do that? Here come those stupid tears again! I'm a sap. A true sap. For the record: I didn't cry even once with my knee surgeries. If he leaves this room I'm going to lose it.

Lights, camera, action! I'm in the OR with about 12 clinicians all doing this and that. It's like an ant farm! Last thing I remember is the syringe of the eye catching milky white propofol being hooked in. They know I detest the taste and smell of milk, right? Wonder who that lady is that is holding that tubing? There are those cream walls again. Wonder what Ron is thinking.

Day 0: Part 2: 

Cream colored ceiling. Strange lady sitting next to me writing in some blue binder. Weird tight feeling on my chest. IV line hooked to a clear bag above my head. Awful sore throat. Beep. Beep. Beep. Must-sit-up. Super bad idea. Lady leans over to guide my head back to the pillow. Faint realization.... I must be in recovery and this strange lady must be my surgical nurse. More realization...Oh no, it really happened! Where is Ron???? I really needed him here when I woke up. That was so important to me. Where is he??? (you can see my flight of consciousness as I am coming out of anesthesia and realizing what is happening).

Glancing down, I can see every bit of my abdomen. My pelvis. My leg. My foot. But NOT my breasts! They really are gone. What in the world happened to those two humps! They don't just get up sprout legs and walk off! My thoughts were not of how great this is to no longer be at risk for breast cancer. Nor of how great it is that we have these medical advances available to women like me. Not of God's unfailing provisions. My thoughts were instead of my selfish human perspective of "they truly are gone." Under this surgical vest, there lie absolutely nothing. Nada, zilcho, zero. Instead, scarred leftover tissue that made the cut for use later in reconstruction. Deflated pouches of nothingness. 20 years of development gone in a poof! Abra cadabra. Zippity Zam. 4 surgical hours. Gone! Fast shallow breathing. "I need you to get my husband!!!!" "Please, I need Ron!" It wasn't frantic, just a super strong request that got her attention.

There is a lot of grey here. I remember bits and pieces. Some of this, some of that. Rolling down to my hospital room for my overnight stay. Climbing out of bed to go to the bathroom with four nurses helping my transit (I was super groggy and wobbly). I honestly didn't fully know where we were. That grogginess had an intense hold on me. Then, the unthinkable...vomiting. Nothing like vomiting while walking. Vomiting after chest surgery where every movement can be felt down to your toes. Vomiting on someone else's shoe. Vomiting when you haven't eaten in 12+ hours. Now, desperately wanting to make it to that bed two feet away without face planting myself in a drunken stupor on the not so soothing cream color vinyl floor. Why is my backside so cold? Please don't tell me I walked down the hallway with my gown wide open. Please, I know some of these people! I did NOT just flash these nurses! Tell me that! Chick-fil-A. Wonder if someone can get that for me? Can someone PLEASE make that beeping sound stop! (See, anesthesia really messes with your mind).

We made it through the evening with my thoughts slowly returning to rational with each passing hour. I did get my chicken sandwich, but I guess the airway tube scratched up my throat so much I couldn't really eat it. But, not for lack of trying. Then, it got dark. I have no idea what time it was, but Ron was sacked out in a recliner beside my bed. A faint yellow light trickled in under the door and blue lights from my infusion pump making the room an odd greenish hue. It's funny to me that I remember that so vividly. I lay starting at the ceiling wide awake feeling pretty lonely...and weird...and different. (Recall: I'd had a lovely four hour drug induced surgical nap earlier in the day so I felt no need to sleep.) Once again groggy from the repetition of pain meds every three hours. Because the continuously infusing IV fluids, I was ringing the call bell every 2 hours or less for yet another wobbly shuffle back to the bathroom. Surely, I was becoming a high maintenance patient nurses talk about out at the front desk. "Oh no, there's Old Lady McCollum's bell again. How many times can one person need to go to the bathroom? All she says is 'Get me this, get me that'. Rock, paper, scissors. Karen loses and heads to my room. But those nurses were oh so kind when they crossed my threshold. Happily getting me ice chips, or meds, or escorting me back and forth for the umpteenth time. Always smiling despite it being three in the morning on a super long shift with all rooms full. Grateful was I. Grateful. And I tried to consciously remember to thank them at every turn. I wanted to be low maintenance. But those stupid IV fluids...

