Life in Boobburgh

Post-Op Boobs

Post-Op Boobs

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who has one and who was one

Had my post-op appointment yesterday.  Everything went fine.  I will now report to the Hillman Center's High Risk program.

Which reminds me - I need all my aunts, uncles and cousins with any cancer history to e-mail me the details, please.   I am going to be part of a study on heredity and breast cancer and I need to take all the info with me.  Your name will NOT be included, just our relationship.

Okay - so the PA (love her - and if you don't know the Physician's Assistant at your Doc's, you really need to wake up) checks the incision and makes a few comments about whether I have been lifting weights.

Me: "Well, you just can't quit training for triathlons."

PA: "Ha ha.  You understand what subcutaneous layers of sutures are, right?"

Me: "Oh yeah.  My Dad's head was totally open to the skull last year and I saw all kinds of shit."

PA: "Okay, wow."

Me: "Yeah, that's why I am not picking at the sutures that are sticking out like a bee's stinger.  I learned from that."

PA: "Well, I guess we're grateful then.  I am going to let the doctor yell at you because I can't keep a straight face."

Me: "Fair enough."

PA: "Plus, thanks for the cookies."

Me: "Finally, the truth comes out."

Enter the Doc.  She says "Hi, Thanks for the cookies- you didn't need to do that, now let's take a look"

Me: "I love cookies."

Doc: "Good try.  Want to tell me what you've been doing to test my careful work here?"

Me: "Nothing personal, Doc.  My people aren't really good at following instructions."

Doc: "Uh huh."  Then the Doc starts talking to me in a very stern voice about how I didn't do any real damage, but I was back on serious restrictions, and not to be messing around with my health.  Her voice started rising a little, and then she paused and looked at me.

Me: "Yeah, I know and I'm sorry.  I am behaving better now."

Doc: "Usually when I yell at a patient,  they look a little scared or at least intimidated."

PA: "It's true. She hardly ever does this."

Me: "Listen, you have no idea what I deal with every day, in terms of yelling and nutty behavior.   I grew up on this stuff.  If I got upset every time, I'd be a drooling mess by now."

PA (trying not to laugh): "Well, THAT's a nice picture."  

Doc (trying not to laugh): "Okay, okay, as long as you listen and do what I tell you from now on."

Me: "Nothing personal Doc, but I hope I never see you again in my life."

PA: "Bwah!"

Doc (full-out laughing at this point): "Absolutely understood!"

Then the PA gave me a note to go to a secret hideaway to get fitted for a special bra and camisole.  You have to have 'script to even get the number.  I'm very excited about it and I have all kinds of ideas about what to put in there.  But that's another blog.

REMEMBER - learn from me:

1. EARLY DETECTION saves lives - do your monthly self-exam and get an annual mammogram.

2. DIGITAL MAMMOGRAMS made the difference for me - they never would have found it so early without this technology - when you call to schedule your mammogram, ask if they have digital machines and use them.

3.  LISTEN to your doc.  Your body will want to return to normal right away.  You will want to do the same.  But it turns out (duh) there is a real reason for imposing limitations and if you don't heed them, you will pay for it in terms of more extensive recovery.

xo

 

 

 

 

Post-Op Boobs

Post-Op Boobs

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who has one and who was one

Had my post-op appointment yesterday.  Everything went fine.  I will now report to the Hillman Center's High Risk program.

Which reminds me - I need all my aunts, uncles and cousins with any cancer history to e-mail me the details, please.   I am going to be part of a study on heredity and breast cancer and I need to take all the info with me.  Your name will NOT be included, just our relationship.

Okay - so the PA (love her - and if you don't know the Physician's Assistant at your Doc's, you really need to wake up) checks the incision and makes a few comments about whether I have been lifting weights.

Me: "Well, you just can't quit training for triathlons."

PA: "Ha ha.  You understand what subcutaneous layers of sutures are, right?"

Me: "Oh yeah.  My Dad's head was totally open to the skull last year and I saw all kinds of shit."

PA: "Okay, wow."

