DONE

Apologies. I know I should have updated this blog sooner. As my dear friend Duckie pointed out my readers need a happy ending. You absolutely do. You have been wonderful, supportive, caring readers. You've left me messages of hope, encouragement and strength. I've survived this surfing on waves of positive vibes.

Here's the thing. Chemo has short circuited my cerebrum. This is about the 9th time I'm trying to write this. Words are not flowing freely. I mean "I've survived surfing on waves of positive vibes". Who writes that badly? Turns out I do. Me and aging hippies doing that free writing course in Haight-Ashbury.

My chemo fog is bad. Very, very, very bad. (Insert your own adverbial phrase please 'very' is all I can muster.) Please forgive me if my wit is witless, my sarcasm lost on myself and my sense of irony so literal that, unlike Alanis, it's not ironic, don't you think? Where were we? I have no idea.

I'm done with chemo. I had my last round just under 2 weeks ago. The usual side effects, plus some lovely new ones: My feet are constantly freezing cold, my finger nails look like crinkly potato chips and my skin has gone so thin that my temporary breasts have shifted to almost under my armpits. Attractive right?

But I'm done. So from here on I can focus on recovery and move on. I still have one more operation where they'll replace the afore mentioned underarm boils with Grade-A, Hollywood tittys. I'll also be on Tamoxifen for at least 5 years. Side effects include night sweats, hot flushes and mood swings. So it's essentially menopause. Great. 

I'm moving from cancer victim to cancer survivor. And that, my lovely, loyal readers, is the Happy Ending. I'm riding into the sunset with my bald head slathered in SPF100. Yeeeha.

DONE

I will be updating the blog from time to time to let you know how I'm doing and to post pictures of my slow growing hair.  

HAVING A BAD HAIR DAY.

HAIR UPDATE: 
As you can see there's not much to update. Funny thing is those hairs you see are actually new ones.  My hair is growing back, even through Chemo. But as my oncologist brutally said: "Don't get too excited, they'll also fall out." That's cancer summed up for you. Don't get too excited. 

RECURRENCE RATE OF WORRY: 99.999%

My final Chemo session is next week Thursday. I've never looked forward to nausea, fatigue and pain with so much enthusiasm. I can't wait. One more time in that chair. One..last...time. Final. Done. Hasta la vista Cancer. You won't be baaaack. 

Or at least I hope it won't come back. I wonder if there's a cancer survivor out there who doesn't worry about recurrence? Will I forever question every ache and pain I have? I suspect the answer is yes. For one thing I have a Jewish heritage. All that persecution has made us nervous wrecks. We worry because it's ingrained in our genetic make-up. We are because we Oy. Jews are why webmd.com is so successful; why doctors drive Porsches; why your mother will make the following comment: "I can't believe you have cancer, I've probably got it." Ashkenazi Jews (my tribe) can one up their fellow yids in the "I'm probably dying" stakes. Turns out we may carry a genetic mutation of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 (tumor suppressers on a good day) genes linked to an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer. I'll cross that desert next year. 

Then there's the internet. They've got my number. I used to have pop up mommy and Gap ads, now I have cancer ads. It's so hard not to click onto an article titled: "Cancer, what are your chances?" (Not good if you don't take their product)  or "Soy/alcohol/ dairy (whatever is the latest cancer link to be discredited later) linked to breast cancer recurrence." Too much of anything isn't good, even information. 

Then there are people. And you can't avoid those. Well meaning folk who, the second they hear you have or have had cancer, just have to tell you the story of their uncle/aunt/brother's girlfriend's sister who's cancer came back. Like the Cat. 

Having cancer should come with the following disclaimer: Warning being cured from cancer may cause worry, sleepless nights, paranoia and anxiety. Some patients report an overwhelming feeling that cancer is stalking them. If you experience any of these symptoms you are probably completely delusional. 

My grandmother (who passed away from breast cancer in her late 80s) had this to say about life: "It all goes so quickly." And it does. 
Cancer had taken enough of my precious time from me. I can't let it take anymore. When worry and neurosis creep in I'm going to find a way to block them. Like you would an unwanted Facebook friend, you know the one who is always posting pictures of gerbils in tutus. I'm pressing that button in my over-thinking, over-analyzing head. Cancer you are officially de-friended. 

  







    

THE BLACK NIPPLE AND OTHER GRUESOME STORIES

I forget that not everyone who reads this blog knows me personally. I now have readers as far away a Poland. Pretty awesome or should I say dosc niesamowite. I've been asked about my history before Chemo. So here is the not so short and bitter version. A prequel so to speak. 

Cancer Biyatch. 

My journey.

I turned 40 very reluctantly (and somewhat miraculously seeing as I was only 35 the year before) last year in August. At the insistence of my gynie I went for a 40th mammogram. My breasts were squashed, squeezed then screened and a mass was detected in my left boob.

So I went for an Ultrasound. There they found a lovely, oval, smooth lump. The doctor practically pranced into the room saying: "It's a Fibroadenoma don't worry." But of course I worried. I checked about 1000 articles and images on the internet. And indeed, you can clearly see the difference between a Fibroadenoma and a cancerous mass. The cancer has uneven edges, it's no smooth operator. 

Next step was a Core Needle Biopsy Ultrasound because that's what they do when they find any mass.
I wasn't worried until lying on the table, I turned to the screen and saw 2 lumps. Oh shit. And the one looked like all the pictures I had seen of cancer. Double shit. "What's that?" I asked panicked. Nurse: "Oh that's the other lump, we're doing two biopsies you know?" I did not know. No one had told me. I looked up at the nurses and doctors and saw 3 pity smiles. Shit Trifecta. 

My biopsy was on Oct 29th. At 5pm on the 31st, while I was dressing my kids for Halloween, the phone rang. Trick, not treat. A doctor I had never met, in a very happy, matter-of-fact voice told me I have one benign Fibroadenoma mass and one Classic Cancer tumor. Classic cancer? What's that? Does the tumor wear Chanel, pearls and a Hermes Birkin?

The next month and a bit were spent choosing a surgeon to remove the cancer; a plastic surgeon to reconstruct my breasts; an Oncologist to find out what type of cancer I have; setting up a plan, doing an MRI and waiting for results. And waiting for more results. And waiting for other results. 

I had a double mastectomy with tissue expander nipple sparing surgery (I was taking no chances it would come back in my other breast) on January 18th. I was in hospital for a few nights. During that time one of the spared nipples turned black. It looked mummified. So I had a white nipple and a black nipple. I could have been a Stevie Wonder song. Ebony and Ivory, living in perfect harmony. The breast remake. 

Eventually that nipple was removed as it was declared oxygen deprived and dead. So I became a one nipple wonder. 

I hate my tissue expanders. They are hard, turtle-like, saline shells that train your pectoral muscles to handle the eventual weight of your silicone implant, by filling up slowly with saline until they're big enough. They are medieval torture. 

I went home to recover from my op with bloody drains dangling from my fake I-must-I-must-increase-my-bust breasts. Now this is the value of a good man: my husband milked my drains like he was going for gold in a cow milking competition. He did it faithfully everyday, despite his aversion to blood or paper cuts, and he didn't once complain. This was the 'for worse'. 'For better' is coming soon.

The rest of the story is, give or take a painful recovery, more tests, more waiting and some more waiting, in my blog.