Then, at six a.m, in came the surgical fellow and I lit up like a Rockefeller Christmas tree. See, I knew that surgical fellows meant morning rounds and that was the only thing standing in my way from a paid ticket out of here and a car ride home to a comfy cozy no more wide open surgical gowns, IV lines, loud beeping noises, too tight compression stocking living room! Come in, say what you need to say. Blah, blah percocet every four hours, blah blah sponge baths, blah blah this and blah blah that. Surely Ron was getting all of this down. Come on very nice fellow, can't you be any quicker? My couch is calling my name.

Fellow : "Mrs. McCollum, I need to take off your vest so we can check the surgical incisions..." SCREECHING halt!!!!! Slam on the brakes! Hold all your stinking horses. Wide eyed terror filled expression (Me, not the fellow).

Me thinking: Huh? What??? Where's my lead surgeon who told me not to even THINK about opening it and looking? You are doing what and why? This very minute?

Background: Lead surgeon was brilliant in instructing me not to open it for any reason. She knew nothing good could come of me seeing her master piece (it's common knowledge surgeons love to show off their work.) Yet she, being the heart felt clinician that she was -as you would have to be working in breast oncology- wanted to save me from seeing the aftermath. She knew from my very first consult appointment that I was overly grief stricken about the period between surgeries. She had seen the tears as she described the before and after. She even got watery eyes with me. So she brilliantly disguised the true intent (salvaging my sanity) with medical lingo and reasoning to camouflage the plan. "Sally, do not look under this bandage".

Fellow: "It's policy for me to check the incision sight to ensure you are safe for discharge."

And there in lie my quandary. If I want to go home, I have to let this 20 something young man, fellow in training might I add, open up this surgical vest for him, myself, and Ron to view it's content. You see, I had absolutely no plans to let ANYONE see this handiwork. Surgery #1. Stay all bandaged up for two weeks. Surgery #2. Voila! Normal chest again! This silly surgeon wanna-be is destroying my brilliant, sanity saving, well devised and lead surgeon approved master plan. What-is-he-doing???

The unmistakable sound of Velcro. (Insert the now famous fast paced shallow breathing.) Right side off. Left side off. All I could think was Holy Moly! That looks awful. More than awful. Devastatingly awful. Unrecognizable. Not of this world. Embarrassingly horrible. First, one tear down this cheek, then their watery salty friends join in for good measure because they hate to be left out.

Super delightful fellow in training closes the vest back up, hands me my paper work with last minute instructions and quietly walks out the door with well wishes floating in the air behind him. I, however, sat dazed and speechless staring at my now closed vest. What once was a well concealed package with mysterious and only faintly imaginable contents now became a fully discovered, undeniable, messed up reality. The image now burned into every single memory cell of my brain ready to cause me anguish for some time to come. Don't get me wrong, Fellow was delightful and under any other circumstance extremely likeable. Professional and thorough. Rule follower. But at this very second, he was Judas with a shiny new coin in his hand after the last supper. And now my heart, my positive demeanor, and master plan sat crumbled on the hospital floor. And there sat my amazing Ron, who had just seen the unfolded package himself, holding my hand.

Afterward: As irony would have it, 15 minutes later the lead surgeon walked in with her trade mark friendly smile to check on me. "Sally, don't forget to just keep it all bandaged up until our next appointment. There's no need for you to ever open it or look at it. It will heal best if you just leave it alone until our next appointment." - She had driven in super early in attempt to beat the rule following fellow to my room. I tell her it's too late. She had just missed him. Her face falls when I told her he checked the incision. Now her well intended thoughtful master plan for me lie crumbled next to my pieces on the hospital floor. She, too, stood holding my hand.

In hindsight, I imagine God even had a purpose for this expecting unveiling and for this Judas. I'm still sorting what that might be. Maybe I needed that experience. Maybe, I require a true vision of the mastectomy leftovers to better prepare other women that might struggle with the emotional adjustments of delayed reconstruction. Or just maybe that event wasn't even for me, but rather for something in the kind Fellow's journey. After all, I've always thought a Christian's life is rarely for the benefit of self but more about becoming a vessel focused on impacting the life of others. I may never know the true why of that morning. But I do know God has purpose. He has a strategic kingdom impacting plan. He sees my big picture and he sees your big picture. Even in the "awful".

