I DO NOT HAVE CANCER!

I called to get my test results, yesterday, figuring that they wouldn't be able to tell me anything over the phone. But, I was wrong!

The oncology nurse said, and I quote ... "your results are normal."

Did you see that? Normal! I haven't received any normal results since I was "No Scar Mommy."

Fittingly, I was at work when I got this happy news, just as I was on February third when I got the life-changing news. When I was diagnosed, I told everyone. My whole office knew, of course, because I was reduced to a crumpled and blubbering pile of patient on my cube floor. They had to help me finish talking to my surgeon, hang up the phone, make sense of the words that had just shattered me and walk across the hall to a private room, from where I called my whole family.

Interestingly, when I got good news, yesterday, I didn't tell anyone. I got off the phone and continued working, filling in spread sheets and calling vendors of trolleys, golf balls and post-it notes. I didn't tell my co-workers during our staff meeting and I didn't call any of my friends. About two hours later, I realized that I should probably send a message to Scott and my mom, which I did ... to great fanfare.

Later, after Scott and I had put the kids to bed and were well into a celebratory bottle of wine, I asked him how he felt about the clear scan. Six months ago, he was - as we all were - shocked to hear that I had cancer. He was even more shocked to learn that it was a pretty big deal and that the recommended course of action was a double mastectomy. Last night, he confessed that he was surprised to hear the good news. After so much disappointment, and so many setbacks, we were both expecting to hear the worst. We hadn't talked about it, but silently and stoically, we were bracing for the impact which, thankfully - this time - did not come.

It's about time.

Suck it, cancer. You have no home here.

Waiting ... and Drinking

I tried to post these photos yesterday morning, but I was reprimanded by the nurse. The PET/CT is such a sensitive test, that playing on my phone 45 minutes beforehand would mess up the results.

WHAT? SERIOUSLY?

Yeah, that's what I said, too. Apparently, yes. She told me that not only would my neck muscles be contracting and show up on the scans, but my brain would get too much activity and flare up on the images, too. So, no blogging. No phone. No solitaire. No music. I didn't tell her that my superior neuron-firing skills were likely to throw off the image, anyway, even in the absence of any external stimuli.

I guess the joke will be on them, when the results come back ... except that I took an Ativan in preparation for the claustrophobia. So, maybe my head will look like a giant empty space, instead. Oh, dear. This could be embarrassing.

So, the day goes like this:

• Go in and get a blood sugar test. If the result isn't low enough, you have to go home and try again another day. So, that's why the no breath mints and no ... anything delicious ... for 24 hours prior.
• If you pass, then you are invited to break your fast with half of this yummy bottle of barium sulfate suspension. It's scrumptious. Not really. It's kind of gross. But, they did give me the luscious pina colada flavor. It was palatable, but I'd rather just have the real thing.
• Five minutes later, the I.V. with radioactive chemical goes in. The medication is housed in a separate room and is delivered in a tungsten pipe, so as to protect everyone from the substance that I freely accepted into my veins. Does this seem wrong to anyone else?
• Then comes the fun. Not only does the Ativan begin to kick in, but the chair in the room is a recliner and they wrap you in warm blankets and turn off the light.
• For fifteen minutes, you wait and try not to think. For some unknown reason, I got a totally annoying song stuck in my head. I can't remember it now, but I think it was something not awesome like "I'm Walking on Sunshine."
• Once you finally relax, the timer goes off, which is your cue to drink the rest of the pina colada liquid chalk.
• Then, you wait for another thirty minutes.
• Finally, you go in and are greeted by this:

I am glad that I was sedated ... or anti-anxietied. I do not like small, enclosed spaces. I have an irrational fear of tunnels and crowded elevators and DEFINITELY tube cameras like this or an MRI scanner. Ick.

As it was, though, the entire experience was kind of pleasant. I remember resting on the table and being vaguely aware of time passing quite slowly, but I didn't really mind. Plus, when it was all over, I came home and slept for four hours.

I understand that, as Wikipedia tells me, Ativan "is a high potency benzodiazepine drug which has all five intrinsic benzodiazepine effects: anxiolytic, amnesic, sedative/hypnotic, anticonvulsant and muscle relaxant" and that there are a whole slew of side effects, "including anxiety, insomnia, seizures, psychosis, anterograde amnesia and depression." (Okay, I don't really understand all of that, but I can make out most of it.) However, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'm going to start requesting it before all of my medical procedures.

"What? You're going to have to check my white count? Okay, but I'm probably going to need an Ativan. I'm pretty terrified of needles."

"OMG! You want to do a throat culture? I hate those horrid stick-swabs. I won't do it ... unless you have an Ativan."

"Okay, fine. You may brush my teeth. But that pick of yours makes me think of I Know What You Did Last Summer. It looks like a miniature ice-pick or a scaled down version of Captain Hook's right hand. I'm paralyzed with fear. Do you have anything for that?

Preparing for Your PET

Tomorrow morning, I need to start the diet for Wednesday's PET scan. It's pretty intense. Observe:

All patients should follow a low carbohydrate diet twenty four hours prior to scanning. Examples of foods to avoid:

• sugars and carbohydrates
• fruit/fruit juice/jelly
• bread/rolls/cakes/tortillas
• rice/pasta
• soft drinks/coffee
• yogurt/cereal/oatmeal
• chips/crackers/popcorn
• alcoholic beverages/beer/wine
• desserts/candy
• pizza dough/breading on fried foods
• potatoes/corn/onions/carrots

No excessive workouts twenty-four hours prior to scanning.

You will be asked to remove your dentures, glasses, and hearing aids once you arrive.

