I'm not deaf, I'm just speechless!

So this next post has nothing to do with Breast Cancer...well....mostly nothing. Can ya handle it? Good.

So, back in April, I got sick...I mean, really sick with a nasty, chest-rattling cold. But, I was rehearsing a role and had to push thru the nasty cold.
You see, I had to play Satan in a church production about a battle against Jesus, for the soul of Judas.

<re-reads last sentence>

Yeah...I get to do some kick-ass shit, no?

Anyway, at that time, I was also on Tamoxifen...I say that because it may have contributed to what happened: I blew my vocal chords all to hell.
(See what I did there? Pun? See that? OK fine.)
Anyone who knows me knows I speak with a "whiskey-voice..." you know, raspy. Anyway, it went from raspy to nearly non-existent from April thru June, so I went to the doc and learned I had to have surgery to remove polyps and nodules from my vocal chords.
Well, last week, I had that surgery.

And I haven't said a word, since---STRICT doctor's orders.

Here's where this blog post comes in.
Those who joked they couldn't wait for me to be silent are now counting the days until I can speak again---mostly my kids because they, like all kids, prefer to scream questions from other rooms, rather than come to me with them. Hell, if they could, they'd scream from Maryland, asking me to locate their <needed object>. Now? Now those questions die in the air, unanswered, until they grudgingly come to me. Then, they have to wait for me to write the answer on a whiteboard---and then they whine that they can't read it.
Kids.

To make it easier, I got a "text to speak" app for my phone.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd they hate that too: Siri has a "creepy" voice. Anyway, that's their problem, not mine.
What is my problem? Going out in public while not being able to speak.

I managed to mostly avoid it (even bagging on back to school shopping) until today, when I needed to get groceries (and the back to school crap).

I avoided the deli counter (kids can take PBJ---ain't nobody got time to write down deli orders with so many people waiting!) and got thru BJ's mostly unhindered...until check out. I had Siri tell the cashier that "due to a surgical procedure, I was unable to respond to her verbally, but would reply via my phone," and Siri thanked her for her patience. Immediately, she dropped volume like we were in church and was intently focused on me when she spoke. I was confused by this until I realized why.
She thought I was deaf.
Now, why, I dunno..."Surgical procedure" and "deaf" are like...totally different. Right? No biggie...I got my crap and thanked her in sign-language, and leave.

Next, I head to KMart for some things for school and my mother-in-law. Since "back to School," is officially "over" I could not find paper and notebooks and the like...so I had to ask. I typed it into Siri and she tells the girl what I need. Again...whispers, intent face-looking and (are you ready?) a guided tour. I mouth, "Thank you," and smile...all the while realizing that as we walked, I was bopping my head to the piped in music.

Think about that for a minute.

I stop, fearing they'll call the "deaf police," on me, thinking me a poser...Plus, I really am not looking to offend deaf people, ya know?

So, off I go to check out with my loot and once again uses Siri to explain my "Surgical procedure silence," and once again, I get dropped volume and "intent" face. I almost wanna laugh at this point...but I keep it together and then, we discover, one item is tagless---I mouth and motion (I am charades Queen!) to the cashier, "I'll grab another one," and take off so she can see that I am quite healthy and quite capable.

And then it hits me. Yeah...I'm a tad battered--I've been thru hell, physically and emotionally--yet here I am, CAPABLE.

Forget "strong" for a minute...because we all walk THAT road, Right?

I am capable.

And with that, I grin like an absolute moron and leave the store parking lot with the music blasting in my open Jeep, not caring who sees me bopping my head.

Please pass the euphemisms...

As of May 27th, one word has dominated my inner dialogue.
That word?
Fuck.

As in, "Fuck this fuckity fucking shit to fucking hell."

Why?
Well, because on that day, I called my doc complaining about my left arm. Turns out, I am one of the few people who can feel a DVT --- Deep Vein Thrombosis---blood clot, in her body. Most people don't know they have them, until they break off and become problematic...as in when they become heart attacks, embolisms, and aneurysms.
Oh my.

But me? I can feel that shit.

So I call, get into the Ultra Sound department, and literally guide the tech to the "Wonky" (it's a medical term---look it up) spot in my armpit.

"Son of a Bitch," she says. I thought, "Fuck."

So, after arguing with them over going to the ER (where they sent me) or to my Doc's covering partner (because the co-pay is over $100 cheaper), I was taken off Tamoxifen, started on Warfarin, and instructed on how to give myself Lovenox injections twice a day.

Oh, fuck you cancer...fuck you and fuck your disfigurement, complications, and treatment.



So after 2 1/2 weeks of pills and jabbing myself, avoiding vitamin K rich foods (like leafy greens, because they help the blood to clot), blood draws every 3 days to check my blood's thickness---without much improvement, I flatly refused to inject myself anymore: my belly was covered in hard, colorful bruises and I was DONE.
No, correction, I was fucking done.
I would take the Warfarin...(essentially, rat poison) but I was DONE with the shots.
The NP was pissed and quite frankly, I didn't give a fuck.
In the meantime, Doc says I can't take Tamoxifen anymore because I am a clot risk (duh) and since I am not post menopausal, will have to undergo chemical Ovarian Ablation (to become post menopausal) then be prescribed Aromatase Inhibitors to keep the cancer from returning.
See, I get to be forced into menopause. Isn't that great? Look, don't get me wrong, I'd love to have my ovaries yanked since the fuckers went rogue on me and started all this shit, but because of the clot, no surgeon will touch me. Instead, I get to give big Pharma MORE MONEY and poison myself even further.
FUCK.
Which brings us to this week: suddenