#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Two years ago this morning...

I was sitting in the surgeons waiting room waiting the get the results from my biopsy. I remember talking to D and telling her that it couldn’t possibly be breast cancer because I felt good, and people with cancer were sick. Life has a funny way of making you think.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

The Nth hour

March 3, 2015, 12:36 pm; the day that changed me forever. I was as calm as could be that morning waiting in my little room for my turn in the operating room. The hubby was there with me, various friends and relatives came in to see me, life was normal. I saw the doctors who would be performing my surgeries, the anesthesiologist, several nurses, everything was okay. We got word that my surgery was going to be a little later, I am sure these things happen a lot in surgery, but I really wouldn’t know because the last time I had surgery, I was three days old. So, when the person came to take me to the operating room, I wasn’t fully prepared for what was about to happen. The hubby walked me to a certain point, then he was told that this was as far as he could go. I now had to brave the rest of my journey through the halls with a stranger. I had no idea what to expect. No idea how things were going to happen. No idea how I would feel when this was all over. That was the single, scariest moment of my entire life. My husband had to leave me, and I had to go into the unknown “alone”. I couldn’t even look at him. Never before had I ever been truly terrified, and it wasn’t something that I wanted to feel again. Ever.

My ambulatory care tech and I went for the long journey to surgery. I cannot recall if this person was male or female, but I will call the person him, for sanity’s sake. I remember he was making small talk as we passed through the lengths of halls and doors. I did my best to reciprocate conversation; it’s rather difficult to talk through your emotions. It didn’t help matters much that I had started my monthly reminder I could still have children the day before. *sigh* It seemed like an eternity before we made it to the operating room; the room where I would be forever different when I left, than when I entered. When we arrived, I saw my surgeon, the anesthesiologist, and several other staff. I stood up out of my wheelchair to take my place in the surgical table. I took my position, stretched my arms out to the wings on the table, and I noticed T, my “Plastics Nurse” was there to pop in and say hi before I was put under. We chatted for a few seconds and the next thing I knew, the anesthesiologist was hooking me up. He spoke of what was happening, how I was going to feel, and as I looked around the room, I could feel the medicine working its’ way through my system; the room began to sway a bit and before I knew it, I was coming around in recovery. 

I remember feeling a sticker on my neck, behind my ear. I could barely open my eyes, and I asked the nurse what it was. She told me that it was an anti-nausea patch. What the hell did I need that for? I didn’t feel nauseous. I told her she could take it off, and I’m sure she looked at me like I was crazy when she told me, in fact, it was staying on. I barely remember the ride to my room, but when I got there I was flooded with people who were there for my well-being. My mom, the kids, my hubby, my best friends’ hubby, she was there, and her parents. I was still fairly lethargic, but I remember laughing about something, and I heard several of the people in the room giggling. Someone shouted, “She doesn’t have her teeth in,” followed by more laughs and a plea for anther smile. In case you were wondering, all of my teeth are porcelain. That’s a whole long story on its’ own. 

Soon enough it was time for everyone to go home. I was a bit upset that my hubby had to go home with the boy, but we couldn’t expect anyone else to take care of him for the night. I cried a little bit after he left, but I was relieved that P was staying with me that night so that I wouldn’t be alone. We were intermittently awake all night and I remember the first thing that I wanted to do when I woke up for the day was to see what it looked like, but I was covered in bandages. I peered through the top of them, pulling them back, just far enough to catch a glimpse. There was bright purple glue holding the skin together. a lot of it. I had my breasts removed, tissue expanders placed to make room for the implants, and I was glued shut with four JP drains gathering the fluid draining from the area. What a difference a day makes.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

I am starting a new venture in my life. I am waiting for a date for a gastric sleeve surgery because I cannot be this heavy anymore. I have tried diet and exercise, health plans, weight watchers, keto, everything. The truth is, after a life threatening illness like breast cancer that was fueled by estrogen, I now have to take an estrogen blocker for another 17 years. That’s 17 years of hot flashes, 17 years of gaining weight, and 17 years of feeling like complete crap - unless I do something to fix it. The milk man is finally on board, now we wait for surgery.

 What I don’t understand is, why when you tell your story to someone about getting the surgery done, their reaction is, “Really?! You are beautiful!”

 Hi.

I didn’t say I was ugly.