August 29, 2014 - Provision even through Imposters.

I decided to revisit a post from this exact moment 2 years ago. Some of you may have already read this. To others it may be new to you if you joined me late in this journey. I found it to be a great reminder of God's provision in foresight, but now in hindsight. Happy Reading. And thanks for still being here 2 years later.

______

Day #22: Yesterday, marks three weeks since the double mastectomy. I've had 21 days to contemplate each individual day of this experience. The day after the mastectomy which set my mental course (post # day 0 part 2), the first shower (did I even post about that?), the miserable little drain suckers (that's in about every post), but it wasn't until yesterday in the waiting room and then last night la ying in bed that I stepped back and looked at it all in one big album, instead of individual snapshots.

What have I done? Did I really make this radical controversial decision to have two breasts I had worked so hard to grow (smile) removed? Did I just allow two surgeons I had met once before decide what the physical future of my new "breasts" would become? These impostors I'm now supposed to know and love. Am I now a woman who has had a mastectomy? Equally as shocking, am I now a woman who has implants? The big picture feels life changing -at least temporarily at this very moment. It affects my marriage, my faith, my personal medical course, my topsy turvy emotions of today. It certainly, hopefully only for the short-term affects my view of self. It even affects me view of you.

Somehow, I'm supposed to return to work and the rest of the world and function as though I am who I was when I left August 3rd. Some people at work don't even know this happened. I have to admit I am changed. And I'm going to need time to transition. Time to settle out. Time to fit this new chest and all that comes with it back into the world. (Maybe there was some hidden rationale in my surgeon demanding I be on house arrest these last three weeks.) How did I even get here?

Back in June, on a Thursday, I was sitting in clinic waiting to see a patient. The Attending Physician I work with had just returned from a national oncology conference and was giving us the low down on some of the hot topics of discussion of the past week. Now let me step back it's interesting to note I'm only in clinic two days a week. The rest of my week I'm in another building with another life. So had this physician returned on a Monday, I would have missed this discussion in it's entirety and be none the wiser for some time to come. So the timing of these events this is lost on me. He was telling us about all the new pediatric oncology research that focused on exposure to radiation therapy and long term outcomes. We've always known radiation therapy is a yin and a yang, particularly when used in children. It's a terrific modality for curing certain tumors, but it carries it's own potentiallu negative risks while propagating the positive curative ones. Historically, Hodgkin's lymphoma patients received very large doses of radiation to the chest region, where primary tumor most likley lived. And we've always known these large doses, while needed for tumor kill, can lead to secondary risks later in life. For female teenagers, breast cancer is one of these risks. We've known this for years. What we didn't know was the magnitude of that risk. Back to the meeting highlights, the Attending Physician began quoting off the new statics on the radiation data.

Well, let's just say my ears perked up when I heard numbers that were much higher than previously published. (I had been treated for Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was 16 so this was not only professionally relevant but personally relevent.) I simulataneously, while he conversed, went online to the meeting abstracts to pull the data myself. And there it read females treated with 20gy radiation doses are at least equivalent in risk for breast cancer as women who carry the brca gene for breast cancer. As I continued to read, and mentally calculating my own dose of 40+ gy being double that number, light bulbs start going off in my head like that on the red carpet. Percentages ranging from 30% up to 90% as you advance in age. What?!?! We had thought it like 10-30%. That was a risk I had known and even prepared for. Roll the dice, it may happen, but more likely not. I've done cancer once, surely not twice. But 90%???? Are you kidding me? That's a whole other ballgame. That not a statistic, that's a prediction! That's.............awful!

I quietly try to gather my wits and think rationally about this data. I formulate an email to a breast oncologist I work with in my other job. (Reminder, this life altering conversation happened on a Thursday when I happened to be present, I started working with a breast oncologist as of six months ago in my brand new job, I have access to brand spanking new medical literature..."I'm here God, it's me Margaret"?)