Me: "Yeah, that's why I am not picking at the sutures that are sticking out like a bee's stinger.  I learned from that."

PA: "Well, I guess we're grateful then.  I am going to let the doctor yell at you because I can't keep a straight face."

Me: "Fair enough."

PA: "Plus, thanks for the cookies."

Me: "Finally, the truth comes out."

Enter the Doc.  She says "Hi, Thanks for the cookies- you didn't need to do that, now let's take a look"

Me: "I love cookies."

Doc: "Good try.  Want to tell me what you've been doing to test my careful work here?"

Me: "Nothing personal, Doc.  My people aren't really good at following instructions."

Doc: "Uh huh."  Then the Doc starts talking to me in a very stern voice about how I didn't do any real damage, but I was back on serious restrictions, and not to be messing around with my health.  Her voice started rising a little, and then she paused and looked at me.

Me: "Yeah, I know and I'm sorry.  I am behaving better now."

Doc: "Usually when I yell at a patient,  they look a little scared or at least intimidated."

PA: "It's true. She hardly ever does this."

Me: "Listen, you have no idea what I deal with every day, in terms of yelling and nutty behavior.   I grew up on this stuff.  If I got upset every time, I'd be a drooling mess by now."

PA (trying not to laugh): "Well, THAT's a nice picture."  

Doc (trying not to laugh): "Okay, okay, as long as you listen and do what I tell you from now on."

Me: "Nothing personal Doc, but I hope I never see you again in my life."

PA: "Bwah!"

Doc (full-out laughing at this point): "Absolutely understood!"

Then the PA gave me a note to go to a secret hideaway to get fitted for a special bra and camisole.  You have to have 'script to even get the number.  I'm very excited about it and I have all kinds of ideas about what to put in there.  But that's another blog.

REMEMBER - learn from me:

1. EARLY DETECTION saves lives - do your monthly self-exam and get an annual mammogram.

2. DIGITAL MAMMOGRAMS made the difference for me - they never would have found it so early without this technology - when you call to schedule your mammogram, ask if they have digital machines and use them.

3.  LISTEN to your doc.  Your body will want to return to normal right away.  You will want to do the same.  But it turns out (duh) there is a real reason for imposing limitations and if you don't heed them, you will pay for it in terms of more extensive recovery.

xo

 

 

 

 

Boob Control

Boob Control

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who has a female reproductive system and is therefore qualified to be the Decider

I know I said I was going to try to stay out of politics - but this one crosses all political parties, subdivisions, and inclinations.

Knock, Knock.

Who's There?

A Man Who wants to control your Uterus.

Go Fuck Yourself.

And that goes double for a RELIGIOUS man who wants to control my uterus.  How about getting your own cat houses in order before you bound into my bedroom?   The unfortunate reality is that most religious institutions wouldn't know a moral high ground if it were on a relief map in their laps. Yeah. I DID put it that way, because after all, I must be totally driven by penis envy.  Riiiiiiiight.

Earlier today on Facebook, I posted the following image along with the following message:

 

"Memo to all elected officials and those who aspire to same: This country needs jobs. We checked and no one's Uterus is hiring. So get the hell out of our reproductive systems and do some actual WORK to put Americans back to WORK."

See, I think it should be about controlling the boobs aka idiots from saying and doing things that will set the entire world back about a hundred years and less about what goes on in my Va-Jay-Jay and the surrounding community of my own body.  

For purposes of discussion, let's refer to all male politicians (and some idiot women who need to turn in their estrogen and take one for the team, I am talking to you Liz Trotta, just saying) as "Senators".  Just because.

Do you see me evaluating a Senator (former, current or future) in terms of how his johnson functions?  You do not.

Do you see me requiring that said Senator watch films on impotence, protected sex or HIV before he can get a prescription for Viagra or Cialis?  You do not.

Do you see me requiring Senators to wear ice packs when they ride bikes so it doesn't impact their sperm count?  You do not.  

Do you hear me requiring that the Senators impanel a committee to discuss the general use and prohibition of any activity related to their beans and weiners?  You do not.  Blech.