I said I was fat.

We need to do more as a culture to not link beauty to what the scale says.

#weightlosssurgery #bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Week two of chemo was easier

After realizing that I was going to be okay, heading to chemo wasn’t so scary. My second chemo was May 8, 2015. For the last two weeks, I had anxiously waited for my hair to begin falling out; I even would try to pull tufts of hair out, but so far, my hair was holding tight! As usual, we had to meet with my oncologist before to see how I was doing and to review my blood work. Initially, we thought we would try to change doctors and go with someone closer to home, but in hind sight, I couldn’t be happier that we stayed with her. 

Tami, the nurse, called me out from the waiting room, and we headed to the exam room. She took my blood pressure, monitored my pulse  and respirations, and then began with the standard questions: Any dizziness? Nausea or vomiting? Shortness of breath? Numbness or tingling in your hands or feet? On and on, until she came to the hair loss question. I proudly proclaimed, “Nope! Not yet!” She gave me the “oh really” look and said, “I bet you are! Take a pull.” So, as I was reaching up to tug against my scalp, I said, “Well, I tested it out last night and didn’t get anyth...” and right then and there, I pulled about 25 hairs out in one big clump! “Oh,” I said, “I guess it just happens like that, doesn’t it? Huh. Ok.”

We went upstairs to the chemo clinic, waited for my name to be called, and went into our suite. There was no apprehension, no scary feelings, and my nurse this week was really fun! I mentioned that my hair was coming out in chunks now and she said, “Yeah. . . That’s our fault,” and gave me a wink. I was pleasantly surprised to find that since I was not taking the Compazine® I was hungry. So, after we finished at the clinic, we went to have lunch. This became a standard for us. The hubby went with me to every single appointment I had. He didn’t miss one! And every week, after chemo, we went to lunch. Have I mentioned that I have the best husband in the entire world?

So, We had chemo on Fridays. After the second round, the next morning when I took a shower, washed my hair, and when I stepped out of the shower, I noticed that there was A LOT of hair down by the drain. I chuckled a little bit at how fast it seemed to happen, and called the hubby in to see it before I cleaned it out. He was just as amazed as I was! so, after talking about it, we decided that when my hair was dry, we were going to shave it off. So, we sat in the kitchen and did just that. I wanted to make sure that the little boy was going to be able to watch it happen so that the fact that I had no hair wasn’t going to be shocking for him; so that he could see me when it was done, and I wouldn’t look like a stranger to him. 

Peace

Video below.

https://www.facebook.com/marykaydeva75/videos/10153851677245719/

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Zofran® - Compazine® - Repeat.

So, here we are at home. It has now been about four hours after they gave me the IV meds for anti-nausea with instructions to take the Zofran® every eight hours, with a Compazine® side kick in the between-fourth hour. Essentially, I was to take a pill every four hours. My bestie had so lovingly advised me to set an alarm for every four hours so that I didn’t miss a dose; I was to stay on top of it to avoid being miserable. So, that’s what I did - for the next three days. 

What I didn’t realize was the the four hour medication was going to make me “sleepy”. Sleepy? More like, “Not be able to keep your eyes open for much longer than 20 minutes at a time; just long enough to nibble on something because you have to eat to keep your strength up, pee, and go back to the chair to sleep more,” (but that’s kind of too long to put on a bottle). I can remember two times on that first afternoon/evening when I thought I was going to throw up. I think out of sheer determination, I willed it away. Slow, deep breathing, (yes, kind of like having a baby) concentrating on that was my saving grace. The first time, I remember the hubby cracking the door open as I sat on the toilet bowl with the trash can on my lap, to check on me. He asked me if I was okay and all I could muster was a slight nod. He shut the door and within a minute or two, the feeling had passed. So, apparently, I DO remember what it feels like when you are going to be sick. PHEW!! No more worries of spontaneous vomiting. 

