Coffee heat rising

wooHOO! What a Relief. {And an unexpected hoot!}

Hoot first: I come flying in the door from the doctor, who has spent a half hour or forty minutes talking about the bilateral mastectomy slated for January 6. Grab the mail out of the mailbox, and what do I find?

Yes!

A jury summons! For…when else? January 6.

😆

I’ll have to call tomorrow to get an extension, preferably a couple months’ worth. How hilarious is that?

Well, it struck me as hilarious because after talking with WonderSurgeon I came away feeling a great deal better. Indeed, HUGELY reassured.

In the first place, contrary to my expectation, they found NOTHING in the non-guilty breast. No masses, no calcifications, no weirdness of any sort. The guilty breast was not so cut [heh!]-and-dried. She said it was hard to tell because the surgery confounds MRIs with its disruptions, but it was possible there was some residual tumor there. Possibly not, too.

But we agreed that given the size and extent of the DCIS she removed — large and a lot — the smartest, safest, perfect no-hassle course of action is to lob off the guilty boob. She also felt comfortable about removing the innocent boob, for the sake of symmetry (hey! I’m getting Medicare to pay for cosmetic surgery!), safety (chance of recurrence in the contralateral boob is enhanced by the existence of a large DCIS in the other boob, by several re-excisions, and by age), and nuisance factor relief (NO MORE MAMMOGRAMS! EVER!!). This will virtually eliminate the possibility of any future DCIS or invasive cancer in my boobs, from now into perpetuity.

So now I show her the images of what I hope she can do and what I hope she can’t do:

Please do this:

or this:

Not this:

She said it was fairly easy to get the uncomplicated, flat, smooth result shown in the first two images. What appears in the third image is, she said, an unsatisfactory outcome. Part of it is that the woman is stylishly plump (I would not call her “fat,” personally) and part of it is that the surgeon failed to achieve an adequate result. But, she said, given that I’m fairly slender and my boobs aren’t very large, the result should resemble what appears in the b/w images here.

Thank goodness I dropped those 35 pounds last year!!!

Then she showed me some images of one of her patients (no face, no name, no identifiers visible), which she’s planning to put into a presentation for early next year.

Well, when I say WonderSurgeon, I exaggerate not.

This lady — the patient — was a good 80 to 100 pounds overweight. Maybe more. She had large, sagging breasts — very large — with neoplasms in both. For her a double mastectomy was not optional.

The incisions, while long (because it took a lot of doing to remove the substantial amounts of fatty tissue), were as neat and smooth and flat as you can imagine. She showed me the incisions as they looked right after she completed the procedure, while the patient was still asleep on the table, and then she showed how they looked three weeks later,  just about healed. The woman’s chest looked just fine: no “dog ears” as on the poor gal shown in the third image above, no distortions, nothing bizarre in any way.

WonderSurgeon explained in detail exactly how she accomplished this particular work of art. There’s a trick to it, and it’s one she figured out for herself. It’s one of those things that seems simple when it’s explained, so much so you’d think it would be obvious, but it’s not obvious until someone has an Insight.

If she could do that for a woman who presented a challenge of substantial magnitude, she certainly can make me come out like the women in the two b/w images above. Sans the tattoo, of course.

Then I asked my endless set of questions:

Would she refer me to my favorite physical therapist for the shoulder therapy?

Why? You won’t need therapy.

I understand I won’t be able to lift my hands over my head, or even hold a cup of coffee.

You’ll be able to lift your arms over your head, although with the drains in you probably won’t want to for the first few days. You’ll be able to do everything you do normally, right away.

Will the Mayo provide a compression garment, or should I buy a post-mastectomy camisole such as the Amoena 2105 Breast Surgery Camisole with Drainage Management?

Don’t waste your money on that kind of stuff. We’ll give you another compression bra; just pin the drain bulbs to that. You’ll only need it for a couple or three days, as long as it’s comfortable.

When will I be able to pick up a dog bowl (8 pounds) off the floor and put it back down?

Right away.

When will I be able to pick up the dogs (20 to 25 pounds)?

Right away.

A University of Florida page said I may not be able to get out of bed without help. Am I going to need someone to stay with me overnight? For how long?

No. You should have no problem getting out of bed. Or washing your hair. Or putting on a shirt.

Will I be able to wear a plain camisole, without a shelf bra? Or will the scars always be so sensitive that no fabric against them will be tolerable?

