I am incredibly relieved (still) that chemo is not part of my breast cancer experience.  I really feel like I got off easy and I keep waiting for a call that the oncologist has changed her mind.  I was diagnosed at the end of November, had my first surgery in January, will probably have my (hopefully!) final surgery in April or May, and then it will just be routine maintenance (knock on wood) from there.  6 months, beginning to “end.”  And I am thrilled for my family that we can be on the road to normal (or what passes for normal in our house) now. The kids have moved ahead almost as though nothing ever happened.  Jon’s work schedule is returning to the long hours and travel that preceded my diagnosis.  The food is still showing up at my doorstep, but only for another week or so, except for the zucchini muffins that I hope Bridget will continue to bring as long as we live here.

So it seems that the only thing that isn’t back to normal is me.  I mean, I have plenty of moments when everything is fine.  I even have moments when I almost forget about the surgery and feel totally like myself.  But the truth is, there is no way you can go through what I’ve gone through and not come out a different person.  And I think it’s too soon to know exactly what that means.

The changes are as simple as needing to go to the dentist, but vaguely remembering something in my volumes of medical paperwork about going on antibiotics before having any dental work done, and then wondering which of my many doctors I call to ask about that, and not really wanting to go through the exercise of calling any of my doctors to ask, and then not wanting to go to the dentist because I’ll have to go through the story of the last several months, which I’m just not in the mood to do.  And when I fill out medical histories now, I can’t just  mindlessly check “no” all the way down the form, which I always could before. And once you check “yes” there are all the follow-up questions.  And should I not be eating soy and soy-based products because there’s a chance that the isoflavones (whatever those are) may interfere with drugs like tamoxifen.  And now that my cancer is gone, do I have to stop drinking peppermint mochas (an indulgence I allowed myself after my diagnosis) and go back to the “healthier” cappuccino I had been drinking, or should I just give up caffeine all together, because I vaguely remember some article that discussed a link between caffeine and breast cancer?  And in the grand scheme of things, these are minor frustrations, but in the aggregate, they mean something, I think.  And then I feel bad for complaining about little stuff like this because I’m so fortunate not to have bigger things to complain about, like several months of injecting poison into my body, hair loss, and nausea.  And as an aside, do non-Jewish people feel the kind of guilt that I do for not needing chemo?  Is this just cultural guilt?  Anyone?

Anyway, I said back in November that by all accounts I should end up healthy and well, it was just a question of how hard the road would be and how long it would take.  And on the spectrum of people with breast cancer, my road so far has been short and relatively easy.  But that doesn’t mean my time on the road, however short it was, doesn’t stay with me, in ways I didn’t expect and couldn’t have imagined, and sometimes can’t even explain (see e.g., this post, which I think may be a little scattered, at best).  And I’m guessing that this seems obvious to all of you, and probably would have been obvious to me if I were on the outside looking in.

And now I’m going to go pick up Abigail from school, drop her at tennis, and then go pick up Benjamin at school, and bring him back to pick up Abigail at tennis, because it’s a normal Friday afternoon and that’s what we do, which, despite everything else I’ve said in this post, really does feel good.

I am of course very happy about the news that I won’t need chemo, and feel like I could now sleep for several days.  Of course the DC overachiever in me wonders whether I can still legitimately call myself a cancer warrior if I don’t have to go through chemo, but then I remind myself that I have some pretty good scars, and that I earned my title.

So now I’m going to go and watch some mindless tv.  But first, thank you so much for all of your thoughts, prayers, good wishes, funny emails, and facebook posts.  I am so appreciative of all the support I have received so far.  Hopefully you won’t ditch me now that I don’t need chemo.  Although I did receive the best possible news today, and although I feel grateful that throughout this ordeal, the news I have received thus far, other than the diagnosis itself, has largely been good, I know that I will still need the continued support of my family and friends as I move ahead.  I might be able to survive with fewer baked goods, but I think it’s still too early to tell for sure.

And I guess now I’ll have to figure out what else to write about in my blog.  I’m not sure how many posts I can get from the side effects of tamoxifen, although the mood swing and hot flash stories could be fun.

