We Need To Be OK with Not Being OK

In case you were wondering, here are ten ordinary tasks that are impossibly hard to do after a mastectomy:

1. getting out of bed 
2. getting into bed
3. getting comfortable enough to sleep in said bed 
4. opening the refrigerator 
5. opening pill bottles 
6. opening anything 
7. staying awake for more than a few hours at a time 
8. putting on t-shirts 
9. sitting on the same couch as a squirmy 3-year-old 
10. updating your blog, apparently

Things went fine on Monday. As fine as these things can go. No complications, unless you count a bout of nausea so severe it made me reach for the call light. I LOATHE using the call light, so yes, it was that bad. 

No skin grafts were necessary for the wound closure. Thrilling news! We are so, so pleased about that.

By Tuesday afternoon, I was home. I�ve been sleeping ever since. I wouldn�t be surprised if Ingrid equates adulthood with perpetual naps and constant doctors' appointments. Because that is what the adults in her life do: sleep and go to the doctor. She may never want to grow up.

How does this surgery compare to the one I had in July?

Pain level is about the same. Very controllable with meds. This time around, though, it�s like my body is confused about where exactly surgery took place. I have zero pain at my incision site. For the most part, the right half of my torso is entirely numb. Scar tissue and all that.

You know where I hurt? My bum. Swear to God. The pain starts at my lower back and radiates down to my derri�re and upper thighs. My surgeon anticipated lower back pain because of all the skin-stretching going on, so I�m not concerned. Just sore.

�I�m fine, I�m fine, I�m fine, I�m fine, I'm...What Were We Talking About?�

How am I doing emotionally? Eh. The first few days after surgery, your brain can only process things on the most basic survivalist level. You just want to rest, to stop hurting, to be able to stomach a bowl of oatmeal, to heal.

Days pass, and you start to feel better physically. Your brain has enough fuel to move beyond �let�s just stay alive today.� This is where the emotional distress creeps in, ever so stealthily. Or maybe it kicks in the door full-force, robbing you blind and leaving you for dead.

I�d say, on an emotional level, I am coping less than perfectly. I�m not locking myself in the bathroom to cry all day or anything. Most of the time, I�m somewhat getting through my day. When I wake up, I brush my teeth and give my kid cereal. But there�s a new heaviness with this second surgery. Partly because I�m anxious about the pathology results. Partly because I�m unhappy with the way I look. Partly because I feel guilty about being unhappy with the way I look. (Emotions are ALL over the map. Tamoxifen isn�t doing me any favors, either.)

In our house, there�s this chorus that echos repeatedly: �I�m fine, I�m fine, I�m fine, I�m fine.�

�I�m tired, but I�m fine.�
�It�s painful, but I�ll live.�
�I�m repulsed by my own skin, but haha, can�t complain!�

I will live. And there�s plenty more reason for me to be happy with my life than to complain. BUT...am I really fine? Is that seriously the best adjective I can come up with to describe my current emotional state? Am I really 100% OK with having my chest butchered like a slab of meat? No. I would say, um, not.

Yesterday was the first time I really looked at my body without clothing. Like really looked at it.

I grossed me out.

I have an 8-inch incision that runs diagonally from my right armpit to just past the middle of my chest. It meets with a curvy 5-inch vertical cut running down the right side of my torso.

The scars are unpretty, but I can live with them. What bothers me is my lopsidedness - there�s still an implant where my left breast used to be. I�m all for nixing both implants to achieve some balance. At this juncture, however, my doctor didn�t want to add more surgery to what was already a major operation. He preferred to minimize even the smallest risk of complication or infection, and rightly so.

I will be okay. When I am. Until that time, I�m going to be a little bit sad about my less-than-terrific uni-boob. I�m going to be mildly (and temporarily) unhinged while I�m waiting for test results.

You Don�t Need to Bury Your Ugly Feelings Beneath a Layer of Rainbow Sprinkles and Unicorns

Besides, I�m more than tired of these sparkly images of women jumping right back in the saddle after breast surgery. I�m tired of the trite Pinterest memes about �cancer-thriving� (yes, that is a commonly used term) and �feeling strong and beautiful in your skin� right after a mastectomy. It�s total hogwash. I feel the opposite of �strong and beautiful in my skin.� I�m self-conscious and uncomfortable with my asymmetry. 

It takes time (and counseling and drugs and prayer) to achieve that kind of peace. Let�s not kid ourselves.

Let�s also let ourselves be sad. And angry. And human. Why are we so quick to deny our suffering in front of people? In front of ourselves, even? Why are we obsessed with being okay with NOT okay things? Why do we strive to put a positive spin on every last thing that happens to us?

Because we want our sad stories to come with happy endings. We like our challenges in life to come paired with a cute corresponding morality nugget. Pain is more digestible when it's tastefully wrapped in hip kraft paper and sealed with a bow. We like it to be tidy and meaningful. 

