Humiliation, Cancer Style

Since February 3, I have been the victim of inadvertent humiliation several times. I've become used to it, and am not all that phased by it anymore. But, I'm reading High Fidelity, now. Perhaps you saw the movie with John Cusack and Jack Black? If you didn't, you should. It rocks ... literally. It's about a guy who owns a music store. Anyway, John Cusack's character has an obsession with explaining things in top five list format. For example, worst five breakups, top five Joni Mitchell songs, top five foreign movies of all time.

So, in honor of this hilarious book, I will give you a list of my top five humiliating cancer moments.

ONE - Group Cleaning

After the first surgery, the hospital staff inexplicably found it of the utmost importance that I take a shower. Mind you, I could not walk the six steps to the bathroom. So, I clearly could not shower alone. And why would I even want to? The way that it turned out was so much more cozy. It is also important to remember that I could not lift my arms and that my back and chest were in significant amounts of pain. Also, I had drains pulling out blood and grossness. These drains had to be attended. Also, there was the catheter ... and the iv pole. So, I ended up sitting on a bench built for geriatric home use. While there, my nurse and my mom, who were both fully clothed ... down to their tennis shoes, were in charge of cleaning my swollen and oozing patchwork quilt of a body. Oh, and please don't dawdle ladies. My hemoglobin is dangerously low and I'm at a horrifyingly long distance from my morphine pump. So, let's get this cleansing over with so that I can get back to my narcotic schedule. I like to take a bump every ten minutes ... only because they won' let me take them every four.

TWO - Constipation Relief

I was a little stopped up, after my surgeries. There were two solutions to this, which were delicious, but embarrassing. The first was that my husband and mother-in-law had to take turns making me prune juice smoothies. The second was that my father-in-law brought me Caribou, because the caffeine helped. I appreciate these offerings, but I wish I didn't have to talk to everyone about my bowel habits.

THREE - Sniff, sniff

During one visit to the plastic surgeon, the extent to which my nipples were harboring disgusting infection was up for debate. So, to solve the mystery, my doctor smelled my breasts. No warning. He just leaned in an took a good whiff of each one. Cancer is so humbling.

FOUR - Peep Shows

Modesty is a thing of the past. I have shown my scars to everyone I know. And, because I'm new to this whole surgery and healing thing, I had several questions along the way. Luckily, my mom and aunt both were nurses. Also luckily (or unfortunately for them) we have several friends who are doctors. Because of rashes and dissolvable stitches that didn't dissolve and wounds that didn't heal, I have bared myself to several of Scott's friends, two of whom are the husbands of my friends. Also, one of those times was during dinner. Another was when Scott wasn't home. A third was while I was at work. I'm either desperate for medical opinions or kind of promiscuous.

FIVE - Frostbite

It's all a chain. My cancer is estrogen receptor positive. So, that transforms my ovaries from functioning organs to traitors, aiding and abetting the enemy. In order to minimize the estrogen production and absorption in my body, I am taking medication for the next five years. Also, I opted to have my ovaries removed. In so doing, I have been violently shoved into menopause. As a result of that, I have irritating hot flashes and night sweats. And that is the set-up for number five.

Yesterday, I had a red, angry looking splotch on my cheek. What was it? Sunburn? No. An abrasion from my very active BMX career? Nope. It was frostbite ... in 86 degree weather. How would such a thing happen, you may ask? From sleeping ... naturally. On Saturday night, I had three mojitos, after which the world was much more blurry and spinny than usual. (Thank you, Crows.) I figured that it was probably not a stellar idea to add Ambien to this equation, so I went to bed without it. Bad call. Two hours later, I woke up and COULD NOT fall back asleep, due to the fact that our house was 7 million degrees. (Or 74, but that's about the same thing during a hot flash.) I stripped off the blankets. INFERNO. I moved to the spare bedroom. PUDDLES OF SWEAT. I got an ice pack and moved it around from my head to my back to my neck to my arms for the next year and a half. Eventually, I was cooled down enough to go back to bed. I climbed in, disdainfully kicked the blankets aside and gratefully fell asleep with the ice pack on my head. And that's why I had to put sunscreen on a frostbite.

And that's why it's embarrassing to be me.

Hip, Hip Poray!

I went to see the oncologist, yesterday. He said that I'm officially in remission. My hormone levels are good. My iron is up. My cancer marker is up a little, but we're not going to worry, yet. Three cheers for me:

• Hip, Hip ... Poray!
• Hip, Hip ... Poray!
• Hip, Hip ... Poray!

(My son is a little confused about the "hooray" thing. I don't blame him. People have a tendency to be a little slack with enunciation. I guess Scott and I must guilty. So, in our house, we have a unique celebration sound, "poray.")

