Tag Archives: Life

Ours

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“Beautiful children. Are they all yours?”

We stopped for lunch at a mom-and-pop restaurant in a smallish town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, on our way home from spending Thanksgiving with B’s parents. (More on that another time.) An older woman behind the counter asked the question.

B was carrying his youngest daughter, following the server who was taking us to our table; Ethan was close behind, talking nonstop in B’s ear about something or other; and I was shepherding Lauren and B’s other daughter as we traversed the small entry of the restaurant, filled with knick knacks and tchotchkes for sale.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” I said, barely making eye contact with her as I made sure the girls’ heavy winter coats didn’t knock over something I really didn’t want to buy. I was busy holding the hand of one girl while directing the other by the shoulder.

The woman behind the counter followed it with, “But you both look so young…” and a sort of tsk-tsk sound.

Crazy lady, I thought. Of course they’re ours. What other kids would be with us? Does she think we found some kids alongside the road and brought them in for Swedish meatballs and limpa bread?

We were at our table at the back of the restaurant when it finally hit me what the woman meant.

“Are they all yours?”

Oh… are they OURS? Like O-U-R-S, mine and B’s? Well…

I felt a little foolish for  misunderstanding the woman. Yeah, they’re ours, but not technically O-U-R-S. Like if we start getting into if they’re our biological children and genetics and stuff… well, then…

But then, I realized I didn’t misunderstand the woman at all. YES, they are O-U-R-S. Damn, it, all four of them. For all their faults and all their goodness. For all the little arguments we referee. For all the cuddles we share. For the goodnight stories and kisses and late night movies and board games. For the helping make Christmas cookies. For the knock knock jokes at dinner. For the tears, for the laughter. For better or worse.

“Are they all yours?”

Hell, yes. Yes, they are mine. Yes, they are B’s. They, all four of them. They are ours.

I’ve been Sharpie’d

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Surgery’s tomorrow.

I feel comfortable in my decisions. I fully trust my medical team. B will be there for me tomorrow. I feel pretty good going into the day. I just need to get through the surgery to keep on track with the treatment plan (radiation next, then reconstruction).

Today was filled with doctor appointments and pre-surgery stuff. In between the stuff relating to my surgery, Ethan had a cardiologist appointment in the afternoon. He was born with a bicuspid aortic valve, and he’s monitored every few years to make sure the valve isn’t leaking. Good news: he’s good to go for another two years.

My big appointment today was the “marking” visit with the plastic surgeon. I figured there’d be a couple of lines, like where the incision would be, but…

This was a “no pomp and circumstance” kind of appointment. Just right to the point. Change into a gown. Doc in the room right away carrying a large bin of Sharpies.

He sat on a chair, face level with my breasts and started with a thick black marker making a vertical line directly down the middle of my chest – collarbone to half way to the belly button. Then the underboob, both sides. He lifted my breast, made the line, tracing the natural curve, then dropped the breast. Flop! I’m not as perky as I was 20 years ago, but I’ve never felt so “floppy” in my life.

Next a bullseye sort of pattern on the right side. Four rings from mid-breast to nipple. He drew another vertical line from collarbone to the center of my right breast. And a vertical line from the nipple to the outside of the breast.

The doc then switched Sharpies. He picked up a red one and drew a two-inch line in between the lines making the bullseye. “This is where the surgeon can make her incision,” he said. “There’s plenty of room to work within the length of this line.”

A few more lines completed the design, then he unwrapped a sterile, orange-capped marker. With surgical scissors, he pulled out the felt tip of the marker and used the tip to retrace all the black and red lines. He labeled a few things, then we were off to the photography room again.

Seeing the image of the lines on the computer screen next to the images taken during my last appointment was weird. I hadn’t realized just how many lines he drew, and how some of them were already “running” ink across my skin.

I was ushered back to the exam room, told to change back into my clothes, and waited for the nurse to conduct the patient education session.

We talked drain maintenance, pain meds, bra requirements (24-hours a day for the surgical bra until my follow-up visit) and physical restrictions (lifting nothing over 10 pounds and not engaging in any activity that will raise my blood pressure for a month).

I had two pre-op calls to clarify my medical records and reiterate restrictions before surgery. Now I wait for 6:30 a.m., when I need to be at the hospital. Whew!

I met with the plastic surgeon…and survived

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Today I met with the plastic surgeon. It wasn’t as bad as I anticipated, but it was still weird.

I was the only patient in the waiting room, and I didn’t wait long. After some brief questions and blood pressure check, the nurse went to find the doc. He was in the room within two minutes with his PA.

“I know your story and talked to the other doctors, so there’s no reason to ask a lot of questions about your situation,” he started. “Change into the gown, opening in the front, and we’ll do some measurements and photos.”

