Showing posts with label breast surgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breast surgery. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Day 978: We Saw Your Boobs

I didn't watch the Oscars, but I heard about this song. I just watched the clip. Now, I laughed my ass off during the hotel room fight scene in Ted, but Seth MacFarlane is just a dumbass for this one. So, next time, I say they hire me to host the Oscars. Because if rape is funny (aw yeah, we got to see Jodie Foster's boobs in The Accused! When she was being gang raped in a bar--hilarious!), so is cancer. Any of my BC sisters willing to do a montage for this? You know I'd do it.

We Saw Your Boobs (Breast Cancer Version)

By Katy Jacob

In the radiology suite, we saw your boobs! (smoosh, yank, ow!)
Something wasn’t right, so we kept compression tight
And sent the doctor in to give the news!
With a seven inch long needle we jabbed your boobs!
You cried because you always liked them,
Never really planned to fight them,
But oh well, then in surgery we saw your boobs! Wait, boob!
Uh oh it looks like that one has no more boobs.
In the nursery your baby saw your boobs!
You could no longer feed him with those boobs.
Your friends looked away, your man promised to stay,
Everyone says you’re more than just your boobs!
In plastic surgery we saw your boobs!
We couldn’t give you nipples, the numbness is but a ripple
Cause now you’ve got bigger better (kinda) boobs!
Now time is running short, but at least we can see your port,
The burns, tattoos and scars across your boobs.
They’re lopsided or they’re gone,
There’s something really really wrong,
In this new world with death hidden in your boobs.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Day 964: Breasts

I've been writing a breast cancer blog for what, almost three years now? God, that sounds strange. That means that I might make it to that magical three year mark, that timeframe that is supposed to be so relevant for us triple negative girls. So I've been writing this blog all this time, and I realize that I haven't written very often about...

Breasts.

As in, my breasts, the entities that started this mess.

Oh, I know I've written about how I've always liked them, or didn't think they were small before cancer, or how people tell me I have beautiful nipples or how amazing it is that they still look so normal after all this shit. I've posted pictures of my scars and radiation burns. I've described the heartbreak of weaning my son.

But I haven't talked much about what it's like to have breasts after you have breast cancer.

Many women don't have breasts after cancer, or perhaps they have one, in the singular. Others have manufactured breasts, which is also different. A lot of women wonder how or why you'd want to keep your breasts after cancer, as if they are actually personally responsible for the disease; the idea of having to get mammograms is equally repugnant to some.

And I get it. I get that I'm lucky to still have breasts, and that at the same time my decision to still have them will bring me at least semi-annual bouts of panic and fear. But breasts after breast cancer are just not the same as breasts before breast cancer, and that's what I'm writing about today.

See, before cancer, breasts are a source of wonder and enjoyment in your life. I've had these 34b boobs since age 14 and they always seemed just perfect to me--easy to fit into clothes, not too small, apparently amazingly awesome and seemingly blessed with superhuman powers in the eyes/hands/mouths of teenage boys and later men. They were an erogenous zone for me and for other people. They hurt before I got my period, they swelled when I was pregnant, their existence helped me figure out which guys were assholes based solely on how they talked about them or referred to them. They fed other human beings. They served as a nice place to rest my hands when watching TV (sorry, ladies, I know we've been trying to convince men since cave times that we don't play with our breasts but WE LIED).

And then...my closest call with death is brought to me courtesy of these breasts. I go through painful and (somewhat) disfiguring surgery. I burn myself. I learn that my husband can almost kill me by passing mastitis to me by kissing the breast that had cancer. I can't feed my baby with them anymore. I can't wear underwire bras due to the location of my scar and scar tissue. I have to modify exercises and learn to carry things in a different manner. I find our collective focus on them as a society to be pointless and offensive.

My attitude towards them has changed, but it's subtle, in the way that so many cancer-related things are subtle when you are not deep in the weeds of treatment. I am still very happy with what I've got left. I still allow Gabe to play with them and kiss them (well just the one, no more mastitis thanks) as much as he wants but that's what it is, allowing him to do something I used to enjoy. I still buy the cutest bras I can. I am still amazed that they are so symmetrical. I don't do breast exams because I feel my breasts every day. I am aware of the pain in my pec muscle, a vestige of radiation, every time I exercise.