Anyway, I'm in remission. The American Cancer Society explains cancer remission as "a period of time when the cancer is responding to treatment or is under control." It doesn't mean that everything is fine and that I can go back to my regularly scheduled pre-cancer life.

The next step is a PET scan in August, which will show any cancerous activity elsewhere in my body. It should be negative, but I pushed for it, anyway. I told my doctor that I would feel better if I had the test. I also told him that I would feel better if I didn't have a claustrophobia attack during it, so he gave me Ativan to take ahead of time.

Since I have a 13% chance of recurrence, I'll be watched and poked and prodded regularly. The most likely time that the cancer could come back is within the next two years. If I make it to ten years, then I'm considered cancer-free.

In the meantime, I'll keep up with my current regimen of "health." Every morning, I get up and shower, so that I can remove the bandages from my chest. I'm supposed to change them every 24 hours, because the blood makes them stick to the wounds. After that, I take my medications. (I realize that it's a little unorthodox to air a list of drugs, but at this point, what does it really matter? You've been reading about my breasts and ovaries for three months. No one will be shocked to learn that I'm enjoying some anti-depressants, right?) So, here goes:

• Calcium twice a day to prevent osteoporosis
• Vitamin D twice a day because I have a deficiency
• Black Cohosh for hot flashes
• Biotin for hair loss
• Zyrtec for allergies
• Multivitamin for being filled with goodness
• Tamoxifen for cancer
• Asprin to prevent heart problems
• Celexa for anxiety and depression
• Ambien to help me sleep and to not stress about all of the above symptoms

Don't I seem the picture of health?

Oh, well. Baby steps. Every day, I'm healing. Every day, I'm getting stronger. Every day, I feel the support of all of you.

Thank you.

Second Opinion

I went to see another plastic surgeon, this week, for a second opinion on the nipple failure. I suppose that it was helpful. He did not say that Dr. Dreyfuss was a hack, so that's good. Sometimes, surgeries just don't have the expected results and I am unfortunately one of those cases, this time. (Thumbs down.) He also didn't say that there is a miracle pill to make my nipples miraculously regenerate, so that's not so good. He did tell me that another surgery down the road may be possible, depending on how I heal from this most recent debacle. (A reconstruction of the reconstruction, if you will.)

I should probably clarify that the debacle to which I am referring has resulted in weeping, open wounds on each breast, where the incisions didn't heal properly. One of my friends described them as "skinned boobs." She said that it is as though I fell while skateboarding ... and I wasn't wearing a shirt. Nice image, yes?

Anyway, in a month or so I should be able to stop wearing aquaphor and two piles of gauze under my bra. Yay. AND, once the scars thicken a little, then we will be able to see if a corrective surgery will be possible. This would require a skin transplant from my legs or stomach. Oh, also, they can't do the transplant in the same location as the first surgery, due to compromised blood flow. So, the nipples would be "about half an inch off from where they should be."

Well, that sounds awesome.

My other option is to skip this step and just go with the original plan of tattooing. Because of the unexpected scarring, though, the tattoos will need to be a little more creative than we thought. The damaged tissue will not accept ink in the same way as the surrounding skin.

My opinion is that this is crap.

My second opinion is that this is crap.

I Have Cancer

I don't feel like a person who has beaten cancer.

I don't feel like a person who fought cancer and won.

I don't feel like a person who had cancer in February and is better, now.

I feel like a person who has cancer.

I feel like a patient.

I feel exhausted and depressed.

Last week, I had six doctor's appointments.

My hair is falling out, even though I didn't have chemo.

My nipple reconstruction failed, even though I have not had radiation.

I had surgery three weeks ago and I'm still bleeding.

I have to wear an ugly hospital bra 24 hours a day to hold my new dressings in place.

My friends are having babies and I won't ever be able to have another one.

I have hot flashes and I'm only 34.

I can't sleep at night, between the anxiety and night sweats, even with my beloved Ambien.

My children want their "no-surgery Mommy" back.

Me too.

Stupid cancer.

Silver Linings - A Series on Cancer Optimism

Number Five

I won't need this stuff, anymore.

So long, tampons.

You won't be missed.

I Love My Husband

If you want to know how to make a grouchy surgeon perk up his bedside manner, I have the answer. All you have to do is bring your husband to the appointment with you. It helps if your beloved can engage said doctor in conversation about his skill and expertise.

It also helps if your husband whips out a camera to document your incisions.

Good work, Scott. You're the best!

Let's Have a Contest

Who had a better afternoon - you or me?

Before you vote, let me tell you what I did. It was SUPER FUN.

I went to the plastic surgeon AGAIN. While there, I sat in the waiting room with two babies, each under two months old. They were fussy and squirmy and adorable and not mine and I closed my eyes, mourning my missing ovaries.

