It's been a very long time since I
last wrote in this blog. I have sat down at my keyboard numerous times to write, but
nothing came. No words materialized. I want to tell you all about my surgery. I
want to tell you about my recovery. I want to tell you everything I've been
through and everything that is yet to come. But it's surprisingly hard to find
the words to describe the things that break us.
And I am broken.
As anyone who has read this blog
knows, I had a double mastectomy with axillary dissection on September 22nd
– three and a half weeks ago. I went into the surgery feeling surprisingly
strong. Chemo had been physically exhausting, but I was mentally tenacious. I
was optimistic about having the worst behind me. Sure, chemo was a pain in the
ass, but I was proud of myself for having made it through. Heading into surgery,
I felt a tiny bit invincible.
On the day of my surgery, the
operating rooms were backed up, so my surgery started two hours late. I didn’t mind
too much. I was in no hurry, really. I laid in my bed in pre-op and listened to
Ruanita make ridiculous jokes as she paced back and forth. She was much more
nervous than I was.
The surgery itself lasted two
seconds – at least from my perspective. I remember scootching from my bed onto
the operating table. That is the last thing I remember. I woke up in recovery a
few hours later wrapped in large gauze pads and an Ace bandage with drains
dangling from either side of my chest. I was oriented x3 and almost immediately
taken to my room for my overnight stay. I was not in pain. Surprisingly, I felt
no pain at all. To the dismay of both the evening nurse and the overnight nurse,
I never once asked for my “as needed” pain medicine. Of course, I felt stupidly
overconfident. I was convinced surgery was going to be a breeze after what I
had been through. I didn’t even need pain meds, after all.
The next
day, I went home and the fun began. For two weeks, Ruanita emptied my drains
twice a day religiously. She changed my gauze. She ushered the kids away from me.
She helped me in and out of the shower. She dressed me. She tucked me into my daughter’s
twin bed at night before heading upstairs to sleep in our big queen bed all alone.
I could only lay on my back. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t grab
another blanket when I got cold. Getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle
of the night, I broke out in a cold sweat. Getting back in bed resulted in
tears every time.
The drains
became my worst enemy. Sewed into my sides and dangling down to my knees, the
drains were in the way at all times. I never realized how much I move my torso
on a daily basis. Every tiny move I made pulled on the drains or twisted the
drains or bumped the drains. I would cry out in pain and Ruanita would come
running.
“Are
you okay? What’s wrong?!”
“Nothing,”
I would reply. “I’m fine.”
“I’m
fine” became my mantra in the weeks following surgery, but it was far from the
truth. It’s just easier to say that I am fine than trying to explain how I am
anything but. It’s hard to put into words how pain wears on you. How a body can
betray you. How you start to wonder if you can ever trust your body again. I
lost myself there for a while. It’s something that few understand and that’s nearly
impossible to explain.
My
chest is not my own. I didn’t think I would miss my breasts. I was never a
great fan to begin with. They were always too
big. Too in the way. Too…just too much. And I don’t miss them, believe it or not. I was never one
of those women who thought my breasts made me. I don’t define myself in that
way. So no, I don’t miss my breasts.
But
I miss my softness.
My
chest is hard. Lumpy. I feel as though I am wearing an iron breast plate all
the time. And with every move, it pokes me. It prods at me. When I lay on my
side, there is nothing soft about me anymore. When I try to snuggle against
Ruanita in the night, it is my hard chest against her hard spine. Bone bumping
against bone. No softness. No suppleness. Nothing that I recognize as me.
The
surgery is over and done. My incisions are beginning to itch – a sure sign of
healing. I had my drains removed a week and a half ago, but I still have a
large amount of fluid pooling in my chest. I had an ultrasound aspiration done last
Thursday and will likely have another one on Wednesday of this week. My surgeon
is talking about putting in a smaller drain on the left until my body is able
to absorb the fluid on its own. At this point, I no longer seem to care.
I am
cancer free today. My surgeon removed all of the cancer they were able to see
with clear margins on all sides. I should celebrate this fact, but I find myself crying
instead. Of the 14 lymph nodes removed from my left armpit, 7 were still cancerous.
Though not tragic, this was not exactly the result my oncologist was hoping
for, so we are going on the offensive. We are choosing to be aggressive in our
efforts to keep the cancer from coming back.
Beginning
in November, I will undergo 6 weeks of daily radiation treatment. After
radiation, the plan is to completely shut down my ovaries – either chemically
or surgically (we have yet to decide). My type of cancer needs hormones to
grow, so turning off my hormones will, theoretically, stop the growth of any
future cancer. I will then receive a medication called Anastrozole and another
drug whose name escapes me at the moment for ten years to suppress estrogen and
progesterone in my body. I will also be participating in a 5-year clinical
trial for a drug called Palbociclib that is currently approved for use with women
who have stage 4 breast cancer. The trial is to determine if there are benefits
for women with stage 3 breast cancer. The clinical trial will include plenty of
additional office visits and lab work. But hey, advancing scientific research
is a good thing, right? All of this will take place in the hopes that cancer
will never rear its ugly head anywhere near me again.
Long
story short, we are nowhere near done. My oncologist told me that, although he
considers me cancer-free right now, he will not call me “cured” until I have
gone ten years without a recurrence.
Ten
years.
Where
will I be ten years from now? WHO will I be? When all is said and done, I can’t
be the same person I was before. Physically. Mentally. Chemically. Hormonally. I am a
different person altogether. I will never again be the woman I was in March of
2016.
And I miss her. Every day I miss her.
4 comments:
Oh, hon. You are not having an easy time! I'm so sorry about your softness. I'm so sorry this stupid cancer journey isn't over yet. You will make friends with your new body in time, I know. Sending love.
So sorry to hear you have reached a stumbling block but I am hoping once you get your spirit back you will be a new normal, cancer free and happier. I can't begin to understand your position and chronic worries gets a person down. You have a family who loves you and friends that are here for you. It will get better. A new normal is better than no normal. Right now you are cancer free and those stubborn lymph nodes will die. Radiation will take them down. Love you lots.
I was so sad to read this, though you write so well that I can totally understand why you feel broken. I don't know f it helps, but no one else sees you that way. You've gone through so much, and Raunita too, that even with tears, and weakness, and sadness, and exhaustion, to me and others you look like a warrior. And you're winning this war you never wanted. I don't know to say, though, I wish I could think of something inspiring and magical for you. God dang it, hang in there!
Shannon, you can do this! My partner is a two time survivor of breast cancer. I have two dear friends (past clients) who are both cancer survivors with double mastectomies. They got married this past weekend. So you can do this! We are all standing strong with you!
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