Not to Bum You Out on a Friday, But...

It's been a not good week.

I've stalled on this post for a couple of days now. I didn't want to write it. I had to let the thoughts swirl around my head for a bit like glitter suspended in a snow globe before they settled into a more decipherable pattern. Also, I needed to be able to type without tears blurring my vision (oy vey). I can do that now, so no more dodging the subject.

I got some bad news from my surgical oncologist on Tuesday.

After quickly checking on my incision sites he sat with his head down and said, "We need to talk." (up there with "I want a divorce" and "we're out of cheese" as one of the most stressful 4-word sentences in the English language.)

WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE NEED TO TALK?! What is there to talk about aside from how I'm winning at this whole mastectomy business and look I can almost raise my arms above my head and could you excuse me for a minute because I'm going to go throw up now, thanks.

"I've been dreading this conversation. It's not something I could tell you on the phone."

"OK."

"We got the pathology back and I'm afraid the edges tested positive for cancer."

"OK."

"I'm going to have to reoperate."

"Oh Kaaaaaay.... Oh. What?"

To put things plainly: the pathology indicates there is STILL cancer in my body. It's microscopic, lurking in my chest muscle, beyond the mastectomy lines. My surgeon needs to perform another  full mastectomy on my right side, removing even more tissue this time around. Reconstruction, at this point, will most likely not be an option.

At some point in the discussion (the bulk of which I spent stupefied, stuttering "ok, ok, ok...") I chanced a tearful look at Paul. Can we all just agree that seeing your husband with his head in his hands, racked with sobs, is just the worst? Yes Liz, they all said in unison. It's the absolute worst.

It's a wonder I retained as much of that conversation as I did.

And I was doing so well! I was healing beautifully. I was pleased with my reconstruction, and I was finally feeling like a whole person again. I was arriving at confidence and comfort in my new skin.

Now I feel rather like I've been handed the lottery only to have it retracted a few weeks later.

Or I'm the mistakenly crowned Miss Universe in that whole mixed up debacle. So sorry, but we'll be taking that tiara back, sweetheart. Psych! 

On top of the world one minute. Fist to the gut the next.

Before this bloody appointment, I was beginning to feel well enough to resume my primary role as caregiver. An important goal because my family needs me to not be sick. My family needs me to get a job and potty-train Ingrid. I have no room in my life for cancer anymore. It needs to go away.

I won't lie. I sulked for a full 48 hours about things. Still a bit sulky, really. It's just the working stuff out in my brain that takes time. It's no easy task, assigning meaning and clarity to all of these ugly feelings. My brain will get there, eventually, churning them out piece by piece.

Just not today.

That appointment was only one of four this week (not to mention an hour-long visiting nurse session yesterday). I am spent.

For the record, I did have an entirely different post lined up for today. One that didn't revolve around me, me, me. I'm not the only one with cancer in this family, after all. An update on Paul should be forthcoming, I promise.