Tag Archives: mastectomy

things unexpected

I’ve been forming a blog post in my head for the last several weeks about various unexpected things that I learned from this tussle with cancer, but a few things have stopped me. First, if I write that post how it keeps popping into my head, it feels like an end. And there are still things I think I want to say. Some of them I don’t know how to say yet, and some of them haven’t formed, but I can feel them there, waiting to come out. In any case, I’m not quite ready for the end of blogging yet. Maybe soon, but not yet. And second, I can’t really get past the first two items that would be on my list of things unexpected that I’ve learned, or decide if they are actually  separate. So maybe I’ll just talk about them for now.

Before cancer, whenever anyone went through something difficult, I liked to comment that if I had to go through the same situation, I would melt into a pile of goo, unable to cope. Not because I needed validation from whomever I was talking to, but more because my self-deprecating nature delighted in that vision of myself, quivering in a gelatinous blob. And also, it just felt accurate.

But now, that visual doesn’t feel right. At least, not anymore. Not to describe post-cancer Lauri. And that surprises me. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect that I would be able to handle everything that I have. I didn’t expect that the experience of cancer would both be as difficult as it was AND manageable. One or the other, but not both. I didn’t expect that chemo would be hard in the many emotional ways that it was. That the steroids and fear would leave me so agitated and on edge, that I would, on some days, take an anti-nausea pill as much for the emotional escape that sleep gave me as for the nausea. (This topic is another post, because it is a part of cancer treatment that goes undiscussed all too often, but it also needs to be said here, so I can’t avoid it). I also didn’t expect that I would be able to recognize that when it happened, and tell myself, “No more.” And actually successfully follow through with that. I didn’t expect that the hardest part of surgery for me would be the complete reliance on others, and not the pain or the drastic change in my body. I didn’t expect that if the worst-case scenario symptoms of radiation happened to me (which they eventually did), that they wouldn’t really slow me down. And I just didn’t expect, when I got diagnosed, that the experience of cancer and its associated treatments would leave me feeling so much stronger than I ever have. I mean, to be fair, I’ve always defined myself as a wimp, so stronger than that isn’t much…. but I do feel strong now. Very strong. And as a result, very happy.

The other item on my list of things I’ve learned is that although the world can be unrelentingly cruel at times, and it can, it can also provide balance through humanity. I know I’ve blogged about this to the point of sounding like a Pollyanna, but it’s just been my experience, and I can’t talk about my experience without being brought back to the beauty and care that people have surrounded me with. People have been so incredibly selfless and loving. Some of them were expected and reliable and comforting, and others were complete surprises, in a breath-catching way. But more and more I realize that maybe this is the secret to my newfound strength. It isn’t that I can handle anything that the world throws at me (And just to be clear, Universe, I really don’t want to test that out, thanks), but that I’m surrounded by such good people, that I don’t actually have to handle much alone. And the things that I do, the physical things, well, those are made more bearable by knowing I have the support of so many lovely people. Maybe my strength isn’t about me being an island of strength like I always imagined it to be, always admired in other strong people, but about allowing myself to access the strength and help of the people around me, and in keeping that circle filled with loving, reliable people.

And maybe that’s what I want it to be. I really don’t want to walk away from this with an arrogant swagger, feeling prideful in a “keep heaping it on, World, I’ll keep going,” kind of way. That isn’t helpful to anyone else, or to me, really. I want to feel strong in my ability to lean on my people when I need. In respecting my individual limits by my ability to say, “No, I cannot take on another project/client/assessment/whatever-the-job-is,” without feeling like a failure. I want to take pride in the strength of finding balance in my life, giving as much priority to the enjoyment of the people and places around me as I do to the tasks ahead of me. And that’s unexpected for me. I thought that the feeling that came from finding myself capable would be enough. But I’m learning that it’s not. I’m learning that my version of success is embracing my inter-dependence with my circle of people as a path toward true fulfillment. I’m still working on that, but I’m getting there.

active participation

I feel as if I’ve entered a new phase of my treatment and recovery. I think it’s probably most accurate to say that up until recently, I’ve been mostly a passive participant in my cancer treatment. My medical oncologist told me what chemicals they would be using to fight my disease, and subsequently nurses administered the chemotherapy while I sat there and watched. My surgical oncologist told me that best practice involved surgery, and I went under anesthesia while she removed my disease. My radiation oncologist informed that radiation for 6.5 weeks would dramatically reduce my risk of recurrence, so I go in like a good little soldier every weekday while the techs radiate my left chest wall. After that is done, my medical oncologist will prescribe for me anti-hormone therapy, given in pill form, which will also reduce my risk of recurrence, since my cancer is (was? I’m not quite sure which tense to use anymore) estrogen-receptor positive, meaning estrogen encourages its growth. I will take that for five years, because all three of my oncologists (plus several years of research) have told me to.