And the things that might make other women happy just scare the living shit out of me.

The other day, I noticed that my right breast seemed bigger, fuller. We all know that nursing causes that nice slope to the breast, something that manifests as "sagging" if you've got larger breasts, but was barely noticeable for me. Due to that slope, my cancer side actually looked perkier a lot of the time (thanks for the plumping, radiation and scar tissue!). Now all of a sudden, the right one seemed...big. In a nice looking way. I was reminded of the full perky breasts from my pre-baby days, a subtle difference for me, the woman whose body seems hellbent on looking the same no matter what happens, but there all the same.

I was terrified. Sure, this happened right before my period started. Sure, I was having pain in both breasts for a few days, probably due to hormonal changes with my cycle. Sure, I've gained about three pounds and maybe some extra ounces went to my breasts.

Sure.

I tried to ignore this, but two days ago it just seemed crazy. I stripped my top and bra off in the most un-sexy way you could imagine and demanded that Gabe look at my breasts and tell me if the right one looked freakishly large in comparison. You ask your husband to give you an assessment of the size of your tits, this guy who has been enjoying them for the last ten years, and if you haven't had cancer you expect a different answer than this:

"Yeah, I noticed that. Is that because of your period? You should keep an eye on it. Maybe call the doctor. Or give it a while, and then call. Yeah, you should call the doctor."

The following day you strip down again and this time you are pleased that the right breast seems smaller and it doesn't even seem weird when you hear the relief in your husband's voice when he says "yeah, it's smaller, looks more normal now. whew!"

Then today it's bigger again. Some women would flaunt the extra cleavage, especially since we're going out tonight for Valentine's day.

Me? I called my oncologist. I'm still waiting to hear back from him. Maybe he will tell me to wait, maybe he will tell me to come in, maybe he will order tests, maybe he will tell me that I'm fine and I look great which is what he usually tells me. I have no idea. So, I wait.

That's it this time--no deep thoughts about life, no poetry, no larger worldview context. Just a youngish woman with perky but lopsided breasts who understands how symbols of life can also be symbols of death. This post is just to acknowledge her, this woman who is waiting for the phone to ring, daydreaming about a day in May when she could say she made it to some milestone, thinking about how a once-proud sign of womanhood that our society has never figured out how to take seriously could turn into this, a possible portent of bad things to come, reminding you that the body is a mystery in which often neither the perpetrator nor the hero is ever revealed.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Day 768: Two Years Cancer Free

Last Monday, June 4, 2012, I posted a blog about triple negative breast cancer. I did a lot of other things last Monday as well:

I went spinning at 5:30 in the morning
I had a highly productive day at work
I made it to the gym at lunch
I cooked dinner for the family
I convinced Gabe that I needed to take a walk right after dinner while he bathed the kids
I sang to my kids and read them books before bed
I mixed up a perfect Tom Collins and collapsed on the couch for a few minutes to wind down
I made love with my husband and still got to bed early since I had to wake up at 4 the next morning to get to the airport
I had trouble sleeping, as I often do; something was tugging at the back of my mind

I completely forgot that exactly two years had passed since I had three cancerous tumors removed from my body

It's a week later, and I am staring at the entry on my desk calendar for last Monday that reads "TWO YEARS!!" and wondering how the hell I skipped over that.

It's a week later, and I really wish I could go back in time and tell myself two years ago that it would be possible for cancer to be both in the foreground and the background, for it to be there and not there, for it to be on the list but so far down that other more mundane things would take precedence.

It's a week later, and I am amazed that Gabe forgot, that my mom forgot.

I mean, every year, on October 11, I find a way to mark the anniversary of my car accident. 2012 marks 28 years. I have never forgotten.

I remember important days--birthdays, death commemorations, anniversaries--even the smaller ones like first dates, engagements.

I'm astounded.

I'm thinking about this morning, when I was washing the dishes, still sweaty and hot from spinning, and I looked up and saw a note on the window above the sink, written in that slanted, lefty handwriting: "You made me smile."

It is true what they say. This too shall pass. All of this--all of those things, small and large, important and insignificant, that make up our days and our years, shall pass. It is both a blessing and a curse. These writings--on calendars, blogs, pink post-it notes left around the house--might be the only reminders that we have of what was real.