Those kinds of invasions and violations of civil rights would be ridiculous.

Naturally, in order to avoid a rise in blood pressure that would blow one of my eyes out of its socket, I am going to try to make fun.  Because Mel Brooks said that is the very best way to take down a villian - make him a joke.

Thus, my first BUMPER STICKER CONTEST!!  The winner will get a gift certificate to Mystery Lovers Bookshop (because not every town has a Fredricks of Hollywood or a Condom Nation).

Here is my first proposal:

HEY!  If you guys don't stop messing with our uteri,

you won't be welcome in the neighborhood.

 

I will be back with more, but first, it's your turn!

Okay, this one  has been rolling around in my head all day:

STOP DICKING AROUND WITH MY UTERUS

NOW it's your turn... 

Here is one for Tuesday:

Let's Talk About Birth Control.  Right after Your Vasectomy.

And here is a paraphrase from a classic SNL Point/Counterpoint:

"Senator, if only birth control had been available when your mother got pregnant with you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melancholy Booby

Melancholy Booby

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, teller of boob truths

It has been one week since the surgeon declared me cancer free and about ten days since my surgery.  In the life of a people who have a hard time with the concepts of both patience and moderation, this is an eternity.

So no surprise that I ended up in bed, on pain meds yesterday.  It is totally my fault.  I over did it - more than once - and I did not ask for (or accept) help.  Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa.  

Today's blog is,  therefore, a cautionary tale.  When your surgeon, a woman of skill and trust, tells you that you need to layoff any strenuous activity - no pushing, pulling, blah blah of more than 5 pounds for at least two weeks, and no return to regular activities for four weeks, you should listen.

You should not assume that since the anesthesia as described is similar to a root canal, that the procedure is the same.  You should not assume that since the surgery was outpatient and you had your wits about you when you left, that it is similar to - say, an eye exam where they blow up your pupils and you cannot see for a few hours.  In addition, you should not assume that since you took the bandages off in 48 hours, you can resume to normal clothing choices at the same time.  That would be absurd and only an idiot would come to those conclusions.  Ahem.

This shit is serious.  I am an  intelligent person.  I researched this entire process. I understand exactly what the surgeon did and how much of a divot was removed (that's right, I called and got the exact amount).   I talked to pink warriors.  I thought I listened.  And then my subconscious mind promptly decided that  - perhaps as a coping mechanism - none of those things translated to a need to modify my regular routine.  I acknowledge that I should be docked several IQ points for this, and will take it up with my subconscious later.

I am also bigger than I used to be, thus the falls are harder.  Normally, I just break a toe.  This was more like a roundhouse kick to my own chest, which I'll bet not even Chuck Norris can do.  (Oh Chuck Norris, why do you have to get involved in politics when you are otherwise the greatest source of humorous homages?  I mean, how else could one say: "Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas" or "Chuck Norris does not sleep- he waits.")

No real damage done, just a day of doing as little as possible and taking pain meds.  Neither of which top my list of ways to spend a Friday.  One of the reasons why is that it provides the perfect opportunity for my conscious brain to realize that the dark cloud of depression is lurking right outside, looking for a way in.

For example, a week post-op, I decided it was time to start wearing regular bras.  For those of you without boobs, trust me when I say that the entire bra culture is a maze of numbers and letters and fabrics and metal and plastic.  The quest for the perfect bra is not for the faint of heart (or anything else) and some day I may do an entire blog on it.  

Suffice it to say that even though I knew to choose a bra without the kind of metal support system normally found in a highway overpass, it was still a mistake.  Big. Yes, I got advice from my survivor friends, but I figured (heh) that since I didn't have lymph nodes removed or even a partial mastectomy, my boob would be different.  It is not.  I am now in search of camisoles with support.  While they help with the surgical issues, they also squish everything in their path, which means my clothes don't fit.  I know, boo hoo for me.  It's not like I normally dress for fashion week.  