I recall E coming on Saturday to give me my shot; we chatted for a bit then she had to get back to the ball field where her family was. I slept downstairs Friday night, close to the bathroom just in case, but by Saturday night, I wanted to lay in my bed, so I did. By Sunday afternoon, I had not had anymore vomit scares so I decided to not take the four hour meds and see how that went. After 6 hours and no issues, I decided that I was done taking the Compazine®. All of a sudden, I noticed that I was hungry. Actually hungry. We went to my mom’s later that day because I desperately needed to get out of the house. I am pretty sure that we had sub sandwiches. Anyway, I started to feel pretty normal after that. I woke up Monday morning, milled around the house for a bit, then decided that I was going to work - unannounced to my boss/best friend. So, when I showed up around 10, everyone stared at me like I had three heads. But, they were glad to see that I was feeling good and ready to work.  I needed my life to be as normal as possible, so I made it that way.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

April 24, 2015: First Round of Chemotherapy

The (scary) day was here. I woke up that morning not knowing how I would feel by the end of the day. Not knowing if I was going to begin to throw up for days on end as the poison (yes, I said poison; that’s what it is) worked it’s way through my body. I really didn’t know how to throw up. I was 40 years old and the last time I vomited… I was 12. I have never had the stomach flu, that I remember, never vomited from food poisoning with the exception of when I was about 4, never had so much to drink that my stomach rejected it. The only reason I was sick at 12 was encephalitis; before that, it was one time when I was 6 and I got the chicken pox. I was terrified that I was going to throw up. Would I know it was going to happen before I did it, or was I just going to be sitting in the chair and throw up on myself? (Weird, right?) Well, as someone who hadn’t thrown up in 28 years, these were valid concerns. Anyway, it was time to go.

We took the boy to his grandparent’s house about 15 miles from the oncology clinic. When we told them about the diagnosis, they told us that they would watch him for every appointment that we had. Thank goodness for that, especially this first day. I couldn’t have done it alone. So, first we have to do a little blood work before seeing the doctor. She needed to check the levels of all the important stuff. 

When we arrived at the hospital, I went to meet with my oncologist. She really is a fabulous human being; not because she is a doctor and works on healing patients with life-threatening illness, I mean in general. At first, after my diagnosis, we thought about going to the oncology center closer to home; my doctor was pregnant and I would have to switch to see someone else in the office half way through my chemo rotation. In hindsight, I am glad that we stuck with the clinic that my best friend recommended. I am sure that any other clinic would have been just as good, but I have a personal relationship with with my oncologist. I am pretty sure that we spend at least 20 minutes of my office visits catching up on kids and parents and what-not.

So, after we met with the doctor she sent us out of the office into the hospital, up to the fifth floor at John Stoddard Cancer Center. We checked in at the desk, and went to sit down in the lobby until my name was called. There was a fish tank to look at, the TV was on, I’m pretty sure that it was playing “The Price Is Right”, and we waited. My nerves tensed up a little bit every time the door opened and I would hold my breath until someone was called. Finally, they called my name; I had to force myself to exhale and put on my award winning smile. Batter, UP!

I can’t imagine being a nurse, let alone one who induces poison into people on a daily basis. They are so used to what they do, that they don’t even really think about it. She was chatty, talking about how long she’d been doing this and what I was to expect. She explained that before any medicine, she was going to give me a combination of anti-nausea and steroids to boost the anti-nausea meds. She hooked me up to the drip, placed the settings, and left the room; like this was no big deal. As she started to leave, I had a sudden realization that this was my life, I was hooked up to a pole that was going to administer something into my body to kill what was potentially killing me. I turned my head away from the door, covered my eyes, and cried a silent cry as the tears streamed down my face onto the pillow. I heard my hubby begin to cry because I was. I can't imagine how scared he was.

As soon as the anti nausea meds were completed, here came the nurse again holding three vials of bright red liquid, dressed in full protective gear, with a plastic glass of ice chips. She asked me if I was ready. Well… No? Can anyone really ever be ready for something like this? All I had heard for the last few months was about how horribly sick this was going to make me, how I would lose my hair, lose a bunch of weight, (ok, I WAS ready for that. LOL), and what a terrible thing it was going to be. Sure. Sign me up. Duh. (Not my picture below.)