Who’s TELLING you this stuff????

The Internet.

And who goes to the Internet? I’ll tell you who: people who have bad outcomes. All the others who have good outcomes get on with their lives and don’t spend their time complaining on the Internet!

Heeee!

Linked images reside at The SCAR Project: Cancer Is Not a Pink Ribbon. Go to the site: it’s incredible. And while you’re at it, buy the guy’s book:

scar projectHe also has a DVD about the project, very affecting and reality-prone:

scar project 2

We are not our boobs!

Here we go again…

Or so I expect.

Today is the day. In an hour or so, I have to drive (eternally!) to the east side of Scottsdale (again!) for another chat with WonderSurgeon. She’ll have the results of the scary MRI exams of both boobs.

Every time I’m subjected to some new procedure by these doctors, the results are always negative and sometimes hair-raising.

WonderSurgeon told me that she wanted an MRI made of my  non-guilty boob, since we propose to kill off both breasts by way of a) making me not have to spend the rest of my life lopsided and b) virtually eliminating any chance of any new growths. She said she wanted to see if anything was in there, so, said she, she could work her way around them.

Well, when I got there it turned out she’d ordered MRI’s of both boobs.

Frankly, that sounds a lot like a fishing expedition to me: let’s find something new to biopsy, to operate on, and to create another three to five opportunities for more surgery. And, to my distress, I found some confirmation of that: a 2013 study shows that “DCIS patients who undergo preoperative breast MRI are far more likely to undergo additional biopsies.” The group of researchers, publishing in the Annals of Surgical Oncology, suggest that the benefit of routine MRI before breast surgery is dubious and may lead to yet more unnecessary procedures…of which, IMHO, I’ve had a-plenty.

So I’m bracing myself, and trying to think clearly about what I’m going to say when confronted with what I’m certain will be more bad news. Sure as I’m sitting here, she’s going to tell me they found some new mass in the other breast and they want to biopsy it. Or that they found something in the guilty breast and want to biopsy that. When I say no, just cut it off, she will say, “But we have to know if there’s invasive cancer because if there is we’ll have to take out lymph nodes.”

Then I’ll have to decide whether to take my chances on whether it is or is not cancer, on whether it’s a DCIS that may or may not morph into cancer, and whether I want to proceed with more torture or just walk away.

A breast biopsy is painful: much more so than a lumpectomy. I really do NOT want to go through another of those, and I’m inclined to say if that’s what she wants, I’m done. On the other hand, I don’t want to just throw away my life.

But on the other other hand, there’s not that many years of life left to me at this point, and breast cancer grows pretty slowly. By the time it takes me away, I will have lived out my allotted years — assuming a heart attack, stroke, or car wreck doesn’t carry me away first.

Dayum, but I hate this!

Black Friday Craziness Casts Gray Pall on Thanksgiving

As if the Christmas decorations before Halloween weren’t enough, now we get Thanksgiving dinner cut short by by retailers stirring up riots of buying frenzy along about 6:00 p.m. on the newly dubbed “Gray Thursday.” Jeez. There really is not shame out there.

Like…REALLY? Your buyers, dear Mr. Avaricious One-Percenter Retailer, really and truly can’t wait till the morning after TG to stock up on more STUFF? One article describes people selling their places in line to the highest bidder — and sitting on $90 bids because they know they can get more. What on earth can be worth debasing yourself like that? A 40-inch TV? Sure, $119 is the next best thing to giving it away for free. But you couldn’t get me to behave like that if you did give the thing to me for free.

But then, what the hey…I have no use for a TV set anyway. 😉

My friend Carol and I spent Black Friday at the Mayo Hospital, where I was invited to have my boobs subjected to an MRI preparatory to lopping them off. The last time they tried to get me in an MRI tube — the time I dislocated my shoulder tripping over Cassie — I panicked and ran away. So to lure me back, they had me drug myself with Valium.

Since I don’t take any kind of drug at all (other than a little Maker’s Mark 🙂 ), the stuff had quite a kick. Of course, driving up there was out of the question, so Carol chauffeured me. I’d been told the MRI would take about a half hour.

Well. Yeah. Depends on how you look at it.

About a half-dozen 3- to 4-minute scans (18 to 24 minutes) plus one 15 minute scan do indeed add up to about half an hour. BUT…that doesn’t count all the dicking around beforehand and between times. We left my house at about 9:15 a.m. and got back right at 12:30. THREE HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES.