Measurements and photos? The doc and PA came back into the room. The doc had a tape measure; the PA handled some papers. “Just stand right here,” he said, unwinding the tape measure.

On both breasts, he measured the distance from my nipple to my collarbone and underside of my breast. He measured the size of my areolas and the distance from the edge of the areola to the nipple. As he measured, he called the numbers to the PA. Turns out, I’m perfectly symmetrical – for now. 🙂

Then we walked down the hall to a locked room across from the nurses’ station. It looked like a photo studio with lights and reflectors and cameras and a computer. There were two blue lines on the floor. “Just put your gown there,” the doc said pointing to a chair.

“Are these blue lines for me?” I asked. (Of course they were.)

“Um,” I said, standing on the blue lines, awkward and topless, while he logged into the computer. “I’ve never taken THESE kind of photos before…”

He laughed and said I’d get used to it. “You’re in a plastic surgeon’s office,” he said. “This is what we do. It’s not your last time…”

He snapped three photos (forward and from each side) and uploaded them to the computer. Then we walked back to the original exam room where I redressed and waited for the doc to reenter the room.

He returned with a three-tiered cart full of stuff. I asked him to walk me through all options – from mastectomy to lumpectomy reconstruction options – and he showed before and after photos of each. We started with implants (which I don’t want). He recommended the “gummy bear” implant, which is fairly new, and from my research, a lot of women like them. (Nicknamed “gummy bear” because they have a thicker consistency than other implants, almost like a gummy candy.) They do look more natural, and the doctor is one of the leading surgeons using this kind of implant. It’s also the “easiest” option – little downtime, quick surgery, little follow-up necessary. No.

We talked about total reconstruction using either a stomach muscle or a back muscle. The stomach option (and the before/after photos he showed) is intriguing. Muscle, fat, and tissue from the belly button to the hipbone is removed and shaped into a breast. Totally natural looking breasts and flat stomach – but an 8-10 week recovery and possibility of necrosis. Additionally, with the stomach, there can be only one breast reconstruction surgery. If I were to get cancer again, the stomach would be off-limits. Awkward moment: I was asking about the exact area on the stomach and the doc asked me to stand and look in the mirror. He lowered the waistband of my pants a bit to show me, then he grabbed a handful of tummy. With the other hand, he grabbed my right breast and squeezed both. “Your tummy isn’t quite as big as your breast, so we’ll have to inject fat from another area,” he said. Um, maybe.

The option using the back muscle is similar, but would require a small implant under the relocated back muscle. No.

For lumpectomy, the plastic surgeon would come into the OR after the breast surgeon removes the area around where the tumors were. Without knowing exactly how much tissue will be removed, he’ll shape, possibly reduce, and lift the breast, making it look as natural and good as possible. Since the lumpectomy will require six weeks of radiation, all other reconstruction must wait. (Radiation can cause skin changes and change in the size and shape of the breast, so it’s best to wait until the skin is healed – anywhere from four to six months after radiation is over, or in my case, right after the spring semester ends.) I’ll have a few follow ups then to make sure I’m satisfied with the size and shape (if not, fat from the tummy, butt, or thighs will be lipo’d and injected in the breast). Once the right breast is satisfactory, he’ll work on the left breast to make them symmetrical – a lift at minimum, reshaping with fat injections at most. All follow ups will be out patient, and just an hour or two each.

I asked about next steps. “Choose what’s best for you and the breast surgeon’s office will schedule with us,” he said.

By the time I got home, I knew the lumpectomy was the best option. Surgery is scheduled: July 21.

Now I’m starting to get nervous.

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In other news: I went out of town for the weekend. It was the first trip I’ve taken since… I don’t know. November maybe? Not sure if I could make the drive myself, I took my mom and the kids to stay with family, about half way to my final destination. We toured a dairy farm, and I was completely fine with walking (quickly in the rain) for part of the tour. Oxygen levels seemed fine, no heavy limbs or excessive yawning. The next day, I finished the drive (another few hours) to see friends and attend a concert. It was super awesome that the band members wore breast cancer bracelets through the concert in my honor. (We went to high school with the band’s drummer, and it was coordinated through him.) I spent part of the concert sitting, but I’m okay with that. Oxygen stayed on target, and even without an afternoon nap, I was okay with the late night (although when we got back to my friend’s house, I crashed). It was a long drive back on Sunday, but I survived!

Back on the chemo train

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I’m feeling better than I have in weeks! After being released from the hospital on Monday, I took Tuesday to rest, and then I was back at work on Wednesday and Thursday.