So, she explains that the reason she is dressed like this was because Cytoxan is a harsh medicine and if it is accidentally ingested, it could ruin her ovaries and she wasn’t done having children. Oh. Good. I’d like a double dose. That makes it sound really scary. Good thing I was done having children.  The ice chips were because this medicine has the potential (and the probability) to cause terrible blisters in my mouth. Again… sign me up for a double because that sounds fun! This medicine cannot be in an IV bag because it would break down the materials of the bag, so it came in syringes; hard, plastic syringes. Once she was done with that she left to get the bag of Adriamycin. Two medicines for four weeks - I wondered what that cost. (Found that out, holy crap!) Anyway, since the nurses just pushed copious amounts of liquid into my system, I know had to use the restroom. I had forgotten that she told me that my urine would be a different color so it was kind of shocking to see dark orange when I flushed. Anyway, back to the bed for more poison I went. 

When it was all said and done, the nurse came by with a “to-go shot” of Neulasta®.  This was to boost my body to make more white blood cells. Good, those are pretty necessary if I am going to stay “healthy”. So, my diabetic husband, who doesn’t like needles, was supposed to give me a shot? Pshhhh, yeah right. Good thing a lot of my friends are nurses! I called E and she was more than happy to come do it the next day. We also had two different kinds of anti-nausea medication. One was a four hour, the other an eight hour. I was instructed to take them continuously for the next few days. So I did. More on that later.

Peace

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

The day before my first chemo I had to have a small operation to place the port. This device is placed in your body with a direct line to your artery, which will speed up the absorption of the chemotherapy drugs. It was a simple, outpatient procedure, quick, and relatively painless, except for when you bumped it, or had to use it for the first few weeks. Mine was the second from the left, placed about four inches below the collar bone on my right side. This is also the place where they collect all of your blood for any kind of blood work. IT sure did make things easier, but that first use was a bitch! Talk about tender!! 

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

So. . . now what?

After my surgery I was pronounced “cancer free”. We met with my oncologist a few weeks after my mastectomy. She was going to tell us if we were going to do chemotherapy, radiation, or both. I have always been one to look at things in a different light than others. She told us that my estrogen receptors were positive. That meant that my cancer was fueled by estrogen. One of the very things that made me a woman had been making the cancerous cell growth go into overdrive. Crap. So, that meant that we would have to do chemo. Taking the harsh chemotherapy drugs was going to be an extra kick on the chance that they missed something. Preventative maintenance, it is. 

OK.

She explained to us that the first four rounds of chemo that I was to take were hard. Hard on my body; hard on my immune system; hard on my stomach. My first four rounds of chemo would be two weeks apart since the medicine was so harsh. It was a two-medicine event. The first one being Cytoxan, a.k.a. “Red Devil”, (because that put my mind at ease. . .), the second was Adriamycin. Two weeks after that was completed, I had to come every week for 12 weeks. She said that medicine was called Taxol, and it would be a cake walk in comparison. 

OK.

Something to look forward to, I guess. As we were leaving the appointment that day, the hubby was kind of bummed. He was bummed that I had to do chemo at all. That’s when I stopped him in the hall way. I stopped in the middle of the hall and looked him dead in the eyes and said, “ Yeah, that’s not the news we wanted, but she said that this will reduce my recurrence rate immensely, and I only have to do the nasty hard one four times. That’s better than what other people hear. We can do this.” He agreed, and decided that he was going to look at it the way that I was; now, it wasn’t as horrible as he once thought. So, we moved forward, and waited for the first chemotherapy session.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

This new body.

I spent the next two days in the hospital, making friends with the nursing staff. We talked about my Mary Kay business, my kids, who would visit every few hours, and life in general. If someone in my family wasn’t there, someone from my best friends’ family was. I was waiting around for the inevitable  bowel system to start working on it’s own so that I could go home. I had noticed that I was not in a considerable amount of pain by Wednesday evening, but I really didn’t think very much of it. They just kept coming in to give me my rounds of pain medication and take my vitals. They always give you the good stuff in the hospital.

They taught me how to take care of my drains; man that is kind of gross. But, they were mine, attached to the inner parts of my chest wall, and I couldn’t expect anyone else to do it for me. The output had to be measured with each time I drained it. The good thing? Once I got down to less than 50 mL a day, they could take the drains out and I could go back to work. I went home Thursday evening, March 5, 2015, to sit around and heal. I realized that by Friday morning, I wasn’t having the pain they said I would be having, so I stopped taking the narcotics they sent home with me. Again, I didn’t think much of it.