Email out: "Breast Oncologist, have you seen the new breast data that was just released for Hodgkins patients? What do you think about me doing yearly mammograms in addition to the yearly breast MRIs I'm already getting? I had lymphoma and was treated with more than 40 gy doses of radiation to the chest as a teenager."

Email in: "Sally, yes, I saw the data. I didn't realize you were a lymphoma survivor. I think you need to see a breast surgeon......"

And at that very second I mentally checked out. Stopped reading. Had tears pool at the bottom of my eyelids. Excuse me? What in the world did he just say??? A breast surgeon? What do you mean a breast SURGEON? Didn't you mean to say "yes, please schedule a mammogram at your earliest convenience."? Why in the world are you mentioning a breast surgeon? Ok check back in, compose yourself. Wipe the fluid from your eyeball and retype the email.

Email out: "Breast oncologist, did you mean to write the word surgeon in your email? I'm a little confused. Did you mean to say oncologist?"

Email in: "Sally, I think it would be wise for you to meet with the chief of breast surgery to discuss mastectomy options. Let me talk to her today about your case and I will get the appointment set up for you as soon as possible."

Hyperventilate. Mind racing. Punch in the stomach. Oh my gosh, please don't let me throw up right here in my laptop in front of everyone. Hold it together. Pull up your boot straps. Got-to-get-some-air-now. Walk out of the room to the bathroom and ball your eyes out. And then it also hits me while standing in that bathroom....Ron!

Let me insert here that all of this unfolded in a matter of about 3 minutes from the time my attending walked in all excited about the conference he just attended to me being set up in an appt with a surgeon. How does that even happen? Email Ron frantically. Email my sister frantically. Wait for response from oncologist. Pull up data on brca gene. What in the world a prophylactic mastectomy? Women actually do that????? I really don't think I had any idea that women were finding out about brca gene results and scheduling mastectomies. Why do they do that? And why would I do that? That is radical. That is crazy. That is taking matters into your own hands. Do I not trust God's plan for my life? If I'm destined to have breast cancer, we just deal with it when it comes. I'm not someone to run from trouble. I like to roll the dice and trust God in the decisions in life. I've got this. Mastectomy, no way. (This, another free flowing train of thought spanning about 45 seconds). Keep reading the article, Sally..unlike brca gene patients "hodgkins survivors, having already reached the maximum doses of radiation, will have limited treatment options for secondary breast cancer...(paraphrased)"

Let me re-read that. Again. One more time. Frantically email Ron a second time. Desperately watch the clock. I've GOT to get home! This room is closing in on me. I'm of no use to these patients today. Devastated. Confused. Frightened. Surprised. Blow to the stomach. (Little did I know that Ron was having the the exact same experience sitting at his work desk as he later told me).

So it was no longer IF I was going to get Breast cancer, but more likely WHEN. And when that were to happen, my treatment options would be limited to no radiation. Long story made semi short. Two weeks later, I'm sitting in an exam room with two surgeons discussing my mastectomy plans. Two weeks! Who gets an appointment with the chiefs of breast surgery and plastic surgery in two weeks? God does, with a little of "it's all who you know" thrown in for balance. By the end of the appointment I had a surgery date scheduled for August 7. The delay only because one of the surgeons was headed away on vacation for two weeks. Those four weeks would become very challenging for me with me subconsciously processing the what was to come. The radical procedure was going to happen! I chose the crazy option!

I should insert here, I'm a unique case. I got massive amounts of radiation as a teenager. Dose is everything. Timing and age of exposure is everything. Not every radiation patient has these risks. There is a lot of data that has to be sorted through for any given patient. I am NOT advocating mastectomy for radiation patients. I'm not even advocating mastectomy for hodgkin's patients. I'm advocating that you research the data. Determine your risk. I'd bet for most women, mastectomy is a bit drastic for your statics. For me, it became a very reasonable option that dropped my risk from up to 90% with limited treatment options down to about 5%. Less than that of the average reader reading this post.