But the further I get into treatment, the more active I am becoming in my own recovery. At first, this was scary, because it involved deciding which doctor to believe, since there was disagreement as to whether or not to continue any kind of cancer treatment, due to my compromised heart functioning (more on that in a future post). My reaction to having to decide for myself which way to go, after passively allowing others to care for me for so many months, was a bit on the panicked side. I’m not trained for this! What if I choose wrong! Can’t someone else just tell me what to do?? But after making that first decision (deciding to believe the radiation oncologist who said he could protect my heart, and who was way nicer than the cardiologist who I didn’t like anyway), active participation is WONDERFUL. I feel like I finally have some control over what happens to this life I’ve learned to value. I listen to my doctors’ recommendations about strengthening my heart and further reducing my cancer risk through diet, exercise, and mindfulness meditation, and implement them with gusto, tailoring them to fit who I am and how I live. I do my own research on how to reduce the discomfort of burning during radiation, and add that to what my radiation oncologist says. But most of all, I am rethinking old decisions, rethinking what I should look like in this post-cancer life.

As I wrote about in Anticipating Surgery, I was incredibly nervous, during the weeks and months prior to surgery, about how I would look post-mastectomy. I was nervous that my new appearance might cause me to sink into a depression. I thought about how I could best dress to camoflauge my new shape. I dreaded seeing people I knew. The reality, though, is that I don’t mind my new look at all. In fact, I kind of like it. It’s true, I’m all scarred up (7 in all!) and misshapen. No, let me rephrase that: I’m shaped differently than I was before, and differently from how the typical female body is shaped. I don’t have the smooth, rounded, gender-typical lines that I’m used to. And it’s not pretty. But it’s interesting. My body tells a story now. It reminds me of the strength that I had no idea I possessed before all of this. It shows that my life is different, unique, that I have something to say. And I’m finding, to my surprise, that this is more valuable to me than pretty.

So I’m rethinking reconstruction (and reserve the right to rethink it again. And again). My new form of active participation in my cancer treatment is to rethink old decisions. To recognize that I hated the total dependence that surgery created, and to tell myself that maybe another, more involved surgery isn’t right for me. We talk a lot about embracing body diversity. Do we honestly only mean that we should be accepting of varying heights and weights? More and more, I’m thinking that maybe to really walk the walk of body diversity, I should embrace my differently-shaped body, not camouflaging its difference, but celebrating the strength in the story that it tells.

Thankful

I wanted to write something about how thankful I am for all of the loveliness in my life. I’m hesitating, though, because of the timing. I mean, on the one hand, it’s perfect timing, right? Thanksgiving weekend? And on the other hand, it feels sort of… unoriginal maybe? By this time in the season, we’ve all read what each other is grateful for on Facebook or other media, around the dinner table, etc. While I believe in the power of gratitude, and do believe that we could all stand to be a little more mindful of what is good in our lives, at some point one thing does start to bleed into another, and I fear it starts to lose its meaning, or something. I recognize gratitude fatigue shouldn’t be a thing. I’m just explaining my hesitancy, I guess.

However, regardless of my ambivalence, the fact remains that I have been enormously blessed this year, and feel the need to recognize it. Because whenever anyone says something about losing their faith in humanity, I wish they could see life from my viewpoint. And maybe I feel the need to balance what I see on the news. Because from where I stand, the humanity that surrounds me couldn’t be much better, and I am so thankful for that.

My mom had this experience as she was staying with me after surgery, in which she got into a conversation with a stranger (this part is by no means unusual for my very social mother). The man also had a daughter who had just had a mastectomy, but the similarities ended there. The woman had nobody to care for her except her father, who was stuck at work. She was waiting in the hospital for him to get off of work and take her to his apartment, which wasn’t big enough for the both of them. He was very nervous about how he would give her the post-surgical care that she needed. I’m not even sure if she had insurance.