Suggestions for other blog topics are always welcome.

Night night, everyone.

xoxo

It also occurred to me that, at least for now, I don’t feel comfortable changing or showering at the gym.  I hope one day that changes, but for now, I put my gym clothes on at home, and come home after to shower. While this is only a mild inconvenience, it is also another reminder of the fact that no matter how normal life is starting to seem, the more different it actually is. The good news is that because I’m biking/walking at such a turtle’s pace, I barely break a sweat, so now I can stop and do errands on my way home from the gym without offending anyone.  I’m sure my fellow shoppers at the grocery store are more than appreciative of that fact, given the number of times I decided to shower at home before my surgery and probably DID offend people in the grocery store.  So at least there’s that.

Tomorrow is a big day.  In the morning, I start physical therapy.  I didn’t do a lot of research before my surgery about the recovery.  My focus was just on making it to, and through, the actual surgery. I guess I considered the recovery, but didn’t concern myself with the details (such a great lawyer, I know).  So I had no idea how much upper body strength I would lose.  Yesterday, at the gym, I went to put my ponytail through that little hole at the back of my hat, and it’s not that it HURT, it just felt awkward, and uncomfortable.  I don’t have a good sense of when to push myself even when it feels uncomfortable, so hopefully the PT will help with that.  Do you think that the physical therapist will think it’s weird if I tell her that my goal, after undergoing a double mastectomy, is the ability to put my ponytail through the hole in my hat?  Maybe I should aim higher.

Generally, though, things are feeling better.  I still have a lot of numbness.  I can’t tell if it’s lessening, or if I’m just acclimating to the feeling.  Again, I wasn’t prepared for how weird everything would feel.  Even if I had done the research, I don’t think I could have prepared myself for this.  Physically, it’s not a feeling I can explain or describe, so I don’t think reading about it would have done me any good.  And it seems that with breast cancer everyone’s experience is different anyway.  What is most frustrating, and what I don’t think I appreciated until after the surgery, is just how slow the road to recovery is–physically, mentally, visually.  I wish I could fast forward to the time when I have put all this behind me;  when I know how I feel, how I look, what it took to get there; what clothes still fit, which ones I’ve had to replace, and how long it took me to want to try on clothes again.  For someone who loves a good shop, this part isn’t easy.  :)  It’s a good thing I love shoes, because they’re the only thing I want to try on these days.

And of course the biggest thing is my appointment with the oncologist tomorrow afternoon, at which I hope finally to learn about my treatment plan.  I do know that my oncotype score came back low…a 10 out of 100, which I guess translates to something like a 7% chance of recurrence, assuming 5 years of tamoxifen (an oral hormone suppressor).  I don’t know what that means for chemo, but for now, I am thankful that my score was so low, which is way better than the alternative.  I am trying not to read too much about the side effects of tamoxifen, since that appears to be a given.  I do think mood swings and hot flashes might be among the side effects, though, so those of you who spend a lot of time around me might want to fasten your seatbelts, given how much I hate the heat and how prone to mood swings I am even without the drug.

Finally, please think good thoughts around 3pm, EST tomorrow…and then keep thinking those thoughts for about 2 hours after that, just in case she’s running late.  You know these doctors…(just kidding, Dad).  I’ll keep you posted.

Mostly, I’m just really angered and profoundly saddened by yet another example of the polarization and divisiveness emanating from DC.  All I’ve seen since the news broke are arguments of Right v. Left, Republicans v. Democrats, Pro-Choice v. Pro-Life…all kinds of Us v. Them, and the vitriol in all the commentary and interviews and articles on both sides is so disheartening.

Did Komen withdraw its funding because Planned Parenthood is under government investigation, violating Komen’s new eligibility criteria, as was originally reported, or because Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide mammograms, only mammogram referrals, as Nancy Brinker asserted to the press later today? I don’t know.  The truth is, an organization such as Komen making a decision to provide funds only to those organizations that provide direct services rather than referrals, should those organizations exist, might even be sound policy to a lot of people, maybe even including me.  But anyone who follows politics knows that, especially now, Planned Parenthood isn’t just any organization.  And it’s hard for me to believe that the board of Komen made its decision to change its policy, whatever policy it was changing, without Planned Parenthood specifically in mind, and without knowing the kind of reaction it could expect.  If the decision itself wasn’t a political statement, the Komen Foundation had to know that the news about it would be.