I'm advocating support for women who choose this crazy life saving option. This is a radical life changing choice, and women need support in that. No judgment. No gossip about the "did you hear". No questions about implants and a boob job. Don't ever ask "how big are you going?" Please only allowed yourself to offer Support! Encouragement. Belief that this hard choice is able to be done successfully. Cheers of "you can do this" should be shouted through your telephone, your open front door, across the restaurant table as she sits there telling you her incredible delimma and suppport that she can be open about this extremely personal journey. Understand that this is an awful decision to have to make and that this surgery is not knee surgery. I know, I'ev done both. She needs Love. She needs to know what she feels is justified, even if on some levels it seems trivial.

What she (now me) is feeling is something I never previously understood. Fear of the what ifs. Guilt for her thoughts of vanity. Shock that this is happening. Concern over her spouse and what he may think. Disappointment over reconstruction options. Guilt for feeling that disappointment. Shame that having no boobs affects her like it does. Shame that this journey impacts her like it does when she didn't even have breast cancer like some women have to struggle through both Breast Cancer and mastectomy. Confusion as to why this affects her so drastically. Worry that God may have wanted her to choose differently. Frustration over the physical limitations now present. Anger at her lack of control. And the list goes on. Trust me, it's best to justt sum it up and say "She feels a lot!"

Anyway, back to the original point of all if this. In order to process the big picture, I have to understand how those first few weeks played out. How timing is everything. How God chose a Thursday for this discussion to take place. (Reminder, this was brand new literature your average person would not know about for quite some time to come. I work in oncology.) How God, not even six months before crossed my path with that of a breast oncologist that I work on several projects with. That God would grant Ron and I wisdom to recognize His role in placing me at the right place at the right time and his offering this option to us. That Ron would make his decision that I should go through with mastectomy before I would and that they would match up. Maybe God had a specific plan not only to save me from a tremendously difficult journey with breast cancer, but to change me, challenge me, grow me. Was Sally going to let fear of a drastic surgical procedure guide her? Was Sally going to trust that God had big plans for her or even someone else by choosing the hard road? Who was Sally going to put her faith in? I'm changed. I'm challenged. I'm broken. I'm restored. I'm accepting my new breasts...as strange as that sounds. But most importantly, I'm allowing this journey to be whatever vessel God chooses in growing His kingdom. I may kick and scream along the way, but I'm still moving forward. I take steps back. I doubt things, but I'm committed for the long haul. Come what may.

Now, pray that these next few weeks are smooth. I have a great bit to accomplish in a short amount of time. Pray for my transition back into life. Monday, I start removing some of my restrictions. In two weeks, back to the surgeon to assess everything. Will the skin survive, is my mobility and strength back, have the impostors settled in their new home. Is the swelling and pain gone. Can I handle going back to work? Can I drive? Can I shower in my own without falling apart emotionally in the process? A lot happened in three short weeks. More than I could ever have imagined. I hope to be a better person on the other side of this. I hope you found a new understanding of preventative mastectomies. And maybe you saw a glimpse of God's provision in the awful (and incredibly amazing.)

August 11, 2014 - BAMMM, smack upside my head!

This has been a challenging few weeks for me. It seems one thing after another rolls itself into my front door. I have a door knob lock. I have an additional dead bolt. I even have a glass door on the outside with its own latch and key. Yet muck seeps in under the door like a sly stealth spy to find me. I don’t even hear it coming, but BAMMM smack upside the head there it sits on my shoulder whispering not so sweet ridiculousness into my demeanor.

Last week Ron and I set out to celebrate a few milestones. I was hitting my 23^rd anniversary of my lymphoma remission and simultaneously the 2 year mark following double mastectomy and the birth of Boob 1 and Boob 2 (now 2.2 after a quick switch out last year). We had arranged dinner out at a local restaurant that had this great outdoor patio setting. I got there a little early to scope it out and found a great little booth on the edge of the patio where we could get the cool breeze we have been having this unusual August. Ron arrives a few minutes later and we start the magnificent evening. Menus investigated, selections placed, and sit back and wait for the delights to arrive. Wait for it….wait for it… food arrives and immediately boxed right up as Sally decides she would like to add an emergency room visit to the festivities. What romantic dinner out is complete without a visit to your local ER? Nothing says celebration better than one eye in absolute acute pain (as in came in about a 2 minute span), tears and red goo streaming down your face. Slide out of the booth and into the bed gurney with grace and excitement. Diagnosis: something had flown into my eye from that amazing cool breeze –which we never discovered what- and scratched the surface of my eye and conjunctiva. Eye ointment, eye rest, and a boatload of money later and we are back at home with a deflated demeanor. The following morning, I felt worsening and headed back to the ophthalmologist to discover the eye was now infected and in need of $100+ of steroids and antibiotics (24 hours, 3 MD visits, and 3 pharmacy visits later). I was mad, I was cranky. I was feeling entitled. Best milestone celebration ever!