Contrast that with my experience. I not only am fully covered by health insurance, but I was able to travel to a different state to have the exact surgeon I wanted. I am so incredibly thankful for that, and so acutely aware that I could have just as easily been in her position as I am in mine. During surgery, I had my parents, Brian, and Miko anxiously waiting for me in the hospital, and countless others in other places. After surgery, I was thoroughly spoiled and cared for by family. First, my mom came with us back to Missoula to do everything I needed and every chore I couldn’t attend to, making me feel as if there was nothing she would rather do than make my meals and drain my surgical drains. She made me delicious smoothies, took Miko to and from school, and washed and ironed everything she could find in our house, most of which I didn’t even know needed to be ironed.  The day after she left,  my sister took her place, and took care of my every need and want. Again, delicious meals were made and chores were done. She stayed a week, buying our groceries, running our errands, entertaining us, and making me feel like the most loved sister in the history of sisters. And what’s more, had my mother and sister not been able to come, I can count at least 10 people who might have helped had I called. While they were here, I actually had to turn away help. I was overwhelmed by the goodness of people.

During this whole process, people — and I’m not just talking my immediate circle here — really could not have been nicer or more generous. I’m consistenly reminded of the love around me. All of the cards and the gifts and the flowers and the meals and the messages of hope and love, they have helped me more than I think I am even aware. Because they let me know that while this may be happening to me, I am not alone. That is an incredibly powerful message, one for which I am so thankful (despite being painfully late on my thank you notes).

It’s not only the people in my life I’m thankful for. My sweet dog, Rufus, stayed by my side all summer, while I was at my sickest. When I got home from surgery, he didn’t let me out of his sight if he could help it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until a week and a half after surgery when his breathing became labored that we found out that he had been struggling with his own cancer. While we were putting him to sleep, I was overcome with gratitude that this loyal companion gave me constant comfort at a time when he just needed a little comfort himself. I am so thankful to have been the human to that loyal dog.

So when I am discouraged by the news, by accounts of people trampling others on Black Friday, gun violence, abuse and neglect, I remind myself that this isn’t what I see on a daily basis. And maybe it’s true that the people around me are just especially good (because I do have outstanding people in my life), I like to think what I see every day is a more accurate reflection of humanity. These well-wishes I receive, this need that others have to let me know that I am in their thoughts and prayers, these consistent offers of help and food and sweetness, they aren’t sensational or sexy enough to make the headlines that scare us. But they happen every single day, and serve as a reminder that people can be pretty wonderful. So I am so thankful for all of those reminders. And honestly, I wouldn’t be nearly as aware of this wonderful humanity were it not for my cancer. So, in a strange way, I’m thankful for my cancer as well. As long as I can beat it.

Through Surgery!

For all of you who have been waiting to hear about Lauri’s progress, as of about 5:00 pm, she is out of surgery. Everything went well – Dr. Moline reported that it was all positive – and she is alert and doing fine. Brian and our parents are with her right now as they wait for her to be transferred to her hospital room. She’ll be at Sacred Heart in Spokane tonight and tomorrow night and then Lauri, Brian, Miko and our mother, Shirley, will drive back to Missoula. Our mom will be with her for the rest of the week while she recovers at home and I will be with her next week.

Lauri was admitted this morning at 10:30 am. Her surgery was scheduled to start at 12:30 pm, which it did.

As I get any additional updates, I will post them.

Thank you so much for all of your kind thoughts, words, deeds and love. I know that it has really eased the hearts of Lauri, Brian, Miko and the rest of us. Knowing that Lauri has so many people’s kind intentions supporting her through this experience is a real blessing.

Anticipating surgery

I’ve been struggling with how to write this post for some time, knowing that it was inevitably coming. On the one hand, this feels so incredibly personal to me, and I feel some unease in talking about it in this somewhat public medium that is read by people with whom I normally maintain some sense of boundaries. Like my professors. Or my parents. Or Miko’s teachers. And on the other hand, writing this blog has been such a gift to me, for which I have been doubly reinforced. First, by the act of writing itself; sharing my personal process has been instrumental in moving me through it. Creating something, even if it’s just this electronic account of my feelings, during a time in which it is all too easy to only think about sickness and death, has fed me in a way I can’t quite describe. And second, by the gracious and generous responses I get from people who read it. I feel so priveleged that I get to put this out there, and that people actually take their valuable time to read it, and then convey to me their reactions. And so because of all of that, it has been really important to me that everything I write here remains absolutely authentic to my experience, even if that feels a little uncomfortable at times.