Driving is also a bitch and a half because of the seatbelt.  In the interest of not encouraging unsafe behavior, I will not tell you what I do in order to drive without screaming.  Even then, it's uncomfortable.  And yes - there are dozens of people who would be happy to drive me places - many have specifically offered to do just that.  But noooooooooo, much like a toddler, I decided I was going to do it myself.  Repeatedly.  Dumb and Dumber.

So now I am paying the price for my recklessness and have to really take it easy.  Do I need to tell you how much I HATE that?!  Hate, hate, hate, with the fire of the sun, hate.

It's another cost that cancer imposes.  Cancer sucks. Getting a wonderful diagnosis is fantastic, but I lost sight of the underlying battle, and that was a mistake. Never turn your back on your enemy. Like Chuck Norris, it never sleeps.

 

VD on the Boob Tube

VD on the Boob Tube

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

Time for a discussion about our favorite TV shows.  Let me start by saying I rarely watch the shows when they air - I am totally spoiled by DVR technology, so if something was on last night, I haven't seen it yet.  You can do spoilers (this isn't the Hunger Games) at will.

Okay - three of my favorite shows had VD themes.  On Castle, Beckett met her predecessor.  She is none other than Jennifer ("Flashdance") Beals.  If you've never seen Flashdance, be prepared for a take on a lobster dinner scene that probably caused the actual transmittal of vd.  The jealousy theme continued in the precinct, where Esposito and Ryan felt like they were stuck at the kid's table.  It's a two-parter, so I am hoping for a well-deserved verbal bitch-slap session between Flashdance and Beckett.

On Hawaii 50, Weston left, which is a good thing, but not before she almost confessed her feelings for McGarrett, who appeared clueless. Please.  Also loved the not-so-subtle reminder that we still hate those Ruskie Commie Bastards.  See what happens when you mess with the UN Security Council, Russia?  You get a complete smack down on a television show re-make.  So there!

Then there was NCIS.  Tony, Tony, Tony.  We finally get that traitor CIA Ray out of Ziva's way, and now here comes Mrs. Ari Gold from Entourage trying to play coy with our Very Special Agent DiNozzo.  I don't like it.  I don't like her.  And the smirking Gibbs had better be about getting Ziva and Tony together and not bringing some snippy reporter on to the team.  Loved Ducky's one-minute analysis of Tony (in the morgue, no less).  Which reminds me - what happened to Tony's Mom?  She died, right? Which is how he was sent to boarding school.  But do we know how she died?

Tonight, there is a big cross-over event between Gray's Anatomy and Private Practice.  I am on the fence about both these shows, with Private Practice just teetering on the "I'll catch up with the summer re-runs" slope.  Last week, Grays did a VD episode. It was okay.

Tom is a huge Ricky Gervais fan, so last night we watched an episode of "An Idiot Abroad: Bucket List".  The idiot, one Karl Pilkington, comes out with some of the most moronic observations you can imagine.  My favorite from the first season occurred when he was on the Great Wall of China, on one of his first trips outside his own London neighborhood.  The camera pans back to reveal a wide shot of the wall, and Pilkington says: "Well, I wouldn't say it's 'great'.  I mean it's a good wall, I guess." Unreal.

In other TV news, The Voice is back.  I fast-forward through the blind auditions because I don't like to watch the ones where the singer doesn't get chosen by anyone.  Those make me sad.  Also, I am slightly afraid that if I spend too much time looking at XTina's makeup in HD, I might begin to go color blind as a defense mechanism.  Ru Paul could give that girl some tips on toning it down.  Sheesh.

Finally, FYI, in case you haven't been watching, Saturday Night Live has some funny bits again.  Weekend Update never fails to provide at least one or two laugh out loud moments.  Nic Cage "In the Cage" was hilarious.

Okay, now your turn.  What are you watching?  What am I missing?  And who is with me on NCIS?

 

 

 

 

Music's Biggest Night

Music's Biggest Night

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

So, the Grammys are my Oscars.  I see so few movies these days that the Oscars have lost their lure.  Music, on the other hand, is part of my day - every day.