Plain old suffering is not the stuff of inspirational Instagram posts. It�s icky, and it makes us uncomfortable, and we don�t like it!

Poking around an Internet cancer support forum, I found a thread where a woman was struggling with her husband�s recent setback in treatment. She was seeking advice on how to remain optimistic in the face of less than hopeful circumstances.

One response barbed me. It read something like, �you just push through it - that�s all there is to it. Never let your husband see your doubt. You must stay optimistic at all times in front of him.�

Nope. No and no! We all work through things differently, but this is just bad advice.

I�m not advocating indulgent sniveling marathons. I�m not suggesting this woman throw in the towel or that she view life through the murky lens of bitterness.

What I�m suggesting is that she ought to be HUMAN. She�s entitled to feel feelings. Even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones. It would likely do her husband good to witness the occasional cry, too. You can still be someone�s rock even if you�re sometimes sad about the hard things in your life.

It�s Okay to Not Be Okay

I�ve been both a caregiver to my husband and a cancer patient myself, so I feel like I have the authority to say: It was OKAY to see my husband struggle with my diagnosis. It was OKAY to see him cry on my behalf. It was OKAY for him to lose it for 10 seconds when I took my bandages off this week.

I mean, it sucked big time to see him so distraught. It wasn�t pleasant (remind me - what part of cancer is?) But it made me feel loved in a very raw and personal and honest way.

Truthfully, it would have irked the shit out of me if his only response to my distress during chemo was a plucky, �You�ll get through it, honey. I believe in you!� It would have been kind of uncool if he was smiling in fake optimism while my breast surgeon explained that my mastectomy had resulted in �dirty margins� and I would be needing another surgery.

It is perfectly reasonable and healthy to run the gamut of emotions here. Cancer will do that to you. Life will do that to you.

As the lovely writer Nora McInerny puts it:

�The cure for grief is not �be not sad� and the cure for anger isn�t �be unangry!� It�s feeling all of these things, even the uncomfortable ones, without judging yourself for them.�

Right on!

So feel your feelings. The gross, painful ones too. Stop apologizing for them. Work with them and through them.

That�s how we�ll arrive at being okay. Not by pretending things are brilliant when they aren't. That only leaves others confused and worse - ashamed about their own ugly feelings. 

Instead, let's be helpful by being honest. Let's give ourselves permission to be something other than "fine." Let's be okay when we're ready to be okay. 

Photo courtesy of  Amen Clinics"Paper Smile" (CC BY-SA 2.0) 

Yes, Hi. I'll Take Another Mastectomy and a Blood Transfusion, Thanks!

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.)

"A nap? Seriously, dad? Don't make me laugh."

This was the SECOND time we've recovered at their place (Paul's last surgery in 2014) and I can say without reservation if you need somewhere to recuperate, this is where you want to be doing it. To my dad and Linda Mary: thank you for housing us, feeding us, and enduring Trolls on repeat.

Got that sunshine in my pocket...

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.

Post-Mastectomy: The Good, The Bad, And The Lumpy

Surgery was a smashing success, then.

If I were more mobile, I'd be celebrating with some version of a happy dance like these hooligans:

To sum things up:

• They removed ALL traces of cancer (are you happy dancing, at least?)

• Mediport was removed through the incision in my left breast. Meaning: one less cut on my already battered torso (woot!)

• Plastic surgeon was able to go straight to implants, bypassing the expander stage. Meaning: one less surgery down the road (double woot!)

• According to my surgeons, things look beautiful. According to me, things look...a touch macabre? It is funny (and maybe awkward) how they admire their handiwork. "I have to say, I mean wow. It looks beautiful." Um, thank you? I never know how I'm supposed to respond to this. "Thank you" sounds like I'm taking credit for something that's not intrinsically my own. Plus, it makes things rapey as heck. So I just nod and smile in agreement and say, "I'm happy with them." (I am.)

• Today marks nine days post-mastectomy. Oxycodones ingested today: 0. I'd like to credit this to my superwoman level of pain tolerance. But truly, I just want to poop. ??

Circling back to the pain thing. I don't have much to go on here by way of comparison. The only other surgery I've had was my wisdom teeth extraction 13 years ago. I've given birth, but I was team epidural all the way. Other than a few broken fingers and a few stitches on my pinky, I've managed to glide through life unscathed and relatively pain-free. So, at the risk of sounding like a complete baby I gotta say: Sweet sassy molassy, that stuff hurt!!