I have lived in DC for over 15 years and worked at a Federal agency during 3 different Administrations.  And over time, I have watched the aisle between the Democrats and the Republicans grow wider, and wider, and angrier and angrier.  And politicians on both sides focus mostly on what they need to do and say in order to be re-elected, rather than on the people who are most affected by the policies they champion.  The situation with the Komen Foundation and Planned Parenthood strikes me as yet another example of this division.  And that’s really a shame.

I am so fortunate to have the access to health care that I do. I have the ability (and the insurance) to go to a great ob/gyn, who talked to me about breast cancer and referred me for my mammogram at 39.  And I had all kinds of options for where to go for my mammogram, and my insurance covered the mammogram, the follow-up ultrasound, the biopsy, and all the crazy expensive care that has followed since (at least I hope so!).  And in the interest of full disclosure, it is at least in part through a connection to someone at the Komen Foundation that I was able to get in to see the amazing and sought-after doctors who performed my surgery and are managing my care.  But I recognize that most people don’t have this access; that some women don’t even know what a mammogram is, or where to go to get one, or why they need one, let alone how they are going to pay for it.  So I’m going to focus on that.  I’m going to make a concerted effort to tune out the rhetoric, and do my research, and find the organizations that provide the breast and other health care and health education that all women, regardless of income, need and deserver, and put my support there… wherever that may be, and whatever other services they may or may not provide.

And that’s all I have to say about that.  At least for now.

So I had to wake him up so that we could go pick up his sister, Abigail, and take her for her strep test.  And I think most of you know how well 4-year olds react to being woken up before they are ready. Why couldn’t she have gone with him in the morning, you wonder?  Because she “could NOT miss math.”  It was the first day of a new unit on polygons, or geometry, and “that’s her favorite.”  No kid of mine, I tell you.  But since she had no symptoms, I indulged her, and decided that I would take her after school.  And so back to the pediatrician’s office we went at 4pm.  And of course she tested positive.  So back to CVS we went.  And we stood in line and stood in line and stood in line.  And then they didn’t have the prescription in their computer yet.  And it was after 5pm, so I couldn’t just call the doctor’s office back, because they were closed.  So we waited.  And I tried to keep the kids close to me, because they were contagious.  Only they were CRAZED.  And because I just had surgery 2 weeks ago, and still had drains, I couldn’t just grab them and hold them down, like I normally would.  And then I heard the pharmacist say, “let’s hurry this one up; she has sick kids.”  And I thought that people around me probably thought I was picking up some sort of hyperactivity meds, because clearly THESE balls of fire could not actually be sick.  We finally went home, and I fed them a quick dinner, and put them to bed.  And then Jon came home, and I had my meltdown.  Because I’m tired, and my kids aren’t.  Because I can’t just change into pajamas while my kids watch tv on my bed anymore, because it might traumatize them. Because a significant chunk of my body is numb and uncomfortable and looks like it was designed by Dr. Frankenstein.

And then I cried because I learned that one of my favorite dogs in the world, Timber, who was, as far as anyone knew, fine on Tuesday, was at the emergency vet and not doing well and late last night, had to be put to sleep.  And it came out of nowhere and couldn’t come at a worse time for her owner, my very good friend, Jenn.  And it made me mad.

And then it was today.  And I spilled an entire bottle of Abigail’s bright pink (for breast cancer awareness, of course) amoxicillin all over the refrigerator.  But I cleaned it up and went to the doctor’s office where they FINALLY REMOVED MY DRAINS.  And it isn’t perfect.  I’m still uncomfortable and things still feel weird, but it was SO MUCH BETTER.  And I went back to the CVS (3rd time is the charm) and there was NO LINE and the same pharmacist from the day before mixed a new bottle of amoxicillin for me and laughed when I swore not to spill this one.  And I went home and I changed out of one of the many oversized button down shirts that I have had to wear to cover my drains the past 2 weeks and I put on a tank top and a relatively fitted pullover fleece and I actually felt and looked a little bit like myself, at least to the outside world.  And I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Because I realized that for right now, that’s enough.  Well, except for the part about Timber.  I’m still pretty angry about that.

