Pathology Report, Birthdays, Doctors I Adore, and Breast Cancer Be Damned

I realize that a couple of posts ago I wrote about needing radiation without explaining why, which I will attempt to do now. The good news is that the results of my post-surgery pathology report are positive (or so I understand—after getting a medical run-down of the report, I did need to ask, “So, is that good news or bad?”).

As far as the doctors know, they removed whatever cancer remained—and what remained was much smaller than what the MRI showed pre-chemo, meaning I responded well to the chemo. They got “good margins,” meaning there was a good buffer of cancer-free tissue surrounding the extracted, cancerous tissue, reducing concerns about any lingering cancer cells being left behind. There was no cancer in my lymph nodes. There was, however, scarring in one of my lymph nodes, which is a sign that there might have been cancer there before the chemo eradicated it. Which is both good news and bad: good, of course, that the cancer has been eradicated; bad because knowing it might have been in one of my lymph nodes was the tipping point for needing radiation. (Though my understanding now—which was not my understanding in October when Josh and I first met with the radiation oncologist—is that radiation likely would have been recommended regardless, because of how young I am and how wide-spread the cancer was throughout my left breast.) The radiation is meant to kill any free-floating cancer cells that might remain.

What else is going on this week? Pretty much I alternate between tears and rage; bed and couch (or a doctor’s office).

My baby girl (who isn’t a baby anymore) turns 7 on Saturday, and I always make a big deal out of birthdays. But this year, it looks like I won’t be able to pull off very much. On Tuesday night, I was slammed with pain like I hadn’t felt since the hours just after my surgery. As careful as I thought I was being, apparently I overdid it. So I’m back on more or less total bed rest. I must have slept for 20 hours yesterday, all doped up again on pain meds. I’m feeling better physically today but terrified about doing too much and hence 1) postponing my healing even more and 2) missing out altogether on Sophie’s birthday celebrations.

I can’t say that the increased pain, bed rest and narcotics have done much to improve my emotional state.

I saw my oncologist, Dr. Katz, on Tuesday, who is starting me on my 10 years of Tamoxfin. Maybe it won’t be a big deal at all. Or maybe it’ll give me massive mood swings and hot flashes to top off all the other joys of the last seven months.

When I asked about our next appointment, she said she’d see me again in about 3 months. “Three months?!” I exclaimed, with great disappointment. (I would rather 3 weeks. Or 3 days.) I really like Dr. Katz. She is smart and direct and patient and kind and makes me feel like I am not only in the best of hands, but that I am a real-life human being about whom she genuinely cares. I actually look forward to seeing her, which is a big deal, because I can’t think of when else I’ve looked forward to going to the doctor.

Though I might be looking forward to seeing Dr. Parikh, my plastic surgeon, tomorrow. (I say “might” only because I’m pretty sure he’s going to tell me he can’t take out my surgical drain yet, which brings me back to the tears, rage, couch and bed.) I like him as much as I like Dr. Katz: a lot. The first time I met him, he blew apart all my stereotypes about plastic surgeons. He, too, is kind and patient and humane on top of very smart and very good at his job. What ultimately put me at ease about my surgery was knowing he would be in the room with me. (Which is to say nothing at all negative about the surgeon who performed my mastectomy. He, too, struck me as surprisingly kind and gentle for a surgeon—there I am exposing my stereotypes again—and he apparently did an excellent job. I would recommend him (Dr. Arenas) in a heartbeat. But I only met him once, briefly, whereas I met with, emailed with, even ran into Dr. Parikh often; which is why his presence, like Dr. Katz’s, feels like a safe place for me to land these days.)

ImageMy bed is a safe place to land, as well, but I sure am getting sick of it. Why this didn’t happen during chemo, I don’t know. Why I traveled through the first 6 months of treatment feeling more or less okay (and sometimes even strangely wonderful) emotionally, and am now hitting a wall, hard, I don’t know. But that I am: hitting a wall, hard. I am sick of the inside of my house. Sick of being so unavailable to my kids. Sick of feeling crappy. Sick, sick, sick of breast cancer. (Thanks, Greg, for the “screw cancer” poster.)