So, what feels so uncomfortable? Well, up until now, I’ve been talking about my cancer in this somewhat generic way. Despite the differences in treatment protocols, really, this experience could be relevant to people with lots of different types of cancer. But today, I’m talking specifically about something I keep pretty hidden, about my breasts themselves, rather than the cancer inside them (ok, it’s just inside the left one, but I’m having both removed, so I’m talking about both here). And it feels uncomfortable to be trying to talk frankly and openly about something that is so sexualized in our society, to an audience that includes people with whom I am generally more guarded. Maybe this indicates some level of prudishness on my part, more than I recognized before. Regardless, I’ve been struggling with this post. So I’ll just talk about my fears as thoroughly and authentically as I can, and hope that I won’t cringe later.

On Monday, (yes, 11/11, checking in at 11) I will have both of my breasts removed. While this may seem obvious, it keeps occurring to me with a start that they will be gone permanently. Not just until treatment is completed, which is sort of what feels like should happen, but forever. These parts of my body that are so personal and private to me, will first be taken to a lab to be coldly and clinically dissected for evidence of disease by someone I don’t know and wouldn’t recognize me on the street, and ultimately just be added to biohazard trash, along with needles, gauze, plastic bits of disposable medical equipment, etc. Someone who I don’t know is going to see and touch my breasts without me there to give permission, and then will throw them away. That feels unreal to me. And more than a little unfair.

And these parts of my body, they mean something to me. I actually like them. They feel more integral to who I am than, say, my elbow or my little toe. I think that’s in part because they are a huge symbol of my personal gender identity. Maybe this feels counterintuitive, since I joke so much about how little attention I put toward valuing my appearance. But for me, it’s maybe because of that fact that they are important. They are the one consistent part of me that make me feel feminine, and I like that. They do this without requiring me to put on make-up, do my hair, or put time and thought into my wardrobe. So they’re like my lazy femininity (which, now that I think of it, is an apt description of my gender identity itself). But the point is, this personal and important part of my body will be gone forever in less than a week, and I’m experiencing that as a profound loss. I hear other women experience this same process somewhat eagerly, like they can’t wait to have their diseased breasts removed. And that makes sense — the surgery is literally lifesaving. But that’s not how I feel. I am definitely grieving.

The other main thing I’m feeling is dread. Dread about a few things, the first of which is my appearance. Let’s face it, I don’t have a boyish figure, so this post-mastectomy look isn’t going to go well. I will have no curves up top, will still have my ever-growing mid-section, and my surgeon just told me that my chest bone protrudes more than that of the average woman, which will be more obvious after surgery. Lovely. People keep asking why I don’t just wear prosthetic breasts if I’m so concerned about how I’ll look. And I get it, easy fix, or so it seems. But for those who know me well, know that I have the tendency to be overly literal, to over-explain things that don’t actually need explanation. When I don’t, it feels like I’m not telling the whole truth. And that’s how prosthetics feel when I think about them. Like I’d need to explain to everyone I come in contact with that they’re not actually my REAL breasts, should the subject come up. Not that I generally (or ever) engage in conversations with just anyone about my breasts, but the feeling is still there for me. It’s also the downside of having been so open about my treatment. Everyone knows that I am having a double mastectomy, so wearing prosthetics feels like an extremely transparent lie. I recognize this as a strange little quirk of mine, and I don’t feel this way about others who choose to wear prosthetics, but I have decided that if it doesn’t feel authentic, I can’t do it. So, I’m left with this impending body shape that our society views as weird, and I’m finding I care about that more than I thought I would. In fact, as I get closer to surgery, I rarely think about it without crying. And I think about it a lot.