By that day, I was DONE sitting around and had decided that I needed to get out of the house. I had grabbed one of my favorite shirts and a pair of leggings that went well with it. I put my leggings on, then I put on the shirt and went back downstairs to brush my teeth and get ready to go. That’s when I noticed it, looking in the mirror. I saw how differently my shirt was hanging. Before my mastectomy, I was a 42DDD; now. . . there was nothing holding my shirt away from my body. IT just hung there. Flat against my body. Lifeless. It was incredibly shocking. So much that when I left the bathroom, I sat down in the recliner and just stared at the television. The hubby could tell something was wrong so he asked me. I got up, left the living room, and went into the kitchen hoping to avoid him as I told him “nothing”. But he followed me, he knew better. He stopped my in the middle of the kitchen and asked again, able to see the tears in my eyes. All I could get out was, “My shirt looks funny,” and I fell into his arms. He hugged me and we both cried a little bit, but then he lifted my head and told me I didn’t look funny, I looked alive.

That weekend, we went to the farm where my best friend lived and I shot a gun for the first time. It’s funny how you want to learn new things when you have a life altering event. Turns out, I’m a pretty good shot. Now, what I had forgotten from what the nursing staff had told me was that, the more I moved my arms around, the more fluid would be draining. So, after that weekend, I had resigned myself to the chair with minimal use of my arms. I was going back to work, dammit! The hubby went back to work the following week and I was home with the boy. We arranged for someone to be with me all the time because I had to rest more in order to get the tubes out. Most of the time it was the kids, but there were a few times when we had to call someone in to sit in and play with Carson so that I could rest. Again, there was no pain, so sitting around was exponentially more difficult. That Thursday, I had my check up at the plastic surgeon’s office. He removed the tubes, and I went to work the very next day. WOOT!

Never underestimate the power of a woman with an agenda.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

If anyone is interested in learning the different processes. Watch the video.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Summertime

I’m not going to lie, staying home for the Summer while taking chemotherapy drugs was not too bad of a deal. There was enough time to rest when I needed to, but mostly because I got to hang with my kid all day, every day. We went to play at the park, we had picnics, we went to the Science Center, we did ALL of the fun stuff! I am not sure who liked it more, the boy, or myself. It was a glorious time. Now, I say that knowing full well that there were days when I  needed to adult interactions in my life. That is why I went to work one day a week for a previous employer. It was nice seeing familiar faces in the restaurant. A lot of them would gasp when they saw my bald head; they had no idea what I was doing now that they didn’t see me every week. I would wear a hat there because for people who I didn’t know, seeing my bald head made them uncomfortable. I could have walked around all day without something covering the skin on my head, but I could tell that others would get a little freaked out about it so, a hat it was. 

The hot flashes started shortly after I began staying home. This chemo medicine that I was taking was RUINING my ovaries. I was ok with that, I mean... I was totally done using them, anyway. The nicest thing about it was that I stopped having my monthly reminder that I could still have children. Again, YES PLEASE! They warned you about stuff like that. You know, the BIG stuff that was happening as a side effect from the chemo. But then, there was the stuff that they didn’t warn you about. Like, I am sure that it is routine for them, but it’s the little side effects that they don’t think to tell you about. For instance, when they tell you you are going to lose all of you hair, you think, bald head, no shave; stuff like that. BUT! When they say you will lose all of your hair, they mean you will lose ALL of you hair - like, your eyebrows, your eyelashes, and the hair inside of your nostrils. Did you realize that those little hairs inside of your nostrils have a job to do? Huh! Neither did I. But, I can now tell you that they do, in FACT, serve a purpose. Their job is not only to act as a guard for your sinuses in the form of keeping out harmful things in the air, but they actually help slow down the mucus (snot) as it exits your nose, and form those salty, dirty boogers that toddlers love to find. Yep! You heard me, I said boogers. Guess what happens when you don’t have the little hairs in there to help with all of that. . . you get a runny nose ALL THE TIME! Literally, like, always. I should have taken stock in Puffs that Summer.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Saying taa-taa to the Ta-tas!

So, my oldest child’s birthday is the day after Valentine’s Day. She had been talking about the two of us going to dinner to celebrate. I thought it was strange that she wanted it to just be us two, but it was her 21st birthday. No big deal. So, I met her after work. I thought it was exceptionally weird that she wanted to go to a place that we never go, but I chalked it up to her wanting to try a new place, and the fact that she was 21 and wanted to order her first drink. I asked my mom if she wanted to come along. Her best friend was in town from North Carolina, and she said that they were going gambling. Not out of the ordinary, so I took it as a solid declination. I worried all day about what I was going to find to eat at a place that I had only been two once before. I decided that I would just get some tacos and drink the rest of dinner.