Do not chew gum or use breath mints.

Do not brush your teeth on the day of your scan.

Failure to adhere to these preparations may necessitate postponing or canceling the PET scan.

This is a lot of pressure. I hope I don't louse it up. Do you think it's irrational to have a bowl full of Doritos and a couple of Take Five candy bars at 10:30 at night?

Chart Notes

So, here's the thing. I haven't been writing very often. Perhaps you've noticed? Perhaps you've missed the updates and the too-much-information humor? I just don't feel like it, anymore. Partly because there isn't a whole lot of cancer news and partly because the news that there is is disturbing to me and no fun to document.

I'm sorry if my literary absence has deprived you of a healthy dose of distraction and you've subsequently been forced to do productive things like work. It's all so tragic.

So, here goes. I'm going to hammer out all of the boring and depressing details.

Oncology:

I haven't seen Dr. Petryk in many months. I go in for a PET scan and blood work next week. This test is a precautionary measure requested by me, the hyper-anxious patient, and granted by him, the acquiescent physician. The assumption is that everything will come back negative. I'll feel much more complete in the healing process when I see that there aren't any lingering devil cells.

Gynecology:

I have no ovaries. I have no cervix. I have no uterus. The wounds have healed. The scars are tiny, comparatively speaking. There are no more cramps. I have not had a period since March. I found a pad in a seldom used purse this weekend and ceremoniously heaved it into the trash. Good riddance.

I'm sweating profusely, but who isn't? It's 86 degrees out with 70% humidity. It's gross. We woke up this morning to find condensation on some of the windows and the storm door in the kitchen. Even the house is sweating.

Reproductive Specialists:

I had a brief and very intense few days with these people. What it came down to, you may recall, is that there was a possibility that I could freeze my eggs and do IVF later. Then, it turned out that I couldn't, because I was having a whole hysterectomy, not just an oophrectomy. So, the next plan was surrogacy. My sister valiantly stepped up the to proverbial petri dish, offering her womb. Then, it became clear that preparing for egg harvesting would provide a perfect breeding ground for cancer cells. I never like to give cancer any help, so that was out. So, now I have no need for the reproductive specialists. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, Scott and I will feel that we want to adopt, but for right now, we're blessed and balanced with two.

Mental Health:

My doctor has recently doubled my dose of anti-depressants. It's hard to tell if they are working, because there is a certain amount of sadness and mourning that is inherent in this process, anyway. I haven't gone to see a therapist, even though my doctors and family keep suggesting that I do. I don't think I'm ready. It's strange, because regardless of how surrounded and supported all of you have made me feel, cancer is still very lonely.

Genetics:
As you probably remember, I sent off some of my cancer cells to California to have slicing and staining party at the oncotyping lab. They had a good time. And they reported back that they would be staying there for the remainder of their miserable lives, which was fine with me. They also reported that I am negative for a couple of genetic tests, a different result of which would have necessitated some testing on all of the other females in my family. There are a few other studies that could be done, which might tell us more about why I got cancer. But, those tests cost several thousand dollars of the patient's money ... and I'm not sure I want to know, anyway.

Pharmacology:

You wouldn't think that this category would be part of my treatment plan, but I have spent a lot of time at the pharmacy counter, lately. Many of my prescriptions are on auto-refill, but never at the same time as each other. So, I seem to be at Target about every other day. The down side is that some of my medications are covered in very limited amounts. For example, I have started taking Imitrex for the headaches. You can take it every four hours when a migrane settles into your cranium, attempting to dislodge your gray matter with neurologic jackhammers. The kicker is that I'm only allowed four pills a month. Dumb. Also, my ambien (without which I really cannot sleep) has caused some trouble, necessitating several calls between me, the doctor, the pharmacy and the insurance company. The up side to all of this is that all of my medications are free, now. Not surprisingly, I maxed out our out-of-pocket amount last winter. So, once I finally do get prescriptions to go through the Medica gridlock, I don't have to pay for them, which is good, because then I have more money to spend on useless crap at Target.

Plastic Surgery:

This topic, has recently been the bane of my existence. After the failed nipple reconstruction and the subsequent eight million doctor's visits for dressing changes and debridement of necrotic tissue, I thought we were finished. Unfortunately, when I went to see Dr. Dreyfus on July 8th, I was confronted with a whole other situation for which I had not prepared. His feelings were hurt. We spent a very uncomfortable and wholly inappropriate 45 minutes, during which I cried like an idiot and he discussed his apparent disappointment in my reaction to his artwork. It was so shocking and terrible that I couldn't drive afterward, and had to go back to the building to meet with his office manager, outside on "neutral ground." I would write more about that, but it makes me want to puke, so I won't.

Radiology:

In an effort to buck my personal tradition, I haven't had a mammogram or ultrasound or gamma scan for over four months. Considering that I used to go in about every three hours for one of these procedures, I welcome the change. Besides, can they even do a mammogram on implants? Would they pop? Things that make you go "hmmmm."

Surgery:

I am finished with my breast surgeon. Her work is marked by many scars. There are the expected patchwork areas from the initial surgery. Plus, there is a stab wound from where her scalpel slipped through my breast and a very bumpy, jagged line from when she hauled me back into the operating room seven days after my mastectomy. Although she worked hard to diagnose the cancer and was diligent about being sure that it was all removed, I don't miss her. It was she who called my office on February 3, causing me to slip from my chair and collapse into a trembling mass on the floor of my cube.

That was six months ago, today.

Half a year.

Hip, Hip, Pooray!

Perhaps I'll get a cake.