The morning was shot for both of us. And since I’m bat-brained from the Valium, for me the whole damn day is shot. I’m going to bed whenever I finish cranking out this post.

The MRI itself was not bad. Because they have you lie face-down for a boob MRI, you can’t SEE the inside of the horrid tube, and so it’s nowhere near as claustrophobic and terrifying is it is when they roll you in there face-up. And the noise was just not that traumatic. More strange than anything. As it developed, there was no need to be drugged with Valium — in fact, it made things worse by drying out my mouth so badly it felt like the back of my throat was turning to petrified wood. Would’ve been a lot more comfortable without it.

Speaking of comfort, despite the loveliness of the afternoon and the prettiness of the front courtyard, wherein Cassie and I are writing this, I am retiring to the comfort of the sack.

Good luck in your shopping, if you’re up to that!

Image: Shoppers surging into Target. Public Domain.

Boob Update: Back, Forth, and Back Again

Okay, so WonderSurgeon is at last convinced, and so am I, that the best thing to do is to have the boob OFF, and better yet, to get them both off so as to bring a stop to concerns about the other breast and so I don’t have to spend the rest of my life lopsided.

It’s taken a while to get to this point.

Last week (was it only last week?) I went in to see the radiation oncologist. By then WonderSurgeon and I had decided to keep the boob and do radiation and aromatase inhibitors. This new doctor, though, said she would do it but that the chance of recurrence was high and that the side effects I’ve heard about are real. Among them, she said, I will have scarring of the lower lobe of the right lung, which may lead to pneumonitis, which can be life-threatening. Aromatase inhibitors are not yet approved by the FDA for preventive treatment of DCIS, and so they would prescribe tamoxifen, which I have no intention of taking. She remarked in passing that if it were her, she’d have the mastectomy.

So by the time I saw WonderSurgeon, I’d changed my mind in favor of chopping off the boob. Even though I was very certain that I wanted a mastectomy, she wasn’t so sure. She felt there’s a possibility there’s no more abnormal cells in the breast, in which case it would be unnecessary surgery to remove the boob. Between the two of us, the uncertainty factor was enough to give us pause. We decided that she would order an MRI of the guilty boob, slated for next week: if any more mass appears on that, then we would amputate; if not, then we would try radiation and hormone treatment. Neither of us was thrilled with this scheme, but neither of us knew for sure which way to jump.

Well, yesterday she called me up with a new report:

Still worried, she had taken my endlessly troublesome case BACK to her colleagues for another conference. First she asked the pathologist to revisit the samples she had excised and to analyze the results more carefully. Then she asked them for their opinion. And, she said, she was careful to keep her mouth shut and just listen to them.

The consensus, she said, was overwhelmingly in favor of removing the offending boob.

Well, I was relieved.

You know how when you’re worrying about something or thinking about some major project, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night with your brain spinning on it — with no hiatus between awaking and starting to think on the issue? Well, that happened a two or three nights ago. I woke up about 4 in the morning with a perfectly formed thought in mind: Trying to save this breast is the wrong thing to do!

It seemed as perfectly obvious as the dogs sleeping on the bed next to me. I do not want my chest irradiated. I do not want my lung scarred. I do not want pneumonitis, for godsake. I do not want to run the risk of fractured ribs, new soft-tissue cancers, leukemia, and some blood disorder whose name I can’t even pronounce. I do not want my life disrupted for another four to six weeks with daily trips to the hospital for radiation treatments. I do not want to take aromatase inhibitors that will thin my hair and give me joint and muscle pains on top of the nearly crippling back pain, thank you very much. And I most certainly do not want to take tamoxifen!

Furthermore, I do not want to wait five or ten years until a new DCIS, probably harmless, is found in the other breast and then I have to go through this entire nightmare circus again! I do not want to go around lopsided, having to stuff plastic or fabric prostheses in an empty bra cup in an attempt to look normal enough not to frighten small children. And I do not care whether I have blobs of flesh hanging off my chest, because I’m not a young girl anymore and I’m not in the market for a man.

At four a.m., I could not think of how to tell WonderSurgeon about this revelation without making her think I’m crazy. So I decided to wait until the MRI revealed more mystery tissue in there, which I felt pretty sure would be the case. If it didn’t, then I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.

So, weirdly, her call to deliver what she thought would be received as bad news was really very good news.