Related to that, I also dread seeing people for the first time after surgery. It’s like how I felt about seeing people after going bald, only more pronounced, because it’s forever and way more personal. I’m dreading the first inevitable, furtive glances that people who know me will naturally give me, curiously taking in the difference in my appearance. I’m dreading the urge I will have to scan their faces for signs of pity, and the defensiveness I will feel when I find it there. I’m dreading hugs. Hugs will feel different. Closer maybe? Less soft? Physically uncomfortable and/or painful? All of that plus more I’m not thinking of, and yet I know I’ll want the hugs. Or at least I think I will. I’m a hugger.

I’m scared about how I’ll feel emotionally after surgery. To wake up, and take that first look myself, and have it all hit me. Because while it feels real to me now, I’m aware that I have no idea how it will feel until after surgery. And so all of this, all of these reasons for dread will no longer be hypothetical, but will be my new reality. And it feels like that will likely feel like a sad reality, at least at first while I adjust. I’m scared that the adjustment will take a while; I talked to a lovely woman the other day who spoke openly to me about her mastectomy three years prior, and she still choked up. I don’t want to be sad about this in three years. I want to be happily engaged in my post-cancer and post-grad school life. But life keeps showing me that I don’t always get to pick how things go.

The most recent thing I’m feeling is this unease related to time. Not only are the days until my surgery flying by, but it just occurred to me that, practically, I have less time than others. Three or fours fewer hours. For my family waiting at the hospital, or others waiting elsewhere who are aware of the time that surgery will take place, they have all of those hours until surgery is over. I have until I get anesthesia. Then I wake up without experiencing the interim. And while I of course don’t want to be aware of the act of surgery, I’m feeling a little panicky at the idea of losing those hours. Those are my hours, and I don’t get to experience them. They are being taken from me, just like my breasts are, and I can’t do anything about it.

So this is how I’m anticipating surgery. This unease, this dread, this grief, punctuated by moments of just wanting it to be over, open to the possibility that maybe I’ll feel just fine and will actually like my body more. Until I know that, though, my breath catches more, my attention jumps all over the place, the lump in my throat grows.

As a practical matter, for those who are nervous with and for me, my sister will update my blog on my surgery day, after she hears how it went. Hopefully she won’t abuse this responsibility and share stories or pictures of my painfully awkward teen years, but she’s an older sibling, so who knows.

Confessions of my ridiculousness

I’m sure we all have our own ways in which we are ridiculous. Maybe not — maybe it’s just me. In any case, there are a few ways in which my own ridiculousness keeps popping up lately, over and over, mostly in the form of problems that have solutions for normal people, but not solutions I am likely to utilize. (If you look at it this way, some might see fit to substitute ‘ridiculousness’ for ‘laziness’ here.) Since I have some extra time and nothing else to write about, I thought I’d share them. I’m considering it somewhat of a public service, because this should make you all feel a little better about yourselves, a little more well-adjusted in comparison.

I often get the comment that I’m brave for showing my bald head publicly. My reaction to this is generally surprise or confusion. Does said person not really know me? Is s/he under some misguided belief that I have the patience or interest in keeping up my appearance? (and if so, does s/he pity me that this is the best I can come up with??) The truth is, I don’t bare my bald head because I’m brave. It’s not like I’m scared to go bald, but do it anyway to make a statement for cancer patients everywhere. A more accurate description would be that I am some combination of lazy and comfort-driven. I mean, come on! It’s summer! I’m hot all the time. And I hate feeling hot; I am from Seattle, where mild temperatures reign. So there is very little chance I am going to add to that misery by donning a wig. Maybe a hat. Every once in a while a scarf if I’m feeling fancy or motivated, but I don’t really have the skill or the patience to pull that off like a normal person would. Also, I often forget to look in the mirror, so I’m usually blithely unaware of how I might look to others. Don’t get me wrong, I’m terribly flattered that anyone might find me brave. I’m just saying, that’s not what’s motivating me. Comfort motivates me. Laziness guides me. The one exception? Miko’s first day of school. Apparently that’s where I draw the line of apathy for my appearance. I made a special shopping trip (a rare and dreaded activity in my world) to buy a new hat to wear at drop-offs and pick-ups. By the second day I dropped her off while bald. Hats make me sweaty. Also, I forgot to look in the mirror.