Here is a short re-cap of the 2012 Grammy Awards because if I write one more blog about GFYC, I am going to scream.

First off - Adele.  Absolutely magnificent.  She had surgery recently for a ruptured vocal cord and evreyone held their breath to see if her voice remained intact. It did.  She brought the house down.  And she looks amazing.  If you have yet to listen to "Rolling in the Deep" or "Someone Like You", you must.  In fact, both of her albums are keepers.

Next, The Boss.  Springsteen opened the show with the E Street Band - with one big missing piece.  Clarence Clemmons.  They still rocked the roof off and I am loving their new album.  I look for the lead single., "We Take Care of Our Own" to be on the regular stadium play list for the 2012 Democratic campaign.  I say Dem because that is who Bruce usually supports.

You may have heard that Whitney Houston died right before the Grammys.  She had an amazing gift and luckily, there are lots of recordings of it.  Her early Gospel stuff is still the best, I think.  She made - and repeated - some really bad choices in her life and even before she died, her beautiful voice was gone.  Very sad.  Addiction is a mofo and few people win that battle.  The Grammys spent some time talking about her (but no mention of addiction or places to get help) but I thought it was pretty balanced.  Especially after Bonnie Raitt and Alicia Keyes did "Sunday Kind of Love" as a tribute to the great Etta James.  Etta had addiction issues too, but seemed to find some balance. There was a nice moment with Amy Winehouse's parents - another great voice lost to addiction.

I thought it was great that they honored Glenn Campbell before he died.  He announced last year that he had Alzheimer's.  Blake Shelton and the Band Perry did a nice job on his tribute.

Paul McCartney closed the show with some classic Beatles tunes.

Now for the crap.  

Chris Brown.  No.  This kid should still be in jail, and how in the hell does what he do count as R&B?  Wrong.

Nikki Minaj - what the hell was that mess?  Was it supposed to be a song? A video? None of it worked.  Plus - and I know this is music blasphemy, but the girl does rap - she should not (and cannot) try to sing.  Was she trying to out Gaga the Gaga?  The whole thing was just awful and way too long.

A word on Gaga - I didn't like her at the beginning.  Dismissed her as a Madonna copycat.  Then I started paying attention.  This woman is classically trained.  She writes her own songs.  She plays several instruments.  And she's a good daughter.  Plus, in case you didn't already know, she is doing amazing work to raise awareness of bullying, including funding programs to teach schools how to stop it.  You need to listen to the lyrics of her songs.  She is the real deal, people, and I publicly apologize for doubting it.

I thought Sir Paul's valentine song was just meh - but after all these years, he's entitled to write a sweet song for his new wife and sing it in front of a billion people if he wants.

Okay - time for real work.  What did you think of the Grammys?

All's Quiet on the Boobburgh Front

All's Quiet on the Boobburgh Front

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

After months of anxiety and days of panic, my mind is quiet today.  A quiet brain is not common for my people, so I thought I would write about it in case this happens to someone else.

Friday was one of those days that will remain fresh - like the days my children were born and the day Armstong walked on the moon.  I can still remember details of those days decades later.

Once I got the fantastic news (Hallelujah) and finished making phone calls (including one to the wonderful William at the Square Cafe, who can make a party on three hours notice - love them) I collapsed into napland.

But not before I took of my 'compression bra' (may I just say that the odessey of finding the 'sports bra' that everyone recommended turned into a complete side show of its own, probably because round people like me don't actually do the sports thing).   The steristrips are still there, and I can still see stitches, but I took a good hard look and said, right into the mirror: "Fuck you, Cancer.  Not in my house."  Then I started a victory dance which was stupid because it hurt the entire right upper quadrant of my body, so I settled for flipping cancer the bird and giving it every obscene Italian hand gesture I could remember. I also made some up, but that is another blog.

