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.