I was not in a good way last week. This Monday didn't help (does it ever? What a jerk.)
We kicked things off with my (super genius) plastic surgeon. He filled us in on some things. Like the terrible (but super genius) stuff he is going to do to my body.
Paul: "I don't know if it's my super low hemoglobin or the description of your surgery, but I felt really lightheaded in that appointment."
You and me both, dude.
I don't do gore. Put on an episode of Game of Thrones and I see maybe 20%. The rest I mostly spend with my face covered, shrieking, "no no no no no no no no no stop stop stop stop stop stop." But surgeons don't mind talking about blood and muscle and great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts. It's their thing. They like it. And thank God they do.
I'll spare you the parts that had my head spinning. Basically, this is what's going down on Monday September 11th:
- My surgical oncologist will remove the implant in my right breast.
- He will cut away loads of tissue and chest muscle. How much exactly will depend on what the pathology tells him. Either way, when he's finished there is going to be a massive "hole" where my breast once was. This hole goes beyond where my breast once was, in fact. He drew on me with purple pen to mark just how massive this hole is going to be. It made me weepy the next morning while I was getting dressed.
- Here's where things get interesting: my plastic surgeon will have this massive hole to contend with, right. He can't leave me like that, right. He has to find a way to close me up. There are a few ways this could go:
PLAN A. Best case scenario: he's able to stretch the skin over my chest and stomach to meet and close the hole. This would make everyone very happy. It will look ugly, but hey, no option at this point is going to be pretty. There is one tiny little hiccup with this approach, though -
Dr. S.: "I don't know if you're aware of this about yourself...but you are really thin."
One instance in life where this does NOT benefit my health! I don't have a lot of extra skin to work with, which complicates the closure. Thanks to Ingrid, the skin over my tummy is a little more pliable, but you can only stretch skin so far. Which is why we have...
PLAN B. If he's unable to seal me up with what skin is left on my torso, he'll turn to my thigh for a skin graft. For whatever reason, this is the part that made me feel like passing out. The problem with this plan is that the graft may be too thin to withstand radiation (which I will need.) It could end up as a singed & blistered mess, prone to infection. And so we turn to...
PLAN C. If that doesn't pan out, he will take a chunk of my latissimus dorsi (lowerback-to-armpit muscle) to patch up my front. OR he might combine PLAN B with PLAN C to ensure a thicker graft that will be protected from radiation.
So you see, there are options. We like options, normally. And yet. It's the uncertainty of the final outcome here that sets my teeth on edge.
When I woke up from my first mastectomy, I was met with good results and a happy surprise: implants are already in place! No need for expanders! Will it be champagne or pink wine, m'lady?
When I wake up from this 2nd surgery, well. It's anyone's guess.
Plus. That thigh slicing bit. *shudder*
Paul: "The part about slicing your thigh made you sick?! That's the least of it. What about all that other rearranging he might have to do?? He was like 'I'll just flip this muscle sideways, then stretch this one over, then turn this part upside down, pull it to the right, to the left, up, down, left, right, take it out, put it in, flip-flop, flip-flop, flip!!!"
Aaaaaand this whole cancer still being in my body thing - Uncool. I try with all my heart not to think about it spreading. But I'm no magician. My brain goes where it wants to go. Sometimes where it wants to go is a dark and scary torture cell. It's not the brightest.
In the meantime, I've started taking Tamoxifen, an "anti-estrogen" pill that will help slow the growth of breast cancer cells. (My particular cancer feeds on estrogen.) The side effects are fun! It's like going through menopause! (hot flashes, mood swings, nausea, low libido...) Fun!
And Paul's wooziness? NOT just a reaction to all this talk of slicing and dicing. It turns out (surprise, surprise) his hemoglobin had dropped to 7.1. (the normal range for men is 13.5-17.5) Low hemoglobin is sort of his thing. That and making a killer White Chicken Chili. But White Chicken Chili doesn't make you short of breath. It doesn't make you so fatigued you can hardly move. We love White Chicken Chili. We don't love low hemoglobin. Quite frankly, it sucks.
Because of his low counts, Paul spent upwards of 7-8 hours getting a blood transfusion two days ago at Roswell. Usually, these are accomplished with zero complications. He had complications. It's not been our week (year?)
First, his mediport has been a finicky pain in the arse lately. It refused to cooperate again, so the nurses had to give up and go with a vein. Way to be a team player, mediport.
Second, his temperature spiked during the transfusion, so Paul had to sweet talk himself out of a hospital stay. (It went back down by the time he came home, phew.)
Third, his intestines were feeling the pain yesterday. I don't think I need to elaborate on this point.
No more bad news. You get enough of that on TV.
After convalescing at the "Hall Bed & Breakfast" (AKA my dad & stepmom's digs) for almost a month, I am finally well enough to watch Ingrid solo and carry laundry upstairs. So we've moved back into our house in Buffalo, a step in the right direction. I wish I was able to express how thankful I am for their care and hospitality. (I mean, guys, we're talking Tim Horton's. Every morning.)
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| "A nap? Seriously, dad? Don't make me laugh." |
Got that sunshine in my pocket...
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