We rode together to dinner, and chatted the entire time about random stuff. When we got to the restaurant she looked at the host and he motioned her to the room in the back, by the bar. I followed her into the room to find my people. There was my mom and C, my best friend and the other nurse from work, my daycare provider, and two of the other girls in my circle. These were my people. They wanted to give me a night out, to say goodbye to my poisonous boobs. We ate, we drank, (a lot) and we had a great time. My friends are the best.

Peace.

#BCwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

I now had a month before my mastectomy. I went to my MRI alone, because there was no reason to take anyone with me. I had to lay there for (I think) an hour and a half, if memory serves me correctly. I had headphones that were playing music into my ears where I could also hear the tech, and still, the sound of the images being recorded were loud. Time was irrelevant while I was in the MRI lens. I relaxed and listened to the music coming through and remained still so that there were good pictures for review, I sure as hell didn’t want to do this again. It was boring. When it was over, I sent a picture of the marks the machine had left on my chest. It was one of the last times that we would ever photograph my natural breasts. (Yes, we DID take pictures of them for the hubby and I. We were saying goodbye to them!) After the pictures were made and sent off to the doctor, I went to work.

They reviewed the images and we found out that the tumor was substantial in size. it measured 5cm x 3cm x 2cm. Now, I realize that in the world, that is not a large item by any means, but in the breast cancer world, it was HUGE. FIVE centimeters. I had been unknowingly grooming a tiny cell that did not replicate correctly for some time now. Helping it grow into the big scary monster that it was today. Who knows how long it took for me to nurture that until that day. It could have been years. Next, to meet with the plastic surgeon.

When we met with him, he was very factual. He informed us of what the process was, that he was going to place expanders in between the muscle walls in my upper chest, that he would piggyback his surgery to my breast surgery, and that after he placed the tissue-expanders I would have a series of appointments with him to push saline into them; this process would allow my muscle walls to accepts their new positions gradually so that I did not have shocking pain. It sounded like routine to us, so we went with whatever all of the doctors said. I mean, this WAS uncharted territory, after all. Now, all we had to do was decide the size of my new boobs! This was an interesting process. You know what they do when you go to a jewelry store and they size you for a ring? Those little circles on a huge ring? Well… it’s the same concept when choosing a breast size. He held one up to my chest, shook his head and flipped to the next one, shook his head again, and flipped to the biggest one and said, “Well’p, looks like this is what we have to work with!” (I tried to find a picture of the tool he used, but the internet was relentless today and not cooperating.)

There are two different types of breast implants for us to choose between. Some are filled with saline, and some are filled with a silicone gel. Now, before you get all freaked out about the silicone and how bad it is for you, listen up. There have been many advances in breast implantation and now we are dealing with much better products in this day and age. The membrane of an implant is much more stable than previously, and the silicone is a self cohesive gel so that, in the unlikely event the membrane does actually rupture, the gel will not leak into your body and make you sick. I promise. you can find more information about reconstructive breast surgery here.

http://ww5.komen.org/BreastCancer/BreastReconstruction.html

The hubby and I had decided that, with as young as I was, and as large as my breasts were, we couldn’t take the one with the tumor and leave the other. I wasn’t going to do this again, and the largest my plastic surgeon could make the implants and have it still be covered by insurance was 800 CC’s. That’s about a C cup, on a GOOD day. So, a C cup on the right and a DDD on the left would have been painfully hysterical. So, we made our decision and kept moving forward. I gave your a few pictures for your curiosity.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

What the f@%k just happened?

We received the call on January 24th that my husband’s grandmother had passed. This was our first death in the family as a couple. My heart broke for my husband. We worked through it. Just like we work through everything. By the time her visitation came, everyone know about the boat we were rocking in, and we got many words of comfort for all of the issues that were in our lives.