Then, I had a debridement session, in which green, yellow and black necrotic, bacteria ridden tissue was removed from my chest via tweezers and scissors. Gross.

And ugly.

And bloody.

Do I win?

Are You Feeling Litigious?

I am.

I went to see Dr. Dreyfuss again, today. That makes four times since Wednesday. Stupid. He changed the dressings and put hydrogen peroxide on the open wounds and reprimanded me for trying to take a look. "Now, don't be touching everything."

He is admittedly a very gifted surgeon; my breast reconstruction looks fabulous!

And, I'm happy to report that he's not the kind of doctor to do this:

or this

and definitely not this.

However, my complaint is twofold:

1. The surgery sites are still not healing well.
2. Dr. Dreyfuss is being kind of a jack-face.

He doesn't have an especially favorable bedside manor. He isn't particularly adept at explaining the predicted results of surgery and then is not very responsive when I have concerns (like my nipples are turning black or there are open wounds where stitches used to be.) He also seems to be quite skilled at telling me what I'm doing wrong, even though I am following his minimal directions.

I think, Mrs. Glenn, that you are right.

It's time for a second opinion.

I Wish ...

I found an eyelash, just now, and I found myself perplexed. Usually, I wish on eyelashes. I understand that it is a silly superstitious thing to do, but it can't hurt, right?

Anyway, I looked down at the surface of my vanity, and there it was. And do you know what I thought? I thought: "I already have everything I want." Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I know that my daughter has some special plans for me. I'm spending the morning with my wonderful husband and children, going to lunch with my mom and sister, coming home for a nap and then having Sunday dinner. What more could a girl want?

So, I picked up the eyelash and didn't wish for a fancy present. I didn't wish for sunny weather. I didn't even wish away cancer. Instead, I wished that my daughter has a good Mother's Day.

I guess if the happiness of my child trumps everything else, then I'm in a pretty good place.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there. May you find the peace in your lives that I found tonight.

I'm Sorry to All of Our Doctor and Nurse Friends

But what is it about all the people in medical profession sucking?

I went to the doctor today. This is the third time since my surgery two weeks ago that I have called and requested a same day appointment because of a problem with the incisions. This is the first time that I feel like I have been taken seriously.

I AM NOT healing properly.

It is not normal, as we have learned, to have blackberries or beef jerky as skin. (And, for the record, I have transitioned to jerky. Thumbs down.) It is not normal to have gross yellowish-green ooze pouring out of you. It is not normal to need to put paper towels on your lap to protect your pants from all of the blood coming from your two-week-old surgery sites. But, as we have also learned, nothing goes as planned with cancer.

So, my doctor (I'll call him Dr. Dreyfuss because of his striking similarity to Richard Dreyfuss' character in What About Bob) decided that he should take the gauze and goop changes into his own hands ... FINALLY. Dr. Dreyfuss acknowledged that "there should not be this much blood." Gee, think so? I've been telling you that for two weeks. Also, "it's hard to say if there is any salvageable tissue under all of the scabs." Fantastic.

I'll just add that comment to the list of things that I wish you had never said. Because in case you have forgotten, you have also uttered gems like: "If you told me you wanted to look just like this after [the mastectomy and reconstruction], I wouldn't be able to do that, because you're too small." Also, "after the surgery, you're going to look like you have two penises on your chest." Really? Two male sex organs sticking off my breasts? That sounds lovely. I wonder why you didn't have the courage to tell me this before I was lying in a hospital gown with a net over my hair. It's such a great selling point for your services.

So, now I have waterproof bandages, again. I go in tomorrow for a dressing change. Then, again on Monday and again some other time next week. I'm relieved that my complaints have been recognized and registered. I wish that it hadn't taken this long. But, then again, I wish that it hadn't taken six months of my persistence to get diagnosed in the first place.

Also, I smell like iodine again. Ick.

And, on an unrelated note, Ryan Seacrest is an idiot. I was just subjected to one of his "This ... Is ... American Idol" introductions. I'm sorry that I'm not there in the live studio audience, because I would like to slap him upside the head. I think I'd get a lot of America's votes for that.

Return to the Routine

I'm going to work today. I've only been to work three days since February 12th. Keep your fingers crossed that I don't fall asleep on my keyboard.

And you'd better cross them with authority, because fatigue creeps up on me with the subtlety of a lion attack. Yesterday, for example, we had Owen's birthday party. By 8:15, I was slumped over in a chair drooling while he was still making towers with his new puzzle blocks. He's three.

I guess that's what happens when you plan a party ... and then nap while everyone else cooks and decorates. Sigh.

I'm tired of being Cancer-Liz.