It became very obvious to me as we were going through the last few weeks of new “surprises” (upcoming imposter surgery for slipped boob, eye infection/abrasion, dishwasher failure leading to warped kitchen floors, foot MRI, house projects gone astray, etc), of how we as a culture allow every single tidbit of life that enters our orbit throw us off kilter no matter how trivial or how great. We are a culture of passive impact. Dropped spaghetti bowl can shoot us into major strife. An unexpected bill can catapult us into major collapse. The boss asking us to resubmit a form can lead to 3 hours of cubical complaining. We feel every single rivet of life with passion and intensity and at times have difficulty getting one foot in front of the other after a celebration dinner was interrupted.

I am feeling eager after some sharp perfectly timed conviction to step back and compare my warped 2’x2’ section of kitchen floor to walking out into a city park in Iraq and seeing the speared head of a 4 year old who was decapitated for religious beliefs. Or hearing the sirens across town at 3 a.m. knowing you have to get your family down to the bomb shelter in the next 5 minutes, but you can’t find little Sara who you know was brushing her teeth on the back stoop with bottled water only 5 minutes ago. Or the friend whose husband was handed a lymphoma relapse last week when all he was hoping for was a single stretch of 3 months year of normalcy without a visit to the MD. Kimberly is facing divorce. Tonya is wondering if her Marine husband has been found.

We are constantly comparing our body shapes. We live in a world of “her hair is just so much better”. We compare pay stubs to vacation houses and children’s honor rolls to soccer tournaments won. If we are so good at comparing the lively aspirations of life to each other, why do we not compare our assumed turmoil as well to see how ridiculous we can be at times? One look at national and international news quickly reminded me that my eye infection now almost healed is a “trouble” over half this planet would greatly trade in for without a single tear and instead shout a hoopla of winning the lottery.

Dear God, thank you for continual reminders of perspective. May I find my life so full of these riches you have already allowed me and these perceived “setbacks” a moment to show your grace and triumph. What can I turn into an opportunity to model goodness? Show me to be satisfied with little bumps in my day. What can I quit complaining about so that I have time to hear of and help someone else walk through their real life events? May the joy that comes with a life so richly blessed trump all trivial circumstance. Focus me to understand the true word of “trouble”.

John 16:33 - "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

July 29, 2014 - Introducing "The Imposter Collection"

I’m done being frustrated I think. It’s been a week and the news has settled in. I only cried twice. Once the day of when I told my mom. She tends to bring out my emotions from deep down in my hiding box. Second, when my cousin so thoughtfully asked me if I had set a surgery date. That one shot out of me like a bolt of lightning. It didn’t even ooze up to the surface and out like it did with my mom. Instead, it just flew out of my tear ducts with no warning at all! But no more, I think I am done. I’ve moved to the acceptance phase that there shall indeed be yet another surgery. Surgery #5. It has grown on me. The Imposters are at peace. Well Boob 2.2 is anyway since he doesn’t have to be involved at all in this one. Boob 1…outta luck. (I won’t remind 2.2 that the last time we went in for a singular lipomodeling surgery, both got roped into it before all was said and done.) We are adjusting.

It helps that a few of my friends made a game out of it and spontaneously threw out reasons as to why Surgery #5 landed in my lap. My favorite…Lead Plastic Surgeon subscribes to this blog and likes seeing his name in print over and over again. Other front runners…this surgery gives Ron an opportunity to get his RN degree in 2 years without having to do additional practicum. And last, Hallmark needed more cases to justify a “hope your boob is looking up!” tagline. Feel free to contribute to the game by adding your reason in the comments below (click the word comment at bottom of post on). I’d relish in your humor indeed.