I was settling in to my diagnosis. My psychic best friend had decided that she could not see death around me and that I was going to make it through this with flying colors. So, while I was worried, I wasn’t worried, (if that makes any sense at all). We were all inching toward the MRI, patiently waiting, and continuing life. I remember it had not been a particularly bad year for snow, but it was really cold and super windy at times. Despite the weather, my mom still made her trek to the nursing home. There were days when he was agitated, and days when he was normal, and there were days when he would sleep the whole time. I remember, on 30th of January (Friday), my mom called me. That wasn’t abnormal, but she could hardly form words. She called to tell me that she was meeting with a hospice nurse for Dad and she wanted me to be there. Dammit. Hospice. For my Dad.

She called me because she knew I would want to be there. I would want to go. So, I went. While we were waiting for the nurse to get there, I watched how Dad was acting. He was grabbing at things that were not there, trying to pull of the adult diaper that he had on, and he was generally agitated. This was not my Dad. This was not who he was. My Dad was a hoot! He was my roller coaster buddy. Always up for an adventure. This man was grouchy, irritable, and fierce. He was restless. I went to the appointment and we talked about the next steps. Those steps could take up to two weeks or longer. I have only seen my Mom cry once before that day. It was the day that he had his aneurysm and they gave him six hours to live. That was in 1991. I left and went back home when it was done. I knew in my heart that this was going to be a horribly difficult, but needed transition. It would mean for my Dad that he no longer had to live like this. I made the phone calls. To my children, to my siblings, to my mom’s friends, and to my friends. I had to tell people that my Dad was dying. Dying. What?

I talked to my sister, who was a nurse before she retired, after she left the nursing home. She said with the way he was acting, she would be surprised if he made it 48 hours. So, not only was he dying, but it was going to be soon. So, I called everyone else again to tell them to come now. My youngest brother never came. My youngest brother was an alcoholic with more demons that we could imagine. You’ll hear more about that later. Everyone else visited. The remaining three siblings and I. By Sunday, he was sleeping and non-responsive. We sat around his bed at the nursing home and talked, like there wasn’t a man lying (literally) on his death bed. I brought my mom dinner that night so that she didn’t have to eat the food at the nursing home, and I asked her if she was going to go home because there was a big wind storm that was going to blow all the dry snow on the ground around. She said there was no way that anyone could get her to leave. I went home after a while. With a heavy heart and a racing mind, I went to bed. And then, in the middle of the night, my phone rang.

I knew why it was ringing. I picked up the phone and my mom whimpered, “He’s gone,” and I told her I would be right there. I tried to call K to get her up so that she could come, but she didn’t answer. I called her again and again as I was getting dressed; no answer. I struggled to get my clothes on. The hubby was up to help me. He hugged me for a while and we both cried. A was sleeping in the basement, she had a friend over and they liked to stay down there because they didn’t have to be as quiet as in her bedroom. I called down to her, and she jumped up, (abnormal for my teenager) and came up the stairs. She already knew he was gone. I tried to call K again and again as we drove the mile to the nursing home. Still nothing. Everything was surreal, moving in slow motion. I walked into the nursing home with my 16 year old beside me and went to his room. The night nurse was crying, we were all crying. I sat down in the chair beside my dad’s bed and looked at his lifeless body.  It was crazy to think that Never again would he see me come in to a room and say, “What are YOU doing here,” or “Not YOU again!” I would never see the light in his eyes when he saw my son. And I would never get to laugh with him again. Reality check.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Tuesday came, as well.

While memory escapes me now, the hubby followed me to work that next day. I think he was going to go spend time with his family again at the hospice house. I remember walking into the office that day, and P and her husband M were there. The instant he saw me he threw his arms around me and hugged me, almost as tight as his wife hugged me the day before. I saw him shake my hubbys’ hand after that while I went to hang my coat. The air was so heavy in the office that morning. We all had breakfast and coffee together. The conversation was as usual, life, kids, work, etc. Then, M went to work, the hubby left for the hospice center, P and I started working, until I had to leave for the clinic. I had to meet with E (my care coordinator) and I was lined up for genetic testing today.