I told her that I had quietly come to the same conclusion. She sounded relieved that I didn’t burst into tears or some such stupid thing. Then I asked if she would take both boobs off, so as I could be the same on both sides and so we could be certain that no recurrence would appear in the contralateral (medico-talk for “the other”) breast. She agreed to do so. And she even folded on the “no goddamn reconstruction” topic.

We’re keeping the MRI on the schedule, but instead examining the contralateral boob so as to see whether there’s any DCIS in there. She said there was only about a 3% chance that would be so. I reminded her that every time we’ve had positive odds, I’ve managed to defy them. Pessimists drive the poor woman nuts. 😀

Do you realize what this means?

No. more. effing. mammograms. EVER AGAIN!

And….this is the best part…

I will never, ever have to shop for a goddamn brassiere again!!!!!!!!!

WAHOOOO!

Boob: To Be (attached) or Not to Be (attached)

Okay, so the Mayo docs have relented on the clinic’s policy to the extent that they’re offering me a choice: if I want to take a chance that the 2014 no-ink-on-tumor guidelines for excision margins are safe, they will give me radiation and hormone treatment. Or, if I prefer not to run the 20 percent risk of recurrence and 10 percent risk of invasive cancer, then they will lob off the offending boob.

Which, they wonder, do I prefer?

A man of my acquaintance thinks I don’t understand anything I read on the Internet, especially if the reading level exceeds that of, say, Cosmo or People magazine. I imagine the editor of Mathematical Biosciences and Engineering would disagree, but that’s neither here nor there. Assuming he’s right that I’ve been overthinking this thing, I’ve done a little cost-benefit analysis, based on my subjective feelings about the matter and informed only by facts available in the most dumbed-down sources available to us pretty little air-headed girls.

Interestingly,  here’s the result, quite the opposite of the direction in which I’ve been tilting.

Boob yea or naySo in this thing, a negative number represents exactly that: a negative. A positive number represents a desirable outcome. A zero indicates either that the circumstance is not applicable or that I don’t care about it one way or the other.

I’ve tried to think of all the aspects entailed in keeping the boob and in having it amputated, and of all the implications entailed in each aspect. Probably I’ve missed some…but I’ll bet I haven’t missed much that matters, at least to me — and this is supposed to reflect my subjective preference.

In terms of whether to keep the boob or not, both options are very negative. We have now heard not one but two heavy-hitting oncologists, both women and at least one of them nationally respected, state that if they personally were faced with this choice, they would try to avoid radiation. I have never reacted well to hormone therapies of any kind, birth control included, and you may be sure that whatever side effects aromatase inhibitors evince, I will be enjoying those. One of them is joint pain. With chronic back pain and sciatica that sometimes flares to the point where I can barely walk down the hall to the bathroom, I don’t feel I need more joint pain. So the fact that each of these therapies has negative side effects, some of them life-threatening, is a bad thing. And even with radiation therapy, the Mayo crew estimates risk of recurrence at 20% and risk of invasive cancer at 10%.

Obviously, the mutilation, the violent surgery, and the ensuing pain of a mastectomy amount to a bad thing, too.

So we’re trying to figure out which is the least bad of two bad options.

And lookit here! Keeping the breast accrues more than twice as many negative points than getting rid of it!

Then we have the fact that these doctors — and one doctor in the wild — are pressuring me to get reconstructive surgery. From what I’ve been able to tell, reconstruction has some failings, most of which result in further surgery or at least disfigurement that you have to learn to live with. Because I am not my boobs, I do not believe that (as one quack informed me) I will quickly become suicidal if I don’t have a fake boob pasted on my chest.

But, just in case I’m staring at this question through a glass darkly, I decided to ask the Excel Ouija board about reconstruction, too. The options presented in my first effort, “Do It” or “Skip It,” seemed a little vague, as it was difficult to know how to score “skip it.” So I tried again with something roughly like a cost/benefit comparison: what are the benefits vs the drawbacks of a) going ahead with reconstruction and b) declining reconstruction?

Here, the result accords more closely with my inclination: the point value of the benefits for no reconstruction outweigh the drawbacks by about three to one. The drawbacks of reconstruction outweigh the benefits by more than three to one. (Would be nice if I’d typed that correctly, but I’m not jumping through the hoops to build and upload a new jpeg for ONE character!)

So. I think this quantifies my point of view on the issue: given two bad choices, the least bad option is mastectomy.