"Pain!" (CC BY-SA 2.0) by Hobbes vs Boyle

I'd be doing breast cancer patients the world over a disservice by sugarcoating things. My mastectomy was excruciating. Level 10. This is due, in part, to the fact that my implants had to go behind my chest muscles (to minimize damage from radiation), and my surgery included axillary dissection (armpit lymph node removal). My surgeon wasn't kidding when he said I'd be "uncomfortable" in that area. More like searing, stabbing, stop-you-in-your-tracks kind of pain.

Even so, I only spent one night in the hospital. I probably could've used another day of intravenous Dilaudid, but I've got that thick Eastern European blood coursing through my veins. A fact of which I am neither proud nor ashamed. It's just how it is.

For generations, my mother's side of the family has displayed an outright bizarre affinity for legendary Serbian strongman Peter Zebich, reluctant to so much as flinch in the face of serious pain. Were my grandfather, for instance, in a peculiar chain of hypothetical events, to be shot in the side by a stray bullet, he'd likely shrug halfheartedly and drive himself to work.

"Strong Man is Strong" (CC BY 2.0) by LOLren

So whenever the hospital staff asked for my pain level I never ventured beyond 6 or 7. Which: WHAT?! Because I was in actual real agony. But that blasted Peter Zebich weirdo. I can't shake him. Who am I in the face of decades of stubborn, kooky, pain-immune immigrants??? Mainly, though, I just wanted to go home. Pain level was irrelevant when it came to that goal. So I stuck with safe number six.

By now, my pain is completely under control. It's more like a post-workout muscle ache. I can certainly jive with that.

The drains though. I know I sound like every basic breast cancer patient who ever lived when I say this, but: They. Are. The. Pits.

For those of you unfamiliar with the mastectomy process, when you come to after surgery there are a few new developments you're bound to notice:

 1. Pain
 2. Pain
 3. Drains - a duo (or, in my case, a trio) of thin tubes hanging about your body like red tentacles, each emptying a bloody mixture into a plastic grenade that is safety-pinned to your new, fashion-forward surgical bra. But who cares. No big deal. You just had cancer removed, kid!

I know, I know. The miracle of modern medicine and all that - how can I possibly complain about something that is ultimately assisting my body in its arduous job of healing itself?!? It's just - I look like a lumpy bag lady. Also, I haven't showered in 9+ days, so I'm smelling something like a lumpy bag lady too.

There are loads of breast cancer blogs out there. With loads of post-mastectomy fashion advice. Women are smart. They think of these things. Things like what should I wear to the hospital when I go into labor? What kinds of outfits can I wear with slip-on sneakers? These are the pressing issues I bug my friend Google with late at night with a glass of wine. Thankfully, there are enough honest lady bloggers (or manly men bloggers - I don't discriminate) who can tell me no, I'm sorry, but no. A pear figure just cannot pull off that pencil skirt you've been eyeing, so stop it.

via GIPHY

From my research, I managed to retain the advice that warned about how limited my arm movement would be. Hence, the button-down tops that went into my hospital bag. But my brain either failed to register or chose to ignore the bits about drain-fashion. Honestly, I am flabbergasted by these plastic bulbs hanging about my mid-section. I cannot for the life of me imagine any outfit configuration that could satisfactorily camouflage them. I'm quite resigned to the lumpy bag lady look. But I am not happy about it.

Besides, who are these magical mastectomy-fashion bloggers who are attending social functions right after surgery??? Don't they know how bad they're making the rest of us look? I consider myself to be doing remarkably well in terms of recovery. But I can't very well see myself in anything other than sweatpants, doing an activity any more taxing than lounging poolside with an iced tea and at least 600 pillows. I mean, I guess if you had to go back to work? But anything else seems impossible. Impossible and dumb. There are times in life that call for a good break from all the DOING. This is one of them. It is good to just be.

My writing seems to have gone lopsided. Enough about me. I'm boring. How is my heroic counterpart coping with it all? He might tell things differently, so I'll give you the truth: he is as wonderful a caregiver as he is a patient. When I was too weak to open my pill bottles, he was right there to make sure I had all the muscle relaxers I needed. When I struggled to hoist myself into bed, he was there to boost me up, rearranging pillows until I was comfortable.

Now that we've both been on each side of the patient/caregiver equation, I can say without reservation that we make a pretty neat team. There may be zero symmetry to life. It's sloppy. It's uneven. It's unfair. But there are those odd few moments of total cohesion where things just fit. And when they do, you are unspeakably grateful for your other half. Because where would we be without the one person who's willing to help empty our bloody surgical drains? (It was my sister, actually. But you get the idea.)

It's Surgery Week. Let's Talk About Nerves.

4 days until surgery. The madness Richter scale is rising. I'd say we're at a 5. No, 6. 

6 and mounting steadily.

I recall informing people during the early stages of my treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flip here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here.

If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy.

Of course, timing is everything.

My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like... a rabid runaway train heading full-speed towards a collapsed bridge. With the exciting movie score replaced by panicked primal screams.