Then the tangible joy began as the doorbell started to ring.  Most of my dearest friends - and even my brother Joe and his new wife Ree - came to toast and rejoice.  The celebration was truly complete when a couple of my Golden Girls made the snowy drive from Indiana to surprise me!  Everyone from our Chevra was here - and Dr. (okay not officially but soon) Yael even called from Isreal.  At one sterling moment in time, women from all phases of my life were gathered around the dining room table, laughing.  If not for the cancer (henceforth referred to herein as the GFYC) I would not have that memory to treasure.

The whole day was like that.  My family had me on so many prayer lists that I got a call from a college sorority sister in New Jersey to see if I was the Kathy Sweeney they were praying for in the Camden Diocese!  They were all an absoute rock- with one-liners.  I knew, but didn't, y'know - KNOW- how powerful that is until the GFYC, which is odd.  Because I thought I already knew that.

Some people - at this stage and at other stages in their own battle with cancer (oops GFYC) will tell you that the cancer was worth the lessons learned, or that it gave them a new outlook on life.  I am happy for them.

But I can only speak for myself.  Cancer sucks.  Surgery sucks. Losing a piece of you sucks.  Being afraid is a great, giant suck.  Facing mortality at the tender age of 51 is suckage at its worst. See, it even degrades the vocabulary!

Last night, we watched "Return of the King" - one of my favorite movies of all time.  The ultimate triumph of good over evil, with no hedging on the high cost or the grief.  Plus, it has Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim, which is going to be my new alias if I ever need one.  It was a fitting way to end this section of my journey.

Today, my brain is peaceful.  Snow is lighting falling and everthing outside is still covered in that beautiful white of a new snow.  My family is quiet and happy in our warm house.  My extended family and friends are safe and healthy.   

Life is good in Boobburgh.

How is your life today?

 

 

And there was JOY in Boobburgh!!

And there was JOY in Boobburgh!!

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, a survivor

I just got the call from the surgeon and she got it all!!!

This means the best possible outcome - I am now cancer free - no chemo - no radiation - no more surgery in the near future.

I am now an official member of the High Risk Surivor's Group at the Hillman Center.

Wanted to share part of the conversation with Dr. B:

Dr B: "I, uh, ended up taking more than I planned."

Me: "No shit.  I picked that up when I looked in the mirror and saw the divot!"

Dr. B (laughing): "Yeah, I figured you'd notice.  You wanted to be aggressive so I took a larger radius of tissue."

Me (laughing): "As long as it's good news, I don't care if you took a couple of ribs."

Dr. B: "We have lots of resources to deal with the lost tissue - don't worry about it."

Me: "Are you f'n kidding me?  Who cares?!  I'll just shove a nerf ball in there if I need to."

Dr. B: "I love the calls where everyone laughs."

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for the positive vibes, the supportive messages and the prayers.  No one will ever convince me they didn't make a difference.

More later, and I hope to be blogging about other subjects very soon.  For now, please join me in a virtual toast - I am about ready to start Happy Hour!!!

xo

Love,

Kathy

 

 

The Music of Boobburgh

The Music of Boobburgh

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

If you know me personally, or have followed my blogs over the years, you already know this - music is very important to me.

I don't sing or play an instrument, but I do have cousins who have degrees and are paid musicians, so it may be that the genes are somewhere in there and, if I win the lottery and have nothing but time, I could take lessons and turn out to be the next Adele.  Without the hair.  I have had long hair and it's a pain in the ass.  Like so many things, a young woman's game.

Any way, today, while I wait for the phone to ring, I am putting together a list of great songs.  No real theme - just songs I love.  And I want to know your favorite songs.

For example, one of the most relaxing songs I love is "Everything About You" - by Alan Silvestri from the soundtrack of "What Women Want".

One of my favorite Gospel songs is "Favorite Song of All" by the Brooklyn Tablernacle Choir.

A great love song is "After  All" by Al Jarreau.

Want to dance?  Try Earth, Wind and Fire's "September" or the classic "Twist and Shout" - I like the Isley Brothers, but the cover by 'Otis Day and the Nights' on the "Animal House" soundtrack is good too.

