Sunday, August 5, 2012

I can't think of a snappy title .. so .. HERE:


Wow.  I can't believe it's been more than two months since I've visited  you here.  I have to admit that I drag my feet about coming back to the Herschel page because it's an admission that I've been sick.  And frankly, I just want to put it all behind me.

My daughter argues that I am so much more than a cancer survivor.  That I shouldn't let that experience or label define me.  To some degree she is right.  But I also know that cancer has also been another harsh life experience that reshapes your perspective, your hopes and all that you hold dear.

As for the biologic responses to it at this stage, there's not a lot going on.  My incision continues to heal and, in the process, more and more tension is created pulling me to the left.  It's neither pretty or comfortable, but it is what it is.  I sometimes wish I'd just cut the damn thing off.

My doctor thought my swelling issues in April and May were due to Tamoxifen, so she changed me to another estrogen blocker, Femara.  I also take Lasix every day.  If I skip a day, my left leg swells significantly.  Who knows why?  The removal of 26 lymph nodes surely affects SOMETHING, but I would have thought the swelling response would have been in my left ARM, not my leg.

The Femara has caused me to have joint pain, muscle cramps and hot flashes.  But it supposedly doesn't have the threat of blood clot or uterine cancer like Tamoxifen.  And, speaking of that, I'm having another uterine biopsy tomorrow.  I'd rather take a whipping.

Friends who have had them thought them to be no big deal.  For me, it's right up there with the most unpleasant things they've done to me in the last two years.  I'm not sure why it hurts so badly, but I plan to take a Vicodin prior to my appointment tomorrow morning so, hopefully, it's not quite as bad as last time.

The rebel side of me thought about cancelling the appointment.  After all, there's no symptoms or evidence of uterine cancer.  The lining of my uterus was slightly thicker than it should be and, because I am a DES daughter and my chances of gynocological cancers significantly higher than the general population, my medical team is covering all bases.   Mostly I am grateful.  Some days I wish they would pick on someone else!

My energy level is almost back-to-normal.  When I complain of being inadequate and unable to complete everything on my "to do list", Dave reminds me that I am fifty five .. and not everything is the fault of cancer. He also suggests that my "to do list" could do with some reduction. Eh. Whatever.

When I do something like walk all the way through Sam's, help Dave through check out, help load the car and unload it when we're home, put away the groceries and fix dinner, I silently applaud myself remembering last year when I couldn't even make my own sandwich without a chair in the kitchen to catch me when I was about to fall.  I feel like a superhero.

I'm not eating as well as I should.  Well.  Let me rephrase that:  I am eating FABULOUSLY.  Everything tastes so good and I am so hungry (Damn you, Femara) and, I have to admit, I am rewarding myself for being such an awesome cancer warrior.  At some point, like last week, I need to get a grip, lighten up, eat more responsibly and get my large butt back on the treadmill.

My hair is growing like a weed.  It's thicker and less gray than before.  I still have curls but they are fading.  As much as I love me in short hair, I am surrounded by people who love me with long hair.  Oh, why do I have to be such a people pleaser??? So I am trying to grow out.  It's one awkward stage after another!  But I am not complaining.  I'm so grateful for hair, eyebrows and eyelashes that I will never ever complain about bad hair days, waxing ouches or crappy mascara EVER again.

So let's address the vanity issue.  You might recall that my mother pointed out (at a REALLY bad time) last summer that she didn't raise me to be vain.  It's true.  All my life I've been told how pretty I was, how outstanding my eyes were.  My inner response to this was a) I didn't do anything to look like this, it was just God's grace and good genes.  And besides, mama always said, "pretty is as pretty does" so the outward thing was just discounted in my mind. And b) my eyes didn't look any different to me than anyone elses!

I've always wanted to age gracefully.  Oh sure, if I had tons of money, I might do some tweaking and fine tuning.  But I think some women become a characture of themselves.  Some of the "anti-aging" camoflauge isn't really all that effective.  So I intend to go with the flow.  The thing is .. the past couple of years have turned that flow into class five rapids!  My mirror tells me it's been a rough patch, as if I didn't know.  So instead of looking for beauty in my mirror, I look for it in the eyes of husband, my children and my grandbabies who love me regardless of the wrinkles, sagging everything and weight gain.

In September I am scheduled for reconstructive surgery.  It's a decision that I have wrestled with for months.  First, I had to give myself permission to WANT boobs that were the same size and latitude.  Truth be told, I'm still working on that.  But my oncologist and the plastic surgeon both say it's something I should do both for cosmetic reasons and for the health of my spine and posture.  Peach versus grapefruit, in other analogies.  As I get older, apparently the disparity between Fred and Ethel could be problematic.  So.  I get a new, redesigned and realigned right boob in September.

There is some fear which is new to me.  For some odd reason, I am never nervous when I have surgery.  Never.  I doubt it's bravery as much as some sick sense of adventure.  I'm fascinated by the whole experience.  I wanted to be awake for my second c-section AND I wanted to watch.  When I woke up in recovery after the second breast surgery last summer I was saying, "Oh man! I missed the party.  I wanted to watch."  Yes, weird, I know.

But this time .. not so tickled about those shiny lights and that fun injection into my IV.  Having had the MRSA experience, and knowing how rampant it seems to be in hospitals today, it is my chief, primary and biggest concern.  I am no longer a "carrier" meaning my last MRSA swab came back clear.  It's no longer a part of the flora and fauna that lives in or on me.  I'm clean.  I want to stay that way.  All I can do is pray that this surgical experience doesn't require an additional six months of treatment.

So.  That's it.  That's what's going on with me.  Meanwhile, I have a dear friend battling long and hard with skin cancer.  I have another who has been diagnosed with throat cancer and a childhood girlfriend is exactly where I was last summer with breast cancer.  A cousin's husband just had surgery for thyroid cancer.  One friend's husband, who was diagnosed with liver cancer just prior to my own diagnosis with breast cancer, continues to have chemo treatments but is doing well.  These days, it's almost miraculous NOT to have cancer.  The good news is that today's treatments are effective but I also put a big premium on prayer.  Cancer isn't Charlie Sheen.  It's not winning.  God is.  Woot!

Eat your veggies, take your vitamins and feel your boobies.

Love,

Me
(And even though Google thinks David posted this - you and I know it was DARLENE.) 
[Smile.}

No comments:

Post a Comment