And then it occurred to me what a difference a year makes.  Because one year ago this weekend, Jon and I spent the weekend in NYC to celebrate my 40th birthday.  And we stayed at a beautiful hotel and ate wonderful meals and picked out a beautiful birthday present together. And the biggest concern on my radar screen was the simple idea of turning 40.  And I decided that 40 was nothing but a number and that I was as immature as ever and no number could make me feel otherwise.

And what a difference a decade (plus a year) makes.  Because 11 years ago tonight, Jon proposed to me, on the eve of my 30th birthday, because he thought it was important to me that I be able to say that I was engaged before I turned 30 (by about 3 hours). Why he thought THAT was important, I can’t say, of course.  And the biggest concern on my radar screen was something I don’t even remember, because it was nothing very big, and definitely wasn’t anything having to do with being engaged before I turned 30.

And so for today, I’ll just be happy that I can wear a tank top and a fitted fleece, and try not to worry that my (at least for now) smaller-than-before chest makes my stomach look like it’s sticking out more than it used to…which I guess could also be attributed to all the amazing baked goods and other food the wonderful people in my life have been providing for me and my family (but mostly me) as I recover. And tomorrow I’ll try to embrace my 41st birthday with positive thoughts of the year to come.  And I will think about Timber, whose boundless energy, love for life, and ability to consume endless plates of baked goods are an inspiration.

Most of my rituals on game day involve outwardly pretending that I don’t care about the outcome of the game, and trying not to say or do anything that could be considered “cocky” and jinx my team.  And so today, all I can say is that I don’t care at all that my pathology came back and all the nodes tested are confirmed negative for cancer.  I don’t care that it’s Stage 1, or that they found another 4mm nodule that was too small to show up on my MRI yet, vindicating my decision to do bilateral mastectomy instead of the recommended lumpectomy.  And I definitely don’t care at all, and would never say out loud, that I am, at least for today, cancer free. BIG DEAL.

And I will tell you that I went to both doctors’ offices today and had 2 of 4 drains and my lidocaine ball removed (yay!) and am much more comfortable than I was yesterday.  And I’ll tell you that I’m feeling a little bit better every day and regaining my physical strength. And I’ll tell you that when I came home from the doctors’ appointments, it was an impossibly tough call whether to eat first, or take my first real shower in 9 days, but I won’t tell you which way that call went.  And if my brother would just go on his work trip to Israel instead of staying here to help out if we need him, which coincidentally also gives him the opportunity to watch the AFC Championship game, then the Patriots might just have a chance.  But I doubt it.  And I don’t really care anyway, right?

Initial node reports were negative, which I think is about 90% accurate, so that is good news for now.

Thanks for all the messages yesterday. They were wonderful to read once I was lucid this morning.

xoxo,
Lisa

But I will tell you this…normally when my parents come to town to watch the kids and my husband whisks me away to a fancy hotel, I’m nervous about leaving my kids, but so happy to be going to the fancy hotel that I get over it pretty quickly.  Tonight my husband whisked me away to a fancy hotel, largely because we have to be at a neighboring hospital by 6am, and I hugged my kids, said goodbye, and then cried for most of the car ride.

And now, after an upgrade to a 2-room suite thanks to all my husband’s travel, I’m nestled in the plush bathrobe provided by the fancy hotel, after my first of 2 antibacterial-soap showers the pre-op nurse told me to take prior to surgery, waiting for my room service dinner and dessert, and I can’t enjoy it, because I am FREAKING OUT about tomorrow.  And it’s not just because I’m concerned that Dial antibacterial body wash is all that’s standing between me and a nice hospital infection…

And here’s what I think might be ironic:  although it’s possible that I could be “cured” as of tomorrow afternoon, and that all of the cancer cells could be removed, for me, only after the surgery will the cancer will be more obvious than ever (is that irony, anyone?)