Two years pass, and it's nothing, and it's everything. And you don't even realize what has happened, but really, a lot of things have happened. It's hard to know whether to laugh or cry.

And that's it, isn't it? That's the question. Is this a tragedy or a comedy?

Or a mystery?

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Day 576: What You Don't Know Can Definitely Hurt You







Today's blog will be fairly short (for me), though not at all sweet. I think I'm going to use this opportunity as a PSA of sorts, one of my many "something is very wrong in the land of breast cancer" rants. I mentioned a few blogs ago that I had finally received a prescription for physical therapy, after having chronic pain, intense pulling sensations, muscle weakness and even tenderness to the touch in my chest and under my arm for a year and a half.

For some reason, the scrip said "range of motion and lymphedema" on it, which made my life somewhat difficult. I don't have lymphedema. I could get it at any time, but having that word on the order meant that the physical therapist I called initially wanted me to go to a lymphedema specialist for the evaluation. I had met this specialist at a ROW practice months ago, and I would have been happy to go to her (except it turns out she wasn't the best candidate for my specific problems after all), but her office is too far away. No matter, after the evaluation she said there was no reason I couldn't go to someone else--she wasn't concerned about lymphedema issues with me, apparently.

I learned that I still have range of motion issues with my left arm, but only about a 10% difference, which isn't significant. During the evaluation I was told that the tenderness I feel in my pec, and the muscle weakness, may very well be permanent. It has little to do with surgery and everything to do with radiation. That sucks, but it could be worse, I suppose. Some people get broken ribs, damaged hearts or lungs, or other severe damage from radiation. It's definitely no joke. The evaluating therapist said my biggest issue was likely scar tissue, which might be especially aggravating for me because I'm thin and small-breasted.

I'd like to take a minute for an aside here. I know I don't have big boobs, and I'm glad about that, actually. But when talking to breast cancer specialists, you'd think a B-cup is the tiniest thing they've ever seen. When I was growing up, B was the average size for women. Now it's C--everyone is either getting fatter, or everyone is getting implants, or something. It just annoys me to always hear this "oh well since you're so small, you will have this issue, and that one" etc. etc. Kudos to my acupuncturist who told me last year, "Katy, I see all kinds of people naked. You aren't that small." Amen!

OK that's out of my system. After the evaluation I signed up for 5 weekly sessions with a therapist near my office. She thought that would be enough. The first session was no problem. I warmed up on the "arm bike," which is just what it sounds like--you turn this wheel with your arms forwards, then backwards, for six minutes, which might as well be an eternity. It's not that it's hard, but your shoulders get fatigued, and it's BORING. Then I did a bunch of exercises on the foam roller. I can't tell you how much it hurts me--me! the one who can take a lot of pain, who does crazy amounts of exercise--simply to lie on that thing with my arms outstretched all the way. It's like someone is trying to rip my left arm off at the ligament. After some more stretching, she did some initial ART (active release technique--basically like extremely deep tissue massage--her specialty, and interestingly, NOT something the lymphedema specialist is certified in) work on me. This is the main portion of my therapy--trying to break up the scar tissue to alleviate my pain and help with range of motion. She was working on my pec, the muscle deep under my arm, and it hurt, but it was no big deal. After ten minutes of this I was done, given my daily homework for the week, and I went back to work.

Enter the second session this week. I got on the arm bike, but after that went straight into more than 30 minutes of ART. She said "now we're going to really start working on the scar tissue." I feel like crying just writing about it. I have had so much pain in my life, but damn. If I hadn't been lying down, that would have just brought me to my knees. She would use her fingers like a screwdriver, going deeper into my flesh and muscle than I thought possible, and then ask me to move my arm as far back as I could, or as far to the side, and hold it. It was absolutely excruciating. I was just gritting my teeth, holding on to the side of the table with the other arm, and she was very nice about the whole thing--offering me breaks, asking how I felt. Well my God, it hurts, I said. I know, she replied. I'm sorry. Well, I said, I've had worse pain. And that's true--but barely. I made her do the same thing on the right side a few times so I could feel the difference. It seems like it might just be the kind of thing that hurts, even if you're not injured. Wrong. It felt like an intense stretch, a strong pull, on the right side, but there was no pain.