Today is the perfect day to remind me why I need to get this done and to pump me up (no pun intended) for setting that surgery date. Not only is there a risk for further slippage if I don’t fix it, there are also a few wardrobe malfunctions lurking in the closet. This morning I threw on a summer maxi dress that has an empire waist. Well, let’s just say the image in the mirror was all but “put together”. One high, one low. Calamity! I was at risk of causing coworkers to fall in the hallway thinking their vision was distorted. Back to the closet for some adjustment and only 10 minutes late leaving. It’s a hoot if you let your mind get past the scariness of it. Scary, well to me and my vain self. Probably not all that scary to you. Comical (when I’m not tearful) to us both.

This time two years ago I was preparing myself for my last week of work before mastectomy surgery. August 7, 2012 was a date that had me shaking in my boots! I had not even come out in the open to most of you. A handful of people (immediate family, a few select coworkers, and my bible study group = less than 10 total I’d say) were all that knew what was about to go down. I was all the things you would expect me to be. Embarrassed, worried, naïve, unsettled, self-conscious. I knew taking these breasts off was absolutely what I needed to do, but there were a good many emotions straddling my certainty. I remember trying to figure out how in the world my mind was going to make it through the 10 days of “no breasts”. But none off those thoughts prepared me for the reality of where my mind would go. Upside-down. Inside-out. What in the world is going on!?!  I found this picture below from a post in August of that year. Not that you can tell, but I had no boobs in this picture. I was off to my first appointment after mastectomy (10 days later) and I had my jacket zipped up basically to my chin and underneath was a surgical bra stuffed full of white fluff. It was August people and sure over 90 degrees outside with 200% humidity as we seem to specailize in here, but I was not about to let it be known I was walking around boob-less. I recall that day standing in my closet wondering what in the world I was going to put on to make this visit even remotely possible. I was to be walking into a waiting room of women who were in similar fate, but that didn't mean I was ready to make myself known (and I work with these people, most of whom had no idea what was going on). I found this hot pink velore-ish type jacket crammed in the back corner of the closet and then some jeans. I quickly ditched the jeans when I realized there was absolutely no way I was going to be able to pull them up with my immobility from surgery. The jeans morphed into black pajama bottoms that could pass as athletic gear. I changed as best as I could (not doubt a spectacle to observe!) and walked back into the living room where Ron and my mom were waiting. Mom snapped this picture below and even now I recall the beaming face both of them had on talking about how great I looked. “The pink makes you glow!” Boy could I have eaten them up with a spoon. I will never forget that moment. They had not seen me crying in my closet desperately flinging clothes this way and that trying to find something that would mask the underneath. Somehow they knew exactly what I needed to hear.

I didn’t comment that day in the post about what I was feeling. I wasn’t really "there" yet in my blog with being open and honest. Only seven days before (3 days after mastectomy) was my very first post and it was puny and low key. I was just trying to get through a post those days. Transparency came later. Anyway, I say all of this as a testament to where I’ve come.  August was a very long month with me hiding behind chin-high pink velore-ish zipup jackets in 200% humidity to now talking with little reserve (but still respectfully, I hope!) about lopsided boobs. I’ve come a long way! I’m here. I’ve arrived intact with Imposter 1 and Imposter 2.2 in tow.  

I’ve set a date. October 16^th. I've even set a post-op clinic date. Oct 22. Boy, do they offer full boob service! It’s going to be here in no time. But I admit I will think about it every single hour of every day between now and then. Just yesterday I remembered the surgical bra again. Oh bother, I am going to get another one. I should have kept them all for a collection. I’d have 5 you know! Those things have a long way to go in the fashion world. But having 5, couldn’t that be a “collection” that I could name and sell on the black market? “The Imposter Collection”. High dollar, my friend! Open to the highest bidder...which I am sure will be backed by Victoria's Secret.

July 24, 2014 - Pink sharpie

Well, I've got some good news! I'm excited to report I did not have to pay the usual $45 for my doctor's appointment this week. I got a deal- buy one lipomodeling surgery get one clinic visit free! Woo hoo! Yep, that's the good thing I have to report. Bask in it, relish it, roll around and enjoy it. Free visit!!!! Learning to find the silver lining in these Imposters and getting pretty dang good at distraction.