Instead of sticking a needle in my arm every time I need to have blood drawn or get chemo, the nurses access my port. This is a nifty little device that sits just under my skin below my clavicle on my right side, and is used for infusions. It used to look like a round bump, but now that the swelling has gone down, you can actually see the edges and prongs of the port, and it’s pretty disturbing. It’s clearly not supposed to be there, and the more I look at it, the more anxious I get about it (which, in turn, causes me to look at it more, like the car crash phenomenon). The more the port protrudes, the more certain I am that if I lie on my right side, it might just pop out of my skin. The nurses assure me (every week) that this can’t and won’t happen, but just looking at how pronounced it’s become, I’m not always certain I believe them. So what do I do to ease my anxiety? Sleep on my back? Or my left side? No. I continue to sleep on my right side, because it’s more comfortable, and somehow, changing my sleep position feels like too much work. The bonus to this is that every morning I get to wake up and feel pleasantly surprised that my port did not, in fact, pop out of my skin.

My double mastectomy is coming up (in two months). I’m increasingly focused on how I’ll look afterward. I’m self-aware enough to know I won’t do anything about it, so it’s not like I’m planning accomodations or anything. I’m just recognizing that in two months, my already-present body issues will become more pronounced. Essentially, I spend my time actually planning to feel self-conscious, rather than planning ways to make myself feel better. Ridiculous. See, I don’t have a boyish figure. So, this no-breast look is going to look absurd. It just is. Combined with my bald head, and the fact that I gain weight predominately in my stomach, I’m certain I will look like a pot-bellied, middle-aged man come November 11th. I tell this to friends, who laugh nervously (while conspicuously not making eye contact) and tell me that I couldn’t possibly look like a pot-bellied, middle-aged man. But I’m skeptical of their honesty. I’m reminded of a close friend who told me that once I lose my eyebrows, I should draw them back on in outlandish and/or pronounced ways, and see which friends allow me to leave the house that way. Are the same friends who say I won’t look like a pot-bellied, middle-aged man the very ones who would allow me to be seen in public with drawn-on super surprised eyebrows? If I were brave, I’d do an experiment. But I’m not. And just so we’re clear, yes, I’m aware there are several “fixes” to this man-looking problem (wig, prosthetic breasts, new clothes, etc.) But let me just refer you back to my apparently stable personality traits of laziness and apathy, and remind you that those fixes are highly unlikely to ever occur for this girl. That just sounds like too much trouble.

A part of me (okay, most of me) is mad I haven’t gotten cancer-skinny, like you see in the movies. I’m aware of how insensitive this sounds, especially for those who have struggled to keep weight on while their disease ate away at their bodies. But I was just kind of hoping, you know, a silver lining might be that I finally lose some of this weight that I have sort of tried to lose every once in a while, on and off, when I didn’t feel like a snack. Instead, I’ve gained weight. Every week when I see my doctor and complain about it, she is a little less patient with my concern, and reminds me that she is doing every thing she can to ensure that I actually don’t lose weight while I’m on chemo. I thought she could throw a sister a bone or something, but apparently not. So my clothes don’t fit, but I refuse to buy new ones, since my shape is about to drastically change, anyway. The other reason I can’t lose weight (aside from my affinity for ice cream)? If I want the option of reconstruction without implants, I have to maintain a certain level of belly fat. The surgeon will “harvest” the fat from my abdomen to construct my new breasts. (I’m not going to lie, I’m sort of in love with this fact.) Which, makes me sound like a farm or something, and brings to mind the saying “you reap what you sow.” I’m sowing plenty. Hopefully that works out, and I end this ordeal with a rockin’ new bod.

As I read this, I’m aware my mother will probably see it and worry that I need some affirmations, maybe a reframe or two to tell me I’m not ridiculous, but just right. Don’t worry, Mom; I’m ok. Although, a little Mama-love is always welcome.

best-laid plans

It seems as if I’m destined to be presented with the same lesson over and over again until it finally sinks in. Thing is, I keep thinking that it has sunk in, and then, time and time again, am reminded that I have not, in fact, learned the lesson at all.

The lesson has to do with making plans. And control. Every time I think I have a portion of my life planned out, or under control, Life comes along and shows me it has other plans. And every time I meet the destruction of my careful plans with feelings of injustice, as if nothing should change once I decide on a course. Even though it virtually always does.