From the Other Side of Surgery

The last ten days has felt like a trip through multiple time zones. I have moved in and out of emotional states quicker than I could land in any of them. I have also moved in and out of full anesthesia, followed by regular doses of pain meds; so that, coupled with the time-zones-slash-emotional-states has left me blurry and, to be honest, grasping for solid ground.

But let me back up and share, first, that all-in-all, I am feeling much better than expected post-surgery. Certainly physically. I have minimal pain. Some discomfort, especially at night, but nothing I (pain-wimp) can’t handle. I also have more mobility than expected. After three nights of sleeping half-sitting up, I can now fully recline and even lie on my right side. I have been warned by others who have traveled this road to be very careful. To do less than I think I can do. To not reach for that glass in the cupboard nor comb my children’s hair. Though because I didn’t have a double mastectomy, I can do both of those things with my right arm. Mostly, though, I lie in bed or on the couch and (I admit) watch a tremendous amount of TV. I haven’t been able to make much sense of my book. And until today, I haven’t been able to face the blank page to write. I have gone for one or two (very) short walks each day. (Starting in the hospital when I walked to the end of the hall and back. Who knew how exhausting that could be.) And tonight I ventured out for my first big event: the breast cancer support group at the Cancer Connection. Just being in that room made a difference in my emotional state. Yesterday was a dark-cloud kind of day. Today I felt some light.

But let me back up again. To my family’s return from Arizona. (Oh what an amazing trip. Oh how I long to be back there.) After months of dreading the arrival of my surgery date, all I wanted was for it to come already, so I could stop the waiting, the anxious, anxious waiting. By Tuesday night, I was almost excited to wake up the next day and go to the hospital. Relieved (to finally be done with the waiting) is a more accurate description, but relieved almost to the point of excitement. And I was calm. I composed a blog post in my head that I never did write; it went something like this:

I am not carrying fear to the hospital tomorrow. I am ready. I will be thinking about: (And here I posted, in my head, a series of pictures, which perhaps I will post, for real, tomorrow, when it is no longer the middle of the night: the Arizona red rocks; my closest Northampton women friends gathered around a dinner table with me two nights before surgery; some kind of adorable picture of my children; perhaps a bird being carried by the wind.)

I took my children to school Wednesday morning. I came home with just enough time to watch the slew of selfie-videos texted by my beloved Brooklyn crew. And then I drove with Josh to the hospital, with Maggie following behind in her car and my parents behind her. I met what turned out to be a most remarkable surgical Image 1team. I might have made inappropriate jokes as the drugs hit and they wheeled me to the OR. I have a vague recollection of referencing Grey’s Anatomy and warning the docs to be on better behavior than the ones on TV. I also remember a giddiness, like I wanted to hang out and drink beer together. And then, moments after taking in the bright lights and metal carts and thinking, “So this is what an operating room looks like,” I was out.

In the hours after I woke up, I remember a few things: eating left over pasta with Josh and thinking it was delicious. Not being able to open my eyes, they were so heavy with fatigue, so talking with closed lids to the medical people who cycled in and out to check on me. When someone checked my bandages, making the conscious decision not to open my eyes because I was too terrified to see my new body; wondering whether I would ever be able to look. Several hours later, wanting to look; looking; and feeling okay—and then feeling such tremendous relief about feeling okay.

All this happened sometime between Wednesday evening and Thursday afternoon. By Thursday night, I was home. By Friday night, my friend Jenae was here for the weekend (by my side along with Maggie, Josh and my parents); and my kids were gone for the weekend (having the time of their lives with my in-laws and nine of their cousins).

And I spent the next several days continuing to travel through multiple time zones and emotional states. I’ve done a tremendous amount of grasping. Wanting to be back in Arizona with my family. Wanting another taste of that giddy feeling I had in the OR; another taste of the relief I felt taking my kids to school on Wednesday morning, knowing I would soon be on the other side of surgery. Wanting time to stop moving so fast. Wanting my children to keep being children. Wanting my friends and family to keep showering me with love. Wanting to land in a time zone, in an emotional state, on my own two feet, long enough to catch my breath.

Today, Tuesday, I think I finally felt some ground beneath my toes.

Let’s see what tomorrow brings.