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.