Time for Some Self-Di$¢ipline

Welp, I’m officially out of money, at least til the end of the year. The amount transferred from savings to supplement Social Security and teaching income enough to keep me afloat through 2014 is gone…and we have almost two months to go.

{sigh}

This is all incident to the endless health-care flap, which arose last June and has not quit and probably literally will have no end. When I realized I was going to be undergoing surgery — even before I  understood that meant “surgery after surgery after surgery after…” — I also realized that with half my chest ripped up I would not be brushing down pool walls, mopping floors, scouring sinks, scrubbing toilets, oiling furniture, deconstructing and cleaning the gas stove, dusting light fixtures & blinds, and polishing mirrors & windows. So I hired a pool guy and a cleaning lady. That added $240 to the monthly tab.

Then there was having the plumber come and fix up the shower in the front bathroom, where the tub has an easy-to-clean 1970s plastic tub & shower surround. The house’s master-bedroom shower was beautifully renovated by the idiot previous owner, whose parting shot (literally!) was, “Oh, and this travertine has to be stripped and resealed every six months.” Huh-uhhhh…. Between that and the fact that the damn clear glass showers have to be polished dry and the damn travertine has to be wiped dry from ceiling to floor every time you shower, I never use that thing — I’d been using the tub in the front bathroom and taking actual baths, except in the summer when I could shampoo outdoors in the hose after swimming. Since I’m not allowed to get the incision underwater for three weeks after each surgery, that means I couldn’t bathe…all summer long and into the fall. I still can’t get the boob seriously wet. So…I’m glad I had the plumber install a functional showerhead in the outmoded but radically convenient front tub, but still…it did cost something.

So it has gone since last June: one unplanned expense after another.

The car also racked up several hundred bucks worth of bills. It now needs its brake drums replaced: $500.

So, financially I’m back where I was when the university laid me and my underlings off. Except that the stock market hasn’t tanked. Yet.

I probably should buy a new car now, before the Republicans do a repeat performance of their excellent financial leadership under Bush. Presumably within another eight to twelve years my shirt will be tattered again, and so it might be good to have a decent vehicle in the garage. One that the dogs & I can live in… 😉

And speaking of tattered, the diet is getting that way, too. The accursed surgery, which you would think would debilitate one and cause weight loss, had exactly the opposite effect: it’s made me gain weight!

Shee-ut!

I think that happened because I was forbidden to swim, and swimming formed a major part of the exercise program. Now it’s too cold to get in the pool — not that I’m allowed to do so anyway, but within a week or two in theory I will be. Assuming we decide not to lob off the guilty boob, in which case it will be yet another month or two before I can take a real bath or indulge in any vigorous exercise.

After dieting and walking four miles a day this week, the result has been another pound gained!

I’m now about five pounds above the desired weight. Figured that two pounds off a week would restore the coveted sylph-like figure in a month or less.  But that just doesn’t seem to be happening. And I don’t know why. None of the strategies I used to drop those 30 pounds a year or two ago are working anymore!

So, what to do?

Well, first I’m going to have to re-institute the stringent budget. This means cranking out those accursed Excel spreadsheets and tracking every. single. expenditure as it occurs. And staying out of Costco. And staying out of AJ’s and Whole Foods.

Haven’t bought any clothes since the current fiasco started, since I have no idea what will fit on top and no way of knowing until I could see the final result of whatever they end up doing to me.  Now even if we decide to keep what remains of the boob intact, I still won’t be able to buy any much-needed shirts — the old ones are wearing out. And if the boob comes off, I’ll just have to figure out how to cope with the old cleavage-displaying shirts and crocheted tops.

The dogs will have to not get sick or hurt. If they do, they’ll just have to suffer through it.

No more eating out. No more concerts. No more anything that costs any sort of extra money.

No Christmas present for my son. Nor will I be able to entertain over the holidays. Which probably doesn’t matter, because I’ve got to stop eating, anyway.

Assuming no more extraordinary expenses arise, I’ll need about $2,000 to make it to the end of the year — not counting the $500 for the car. Enough to repair the car does reside in a short-term emergency savings fund, so it won’t have to be drawn down, taxably, from retirement savings. But two grand to cover living expenses? Not good.

Between now and mid-December, I should extract about $1500 from the community college district, with both classes in full swing.

That’s going to leave me $500 short. In two months, if I pinch every penny in a vise, lay off the pool guy, lay off the yard guy, and cut back the cleaning lady, I might manage to make that up.

Merry Christmas!