I drove to the clinic, and sat and waited for someone to call my name. I followed her to a tiny office where we sat on each side of the desk. She began her schpeel… telling of how genetic testing works, the fact that if I did not test positive for the BRCA genes, my children would not because it is genetically passed on the maternal side. I remember that she said, “it’s pretty easy to understand. BR = breast, CA = cancer, didn’t take a genius to come up with that,” and we giggled. Soon, my care coordinator scrambled in, introduced herself, said a few things about not being alone, and i flashed back to that panicked part of me that was telling me that I could leave my family behind because of this. Then, the scared me came out to play and I cried a little bit. I got a few hugs and gathered myself. I got a text from P saying that she DESPERATELY needed a safety pin because the button on her pants had fallen off. I giggled to myself and the genetic counselor and the nurse who was there with us looked at me. I explained to them what had happened and asked if either of them had a safety pin. The nurse ran to her office and returned with a pin for me to take back to work with me. I even took a picture of her to send to P so that she knew I would be returning with one. I saved her day!!

Upon my return to work, I helped pin some pants together, and we sat in my office area gettin’ down to business. We decided that my tumor needed a name. I mean, it had a blood source and it was growing, and it was mine.  It was to be something sinister because it was evil and was trying to kill me, but we could never pick on that we could both agree on. Yes, this is how our minds work. We were still working on accreditation, diligently, every day. We were training a new nurse, the only non-management nurse that we had, so I spent a lot of my time at work alone in the office. Most of the time I could keep my mind busy on work, but then there were other times where I would stray from work and begin to think about the weight of the situation I was up against.

The next few weeks dragged on like waiting to watch water boil. We all had an eye appointment with out favorite eye doctor. She tried a year or so ago to get me into bifocals. Dammit. Really? Bifocals? Fine, you win. Aside from that, I was my usual peppy self most of the time, but sometimes, I would be watching my son play outside and get sad about the thought of him potentially growing up with out me, my husband raising him alone, and my girls not having me around for the things that girls need their mothers for. Those moments were not uncommon, but i didn’t dwell on the negative very much. When faced with something this monumental, you have to have faith and not let things this big drag you down. Being positive is the only way to be. I was relieved when my best friend, (a bit of a clairvoyant, if you will) told me that she did not see death around me. After being around her for more than 20 years, that gave me peace. On to the MRI.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015

[milkmanslady]

Back to work.

The next morning, I was to go meet with my newly appointed Care Coordinator and get genetically tested for either one of the two the BRCA (pronounced ‘brekka’) genes. D and I got into her car and drove the two miles back to my office. She asked me if I wanted her to come in with me. There was no question about it, the answer was yes. I was armed with my packet, and the book. We went down the stairs to the office and into the entry door. There was another door to go through to get into the office area. It was locked. I had to knock because I left my keys at work since D was driving. I knocked on the door, holding my book out in front of me. When P opened the door, she looked at me, and saw the book in my hands and then, once again, I couldn’t speak. I held the book in front of me. She looked at me, she looked at the book, and gasped, said “What? No!”, and threw her arms around me and we both began to cry. I don’t think we moved for at least a minute.Then, she looked at me and said, “You WILL beat this.”

I took a deep breath, came into the office, and grabbed a cup of coffee. My next job was to call my hubby and tell him what the doctor said. He was in the car on the way to see his grandmother and the rest of his family. This was the hardest call I have ever had to make. How do you tell your husband that you have breast cancer? How do you tell him that you have a disease that could possibly take you away from him? From your family? Another deep breath, and a phone call. I remember that he didn’t even say hello, he said, “What did they say?” When I told him, of course he was a scared as I was, he began to cry, and told me that he was going to turn around and come to me. I stopped him and told him to go be with his family because they needed to hear the news and he had them for comfort. I was here with two of my best friends for support. He told me he felt like he was going to be sick. It was a terrifying thing. I got him calmed down, he went to his family and informed them. I was so glad that his brother was there, (he lives in Florida). The rest of the day was spent in disbelief. Before D left she told me she was going to my oldest daughter’s house to be there when I made the call to her. That was a rough call as well. When I told her, she hung up the phone on me. She needed time to process the information that I had just given her. I get it. That’s how she has been all of her life.

I reached out to my family and friends, one by one to let them know. I called my circle, to tell them before I out it out into the world. I called them, one by one, to tell them. I called my friends to tell them of the importance of a breast exam and to definitely get their first mammogram when they turn 40. I did. And now I was here. It’s October, people. Breast Cancer isn’t going away. Get your mammogram. Do your self breast exams. It could save your life.

Peace.

#bcwarrior2015