For lullabies, it's hard to beat Kenny Loggins, unless you have "Lullaby" - sung in magnificent harmony by Josh Groban and Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

Jazz?  George Benson, from right here in Pittsburgh, has some amazing stuff.  If "Broadway" doesn't get your toes tapping, you need to have a full neuro screening done.

Then there are the songs from musicals.  "Seasons of Love" from Rent is almost always a good choice, as are the classics from "Oklahoma", "My Fair Lady", "The Sound of Music" and "Camelot".

Okay, enough from me.  Let's make the best mixed tape of all time - what are your favorites?

 

Boobburgh Blues

Boobburgh Blues

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who knows her colors

First - no real news.  Still hoping for biopsy results tomorrow.  

When I decided to blog my way through this, I had every intention of doing it honestly.  Today we will see if I really can.

Today is Thursday.  My surgery was Tuesday.  I fully expected to be back to normal by today - hell, I was planning to teach three classes tomorrow.  I was wrong.

The last 24 hours have been unexpectedly tough.  I had trouble finding and balancing pain meds.  Then I got a note from one of my Golden Girls who reminded me that pain is just part of the experience and not to let it run my life.  Manage it, endure it, and no science experiments with the different meds.  Good advice.  

Those of you who have travelled this path know where I am going.  Letting go of the focus on physical pain opened the door - wide - for the real pain.  My post-op instructions were to take the bandages off last night.  So I did.  Tra-la-la. Laughed to myself about how my boob looked like it was wearing a gauze burka and laughed again at the magic marker notes left by the surgeon so she would cut the correct boob.  Thought about getting a tattoo.

And BOOM. 

There it was.  The incision itself is still covered in steristrips and it looks to be about 3 inches long.  Very clean.  No bleeding or anything.  I was getting ready to get into the shower, turned away from the mirror and froze.

There is a piece missing from me.  They cut out part of my breast.  I can see it - like a divot from a golf club on the fairway.  I don't have a matched set any more.  And believe me when I tell you, those girls have done great things for me in my life - not the least of which was magically producing sustenance for my babies.  The pain hit me like a freight train and for the first time since this whole thing started, I actually sat down and cried.

I have nothing against crying, but in this case I would not allow it.  Why?  Because I am so freaking lucky that we caught this early.  Because I have health insurance that allowed me to choose my course of treatment and to find a surgeon I like.  Because I am smart and savvy enough to navigate the shitstorm of medical paperwork without help. Because I am the Mom and I don't have time for a breakdown.

I also believed - and I confessed this to my friend the Rev - that I was not entitled to be afraid or to grieve.  I mean, I consider myself a woman of strong faith.  If this is the path God chose for me, I should have the strength to walk it - it's not like I have Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. In fact, ask anyone and they will tell you - I have the best kind of cancer you can have.  I could have been in a car accident and unable to walk or talk or - holy cannoli - read or listen to music.  In the grand scheme, what I am going through is a cakewalk.

This mantra worked for the last six weeks. But not yesterday.  And not so much last night, either.  Today, I am more rational. Today I have things back in perspective.  But for those of you who are reading this and have not been on this particular path, you need to know.  And I am sure this isn't the last time it will happen either.  It's okay.  Doesn't make you a wimp or a selfish bitch.  Our breasts are precious things to us and we are entiled to wail when we lose them, even it's one piece at a time.

And for those of you who love someone who is fighting cancer, you need to know too.  Tears of a clown and so forth.  It will be damn near impossible to tell when your loved one hits the rough spots, because - especially if she's a Mom like me - we try to keep it together.  So just be patient while she works through it, and don't take it personally if she doesn't want to share.  For some reason, this minor outpatient surgery makes an impact that is hard to describe.  

I worked part of the day yesterday, and I did some work this morning.  I am taking the rest of the day off.  I may watch dumb movies or catch up on the episodes of Glee in the DVR.  I may read a wonderfully-distracting book about shapeshifting werewolves or supernatural beings who have cool toys.  I may just eat chocolate chip waffles (Tom make the BEST) and plan a vacation.

Whew. That was harder than I thought, and all I did was let the words flow.

So, my friends, what truths do you want to share?

xo