Those first two weeks I was light years away from anything remotely resembling "zen." I was scared. Angry. Anxious, mostly. I didn't know how in the heck we were going to get through the next year.

Some of my fears were sensible. How were we going to take care of Ingrid when we were both too tired to move from the couch? How were we going to make mortgage payments? How would we keep our refrigerator stocked? How were we going to coordinate puking time slots with ONE bathroom???

For two weeks, I was in full-on freak-out mode. Probably only Paul noticed. Because I am an expert at hiding my crazy.

Then during Sunday mass we heard this fortuitous Gospel: Matthew 6:25-34. It's an exceptionally beautiful passage about NOT WORRYING. It's the one with the "birds of the air" and the "lilies of the field." Here:

"So do not worry and say, 'What are we to eat?' or 'What are we to drink?' or 'What are we to wear?' Your Heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the Kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself."

Those words were the balm that my jittery mind needed. I went home and printed them out and stuck them on my fridge. And then scribbled them in my journal. Because I'm slow at these things, and I need constant visual reminders.

"DO NOT BE ANXIOUS." Easier said than done, yes. But absolutely necessary if I ever planned to make it through the next several months.

I did make it through. Hi. I'm Liz. Still here, still (almost) sane, still making mortgage payments and feeding my family.

I'm slated for surgery in 4 days. My surgeon will remove both of my breasts (one for prophylactic measures) and all of the lymph nodes in my right underarm. He'll also remove my mediport (sayonara sucker). My plastic surgeon will insert expanders, which will slowly stretch the skin. (I know. It freaks me out, too.) It will be several months before they can put in implants because I need to get blasted with radiation first.

sidenote: Please, don't hassle me about my decision to go down this surgical route (reconstruction, removing a healthy breast, etc). People have opinions on everything under the sun, and for whatever reason, breast reconstruction strikes a nerve with certain pontifical persons. I've put a lot of thought into my choices, and I am not making these decisions lightly. Keep in mind, reconstruction after breast cancer is NOTHING like getting implants. OK?? Different procedure, different outcomes, different emotional things going on. I am not getting a "boob job." I am getting CANCER out of my body. 

Anyway --

My anxiety through all of this has been like bookends, sandwiching a few months of calm. I've come full circle now, back to the nail-biting stomachaches of my initial diagnosis. Three cheers for Lorazepam! 

And, truth be told, even my transitional period of "zen vibes" was peppered with worry. Perusing my journals, I found an entry in May where I confessed to crying for a full week. Basically over nothing. But then my smart husband reminded me:

"Uh, Liz. This isn't 'nothing.' It's not just some minor bump in the road that every couple encounters. This is big. And it's hard. And you just got your body pumped with drugs. So go REST because this is big, hard, shitty stuff, and your brain can only take so much before it cracks."

It was such a gift, then, when my Godparents offered their beautiful home on Lake Canadaigua for a brief respite before surgery. They are the loveliest people, and being on the water with my favorites was exactly what I (we) needed.

Our fearless passenger: Ingrid was born to be on the water.

 

I believe those 3 days made up the longest stretch of time I've gone without dwelling on my upcoming procedure or  Paul's cancer. That's something. We drank beers on the pontoon boat, we laughed hysterically on the jetskis, and we reminisced about Breaking Bad  in the hot tub under the stars. We collected seashells and memories. It was marvelous. It gave us the distance we needed from our worries to just be with each other and enjoy life. 

I lied, though. I did think about my surgery. But only once or twice, when it was brought up in conversation. At one point, my sister's boyfriend asked a rather oddly phrased question: "Liz, are you excited about your surgery?"

I laughed and replied with a quick sarcastic response. Um, yes, I am sooo excited to have my body disfigured and go through several weeks of feeling like I have cannonballs strapped to my chest. I am the luckiest!

But he was serious. (?!) Once I worked through his question, which was probably garbled by a couple of IPA's, I understood what he meant. He was asking me (rather astutely, actually) if I was excited to GET THIS CANCER OUT OF MY BODY ONCE AND FOR ALL. Was I excited to be CANCER-FREE? 

I can get so caught up in the awful things that surgery means to me. (disfigurement, pain, helplessness during recovery, lack of control, etc.) But, really, I should be looking at surgery differently: it's going to fix me. It's going to take my breasts, yeah, and I'm angry about that. But it's also going to give my cancer the boot.

So ok: I guess I am excited about surgery. Or I should be. If I think hard enough about what it really means, I can be happy about it. If it can save my life and keep me around for my gorgeous daughter, then I say: take whatever body part you must.

So. Precisely three years after I was admitted to Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital as a rotund and blissful mom-to-be, I will be admitted there once more. Less rotund, less blissful. But still hopeful. And, dare we say, excited??