So why was this killing me so much? In general, scar tissue hurts. Everyone knows that. I have a lot of it in my body, I suppose. I had gallbladder surgery, and organ removal leads to scar tissue, I'm sure. I have never noticed it. I had a lot of scar tissue that had built up after I first had a gangleon cyst operated on when I was 12; the cyst eventually came back, 20 years later, and the surgeon told me the amount of scar tissue was impressive--about as big as my whole wrist, even though the cyst was maybe an inch long. But here's where this breast cancer stuff gets just sick. My scar, as many of you know since I've posted pictures here, is on the side of my left breast, near the top. All of my tumors were located in that area of the breast, and taken together, they were about 3 centimeters in diameter. The surgeon used the same scar area when I had to go in for the re-excision. I can feel the scar tissue there, all lumpy and disturbing. That alone doesn't surprise me.

But get this--the therapist told me I have scar tissue all over the muscle that covers my rib cage and travels around to my back. When she was doing ART on the bottom of the side of my rib cage, almost half a foot away from my surgery site (you can see me pointing to the surgery site, compared to the farthest location of the scar tissue here), I asked her what she was doing. I'm still breaking up your scar tissue, she told me--you have it everywhere.


I was absolutely shocked. She started telling me how this muscle (the name is escaping me) is attached to the pec muscles, that every time I use my arm or my chest I would feel pain from the scar tissue. She said "no wonder you can't do pushups." Honey, are you kidding me? How have I been doing half the things I've done?

Now I know I'm not crazy when tears come to my eyes when Augie jumps onto my torso. Now I can give myself a break for not being able to do extended planks, chest flys, or pushups, for wanting to cry that day in ROW practice when we did the one-handed oar drill and I thought my chest was literally going to break.

So, obviously, I needed physical therapy. And boy does it piss me off that I had to wait so long to get it, that I had to ask a hundred times, that I had to practically make shit up ("It stops me from doing yard work" is a bullshit line, but effective) to get anyone to listen to me. I am not an idiot, nor a child. I understand that I don't have to do certain strength training exercises to live a happy, healthy life. But I also know that I used to be able to do things that now make me double over in pain. I used to be able to lift things over my head. I always preferred to sleep on my left side, and now I can't do it. The muscles affected by breast surgery are the same muscles that you use with literally every step you take in your life. A PT evaluation should be the standard of care. Some women wouldn't need it--fine. But I'm sure a majority would benefit from it, and some, like me, REALLY need it.

As I was trying to wince the torture away (I told someone that it hurt so badly it was like going through labor--through my chest wall), I asked the therapist what kind of patients she usually sees. Oh, not much post-surgery. Lots of tendonitis, people with back pain from having desk jobs. Huh? I asked. How do people get scrips for that? Don't we all have the same issues with sitting at a desk? Oh, they tell their doctors, and get the prescription. We see pregnant women who just want some back work, people with mild carpal tunnel; I see it all the time.

Well excuse me if all I ever had was CANCER and I was crazy enough to think that warranted some assistance. These surgeons and oncologists have to start looking beyond whether or not you're still breathing, stop focusing on how close you are to death's door, and get a clue. If you want me to believe you when you say you think I have a good chance to live a normal lifespan (good--not great), then think about this: I could be dealing with this shit for 50 years. I have the right to be able to function normally without intense amounts of pain that I guess I have just accepted, just folded into my daily life.

What a bunch of crap! Anyway, I just wanted to put this out there in case any women who have had breast surgery, or are facing it, come across it and read it. I think it would be worth it to get a pre-surgery evaluation, so you understand your range of motion beforehand. And if you think you have an issue, just push it--no one else cares as much about you as you do, and no one else will advocate for you. Your problem might be even more severe than you realize--you could have scar tissue adhered to the muscle and bone of half your torso, apparently, and be walking around like it was nothing. You get to bitch about this, because you had cancer, and in many situations you get to do what you want, because many things that you wanted to do were taken from you, so whatever's left is yours to claim. You can even put pictures of yourself online wearing footie pajamas. Why not? Who's going to say anything? If anyone tries to give you shit, realize that there's a lot of shit you've already taken. Enough's enough!