When I started this blog in 2010, the main objective was to share the details of my cancer while I was home recovering. Friends, co-workers, and geographically distant family said that they wanted to be able to keep tabs on my progress without calling all the time and interrupting my naps. This was a wise plan, as a nap-deprived Liz is a cantankerous Liz. It's best to be avoided.
I had the initial surgery and was out for five weeks. Then I went back to work for a week of feeling human before I went back under the knife and was out for another six. During all of that time, it was really helpful to employ this digital format for medical information dissemination.
In 2022, things are different. We all text more than we talk in person. Texting provides an easy, unobtrusive way to check in on each other and allows the recipient the ability to respond whenever it's convenient. (Although, to most of us "convenient" had better mean within 42 seconds ... or else a subsequent, slightly more irritable message will be deployed).
Texting is great for me as a patient, because I can see all of the love that you are sending without having to pause my Netflix binge to answer the phone or the doorbell. P.S. Ozark finale is being released tomorrow, so don't even bother trying to call. I'll send you right to voicemail.
2022 is also different because my surgery was much easier and the recuperation much faster. As a result, I went back to work yesterday. I'm only managing half-days, but that is enough to get my mind focused on fundraising and communication for a few hours before I come home to nap and think about cancer some more. Half-days are also enough time for lots of people to come to my office to offer support and ask questions. So, I thought I'd use this archaic blog forum to answer some of the most popular for you.
Friend, "How are you feeling?"
Me, "I feel okay."
This is true. I do feel okay. But things are all relative. I like to think of the surgery I just had as a bee sting and the one from 2010 as a shark bite. Bee stings are annoying. They don't feel good and you wish they didn't happen. But, you take some Advil, ice the site, maybe have a glass of wine and then move on with your life. Shark bites, though, involve hundreds of stitches, blood loss, skin grafting, and muscle atrophy. That's basically what I went through when I was 34. In comparison, this is okay.
Friend, "How did the surgery go?"
Me, "It went well."
This is true, too. The wound is small and seems to be healing perfectly. The anesthesia was manageable and I don't think I threw up on anyone when I woke. I don't really remember, but I assume that I asked clever and medically appropriate questions about the details of the procedure and the cellular structure of a cancer tumor, but right now all I remember is that they told me I wouldn't be able shower for two days. Incidentally, this is why I now have a sizable collection of surgical hair nets in my possession. Apparently, I was concerned about how I would look - to my family and dogs - going without a shower. My semi-lucid brain thought that wearing a hair net around the house would be less conspicuous than bed-head. I was incorrect, for the record.
Scott and I went to see the oncology surgeon on Tuesday. I was prepared for the worst, which doesn't mean I'm a pessimist. It just means I have a memory. My minimal Google research told me that 25% of lumpectomies result in the need for a secondary surgery and my first bout with cancer was within that stupid quartile. So, I expected it would be again. Not so! The dissected part of Liz that made a trip to pathology was rolled around in some dye and shockingly - to me at least - the tumor cells were within the obligatory 1mm margin from the dye. So, that is what we call a success. It is also what I call suspicious, because my history doesn't involve a lot of success, but I'm trying to be cheerful about it.
Friend, "What is the next step?"
Me, "I go to see the medical oncologist on Wednesday and then the radiology oncologist on Friday."
Accurate. I do have those appointments. I also don't know much more than that. The Wednesday appointment will address medications, hormone blockers, and chemotherapy (which I don't expect to need, but am bracing for). The Friday appointment will address radiation treatment (which I have been told is the standard of care for a breast cancer recurrence and I do expect).
How much? How long? How often? I don't know. Will I feel okay or need to take time away from work? I don't know. Will there be more scans or will I start treatment right away? I don't know. Will I be well enough to go to Laila's graduation? I had better be or else I would advise everyone in the vicinity invest in ear muffs to drown out my incessant swearing.
Friend, "How are you doing?"
Me, "I'm fine."
Nope. This one is pretty much a lie. Sure, I'm technically fine in the literal sense of the word. I'm not inconsolable and unable to get out of bed. I'm not so weak and enfeebled that I can't care for myself. I haven't come down with a post-surgical infection necessitating a hospital stay. But, I'm really sad. I don't know what is coming and I do much better when I can plan. I don't understand how one wayward cell could have the power to make this happen again and what could possibly prevent me from feeling like it's just going to keep happening forever. Cancer blows.