For the past 6 weeks, although intellectually I’ve known that I have cancer, there hasn’t been any outward physical manifestation of that cancer.  I’ve had moments when I’ve allowed myself to forget that there’s a tumor slowly growing inside of me and enjoy moments with my family and friends.  After tomorrow, there will be no way to pretend it isn’t/wasn’t there anymore.  That’s daunting.  So seems weird, if not ironic, that I could be “cured” tomorrow, and yet mentally, in an even more challenging place than I am today.

I’m not feeling very funny tonight, or as strong as everyone keeps telling me I am, but I am trying to remain positive.  I just want it to be tomorrow night, so I can face the physical and start moving forward.  But my spirits are lifted by everyone who called, emailed, posted on my FB wall, texted, etc. today.  I wish I could respond to each and every person and tell them how much they and their words mean to me, but I just can’t.  I will just say that my family and I could not get through this without all your kind words.  Feeling loved makes all of this so much better.

And now, to end on a lighter note, a photo of the apple pie (and ice cream) I just demolished, with minimal help from Jon, who couldn’t get his fork anywhere near the crust but may have found a bite or two of apple…

Hopefully Jon will be here tomorrow to update after my surgery…I’ll be back whenever I can type again.  :)

xoxo,

lisa

Anyway, after approximately 45 days of wearing my hair in a disheveled bun (it hides the gray and keeps the hair out of my face!) I decided earlier in the week that a little pre-surgery cut & color was imperative.  And then I decided that I would reverse psychology my cancer.  I would cut a good 4-5 inches off now.  The way I see it, it’s like buying snow boots for your kids.  If you buy them before the first threat of snow, and you live in DC, you guarantee a winter devoid of more than a few flakes (side note: both my kids currently have new snow boots at the ready and it’s supposed to be close to 60 degrees in DC this weekend.  Coincidence?).  Similarly, if you leave your umbrella at home on a day when there’s only a slight chance of showers, it will definitely pour.  So by pre-emptively cutting my hair, I’m hoping to find out a few weeks from now that I don’t need chemo after all.  And then I can be bitter that my hair is way shorter (and puffier) than it should be for no good reason.  The color was just vanity.  Take that, cancer.

In other news, I have to say, I was completely blown away by the response to my first blog post.  Although I couldn’t possibly respond to everyone individually and still care for my 2 small children (or get cut & color), I read every comment, both here and on Facebook, and am so appreciative of all the love and support that so many friends, and so many complete strangers, expressed for me and my family. Your words of hope and strength, your advice, your stories, mean so much to me. I am so thankful that Al Gore invented the internets (a series of tubes) so that we could all be here together.

xoxo,

lisa

It was a strange day, and the weeks since haven’t been much different.  I should say that by all accounts, my long-term prognosis is good.  It’s more a question of how ugly the road to wellness will be.  After a lot of soul searching, and waffling, and tears, I’ve made the decision to have a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction, scheduled for January 10th, which for the last 3 weeks has seemed so far away and now looms so close.  It’s an aggressive choice, but the other choice, a lumpectomy, leaves too many “what ifs?” for me.  Am I making the right decision?  I don’t know.  But it’s not like I’m choosing between the lump sum and the annuity payment.  Both my choices are awful, and what I really want to do is stomp my feet and yell and cry like a 4-year old and refuse to have cancer.  If only it were that easy.

But since it isn’t easy, I am just thankful for all the love and support that Jon, the kids, and I have received so far.  And we’ll need more as we continue down this crazy road, so whatever thoughts, prayers, love, or cookies you want to send our way, we’ll happily accept.  :)

I don’t know how often I’ll write, or what I’ll have to say, or whether it will be anything anyone else really wants to read.  But I do hope to infuse some levity and/or comedy into what is otherwise a pretty unfunny situation.  I mean, I’m dealing with a plastic surgeon…at some point, he has to say something funny, right?  Oh, and credit for the name of the blog goes to my friend, Tara Moser, who at the last minute crushed Jon’s suggestion of “The Breast of Times.”  I may not be that young, and technically I won’t be totally breastless, but close enough.

xoxo