The first time I remember talking about having learned this lesson (although I clearly hadn’t) was at my grad school interview. More than one person asked me what I saw myself doing in five years. Having had my life take some big changes prior to the interview, I gave what I thought was a wise but truthful answer. I said that five years ago, I had no idea I would even go back to finish my Bachelor’s degree, much less apply to a doctoral program. Moreover, five years prior I didn’t even know what school psychology was. So rather than say with any confidence what I’d be doing in five years, I was open to wherever life took me. Then I think I completely contradicted myself and said something else about what I wanted to do with my school psychology degree. Of course, the contradiction is what betrayed the idea that I had learned my lesson. It also showed my complete ignorance at how long school would take me, but that’s a whole other story.

So last week, my oncologist told me I should start thinking about scheduling my double mastectomy. I glibly told her that I had plenty of time, because I had planned to go to school during Fall Semester, and have the surgery during Winter Break. I had planned it, see? It fit perfectly into my little timeline that nicely worked my treatment around my school, so that nothing was disrupted. I had already extended my schooling for a year, and I wasn’t about to extend it any further. Well. My doctor’s eyes got wide, and I’m pretty sure I detected some panic in her already normally-anxious voice. She might have even twitched. She informed me that my plan wasn’t optimal care for an aggressive cancer such as mine. She said it was ultimately up to me, but letting that cancer sit, untreated, for an extra month, was risky. It was one of those reminders that I don’t go to see her as some sort of alternative summer routine, but rather because I actually have cancer. Oh yeah.

So, my plans changed. I won’t attend school this semester. This is a hard change for me. Another reminder that things are not in my control. But maybe the lesson is that, to an extent, control is an illusion. We can optimize our opportunities to the best of our abilities to have the life we want by making our plans, sure. But maybe the danger isn’t in making the plans so much as it is in the clinging to the plans. When we (or I, anyway) become so attached to the planned timelines we have created in our heads (how many times have I charted out when I would take which class, when I would write my dissertation, when I would apply for internship, when I would be DONE), we feel almost heartbroken, betrayed, angry, hurt, when those timelines have to change. In all reality, I do know that in five years, it will make no difference to me when I took this class vs. that, or in which semester I proposed my dissertation. I will, however, remember that when given a choice, I always prioritized optimal care over pushing through with a given plan I had become so attached to.

So, it looks like the school supplies I bought for this semester will have to wait. Maybe until next? I’m trying to be flexible with that. Until then, it looks like I have some extra time on my hands. Maybe to digest the impermanence of everything. And, oh yeah, surgery on November 11th. Unless that changes.

Countdown to Wednesday

I’m on a countdown, it seems. Every minute that passes puts me closer to Wednesday, which in turn puts me closer to Capital K Knowing. I’m finding it’s one thing to know you have cancer in this vague sort of way. Seems we caught it early, but possibly not. Seems not to have invaded too much surrounding tissue, but we’ll find out. Don’t know which hormones it’s recpetive to, so don’t know which of the many treatments are indicated. Just know I have the big C. And while I usually hate more than anything not knowing as many details as possible, there’s also a way in which it is comforting. There’s hope in the not knowing, or in the Only Vague Knowing. It’s still within the realm of possibility that I could wake up on Wednesday after surgery and find out the cancer was much smaller than expected, and was taken care of by surgery. I could still find out that no lymph nodes were involved, or no further surgery or chemotherapy will be required. There’s still plenty of reason to be optimistic. So like I said, it’s one thing to know you have cancer in a vague sort of way, and another to know all of the details.

After I Wednesday, and certainly after I get the pathology results back, though, I’m locked in. The optimism could be replaced by sheer happiness at fantastic news. Or. And it’s the Or that has me temporarily enjoy the Only Vague Knowing and fear the Knowing.

So a run-down of Wednesday. First, I check in super early to get an injection of radioactive blue dye. This will travel to my lymph nodes to make it easier for my surgeon to find them for a biopsy. I will then be taken to the imaging facility, where a series of wires will by placed via ultrasound, guided by clips (or as the radiologist called them, internal bling) that were placed during my second biopsy, to make the cancer easier to find during surgery. Then surgery, in which they will hopefully remove all of the cancer, plus a margin of clean tissue all the way around, just to be sure, and take a biopsy of my lymph nodes. Then I wake up and hopefully don’t become dependent on pain pills.

Then I wait. So I can Know. I’ll tell you how it goes.