I sat in the waiting room for a bit over an hour (Lead Plastic Surgeon was running behind schedule). Next to me was this adorable lady in her late 60s, if I had to guess, who had recently undergone mastectomy and she had not yet entered the reconstructive phase (if she had plans to at all). She was wearing her infusion pump on her waist and she and her husband where happy little larks just chatting away about their activities of the week. I kept thinking to myself that she was the perfect example of finding peace in circumstance. I wanted to get into her head, hear about her journey, and I was secretly hoping she had chosen to NOT have reconstruction. Here she was prancing into her appointment with no effort to distract from her concaveness. I want to be that confident – or at least that is how she seemed. While she was sitting there content with her day, my stomach was all tied up in knots. The irony of that. Me = no chemo = all tied up in knots. Her = chemo= happy as a lark.

I wasn't at all upset that he was running, almost an hour by now, behind schedule. The longer I sat in that office chair, the longer I was away from that examining room and what I knew deep down in my heart was the inevitable. I actually laughed at myself for being so nervous, but sometimes our subconscious rules the roost. Then came the nurse out to get me and in I went feeling like I was going to lose the contents of my stomach all over my little slipper shoe and her pink scrubs.

Lead Plastic Surgeon was so kind and thoughtful. He could tell I did not want to be there so we chatted about work before we got down to the nitty gritty. Follow-up from the lipomodeling was a great report out. The area looked as expected, and so far there was little to no fat reabsorption (remember: sometimes the fat reabsorbs over time and you have to have the procedure repeated over time). Off to a good start. Then the dreaded news…option #2 was the winner. The implant has slipped out of place. You may recall that when he put the implant in, he had to attach a mesh sling to hold the implant since the pectoral (chest) muscle wasn't large enough to do the duty. When we went in a year ago for the cellulitis infection surgery, he noted that on the right breast, the sling had never incorporated into the tissue like it was supposed to. So now we are wondering if that happened on the left side as well, therefore leaving the implant unsupported. It happens sometimes and it looks like it happened to me. And it won't fix itself and could worsen if left unattended. Hello, Surgery, so very nice to see you again. I've missed you so.

We both are nervous about opening up the breast again. Each time we touch and expose the implant, we increase the risk of infection. And since I've already "been there done that" with the left breast, we don't want to risk that with the right. So, he has come up with this beautiful plan of manipulating the skin to lift up the implant. This way we don't have to expose the implant during surgery. Picture a water balloon. Squeeze the bottom of the balloon and the water is forced up to the top. Water = implant. Balloon = skin. We will cut out a portion of the skin at the bottom and then suture it back up in hopes of lifting the implant back into place. As Ron says, it's a bit nauseating to think about, but it gets me a much easier surgery and much quicker recovery time. And I get a new battle scar! (You will recall this is the part I detest, so I'm having to get used to that idea of a new prominent scar.) But I score all of this with no DRAINs so a woman will celebrate that silver lining.

I won't lie to you. I'm bummed. I may or may not have walked around the house a little preoccupied this evening. I may or may not have called my mom and cried a little. It seemed inevitable with the drunkard boob appearance, but I really wanted to be wrong. I had prepared myself for this outcome, but when it was confirmed I felt a little heart (and stomach) drop. Nothing to do but pull myself together and look forward to our very LAST boob surgery. #5 is a charm, right?

We haven't set a date yet. I have a few things I need to try and work around and I need to build up some time off. These surgeries have run me dry! The terrific news is surgery should only last about an hour. A few days off work. And then about 3 weeks of restrictions so the scar doesn't open up. He gave me permission to take some time to enjoy the summer for a bit before I enter the water restrictions that come with surgery. Another silver lining. They are all around if I search enough. My outlook is good (after the last 24 hours of not so much). My best friend recommended we drown our sorrow in a tattoo. She's a giver isn't she? I landed on a pink awareness ribbon on the side of Boob 1. Don't worry, Mom, I'm gonna do it with a pink sharpie.

Jeremiah 29: 11. "For I know the plans I have for you..." Now for me to be faithful and to do my part.