Upon returning to class this week, a student gave me this "pocket angel." She carried it around with her for the last four years as she battled leukemia. "I believe these things should be passed on to those who need them," she said. "You should carry this around with you until you're better, then pass it on to someone who needs it more."

Upon returning to class this week, a student gave me this “pocket angel.” She carried this coin around with her for the last four years as she battled leukemia. “I believe these things should be passed on to those who need them,” she said. “You should carry this around with you until you’re better, then pass it on to someone who needs it more.”

The official diagnosis: pneumonia (viral) and hypoxemia (abnormally low blood oxygen level). With that diagnosis, I had my first “insurance sucks” moment when my insurance company denied the doc’s request for at-home oxygen. Low oxygen levels apparently does not mean I qualify for… oxygen? Makes total sense, right?!

I’ve managed without the oxygen just fine. I use an at-home pulseox (little device I put my finger in to determine my blood oxygen level) when I start to feel funny. From there, I can figure out what to do if my levels are too low (inhaler, deep breathing, sit down/relax, etc.) or too high. Since my levels were SO low, the docs think my oxygen levels have been low for a long time (probably since my GI problems last month) and my body has adapted to less-than-normal levels. Not good. So I feel funny when my oxygen is in the low 80s, and I feel just as funny when my oxygen is in the high 90s.

Treatment started again today. It’s the second phase of chemo. This one is supposed to be 12 weeks of “easy.” Since I’m still recovering from the fever and pneumonia, the oncologist only started one of two of the drugs for this phase (taxol), with the second one being added in a future treatment (carboplatin, which is only administered every three weeks). Some people can’t tolerate carboplatin, so it’s not a HUGE deal if I don’t get it. As the oncologist said, “The carbo is just the icing on the cake.”

Goal for this week: STAY OUT OF THE HOSPITAL!

Still in a hospital bubble – and with a list of complaints

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I checked into the ER on Friday, and I really thought I’d be home by today (Monday), but I was just informed otherwise. I had a bit of a fever last night (just over 99.5), and while my white blood count is now above 10, they want to keep me until my count is normal AND there’s no fever for at least 24 hours, maybe 48 hours. I get it, but still.. My bubble burst while keeping me within my hospital bubble (prison). (Sad face.)

I feel good today, still have a bit of a stuffy nose and cough. But I’ve completely lost my voice. A side effect of one of the powerful antibiotics is “unusual hoarseness,” and that’s the one I got. I guess it’s better than the “very bad and sometimes deadly problems have happened” side effect listed. (No, that’s it, that’s all it says, no elaboration…so I win?)

Still, I’ve been really productive, this first day of spring break. Grading is half done, well ahead of the schedule I had made for myself. And I’ve started a list of complaints (most of the first world variety) because I really haven’t complained about much and honestly, I just feel like it. May I present:

“Things I won’t miss about spring break 2015”

  • Getting tangled up in my IV cord and having to “walk” my IV pole everywhere, well, everywhere within the confines of my room since I’m discouraged from leaving these four walls. So to the bathroom, to the sink, to the desk, to the recliner, to the garbage can. And sometimes getting so close to something, only to realize I. Just. Can’t. Make. It. without backtracking to unplug the IV and starting my across-the-room trek again. (On the positive side, at least they let me move around on my own.)
  • Falling asleep JUST in time for the IV to start beeping or my vitals needing to be taken or a new nurse starting her shift. On the same thought as sleeping, hospitals have major uncomfortable beds, pillows and linens (I am a linen snob – it’s one of my few splurges, and sleeping on sandpaper-like sheets with paper-thin, way-too-small-for-the-bed blankets has been…not fun. I miss 1,000 thread count – trust me, it’s worth it.)
  • Hospital food – except the mac and cheese. Damn good mac and cheese here (but the portion is WAY too small…) God bless my friend who brought me Panera for lunch today. Panera NEVER tasted so good after days of hospital food! Thanks!!
  • Being asked “did you tinkle in the hat” or some other inane question about my urination or bowel movements. Let’s just be adults and use grown-up words. Similarly, I’m not fond of a shift neglecting to empty the “hat” –  it only forces me to internally debate if I chart my own “output” or if I let the fucker overflow.
  • A remote control that only works if one is lying prone in bed. Sometimes I want to change the channel while walking my IV to the sink – not while lying flat in bed, thankyouverymuch.
  • Having to communicate the stuff I need from home to my mom by phone – only to realize that I didn’t specify WHICH drawer or WHICH nightstand, and worrying that she may have found -ahem- stuff she didn’t need to know about. She knows I’m an adult, right? I guess cleaning my drawers and finding better hiding places for things might be on the agenda after I’m discharged. Or why bother – she probably already found things she didn’t want to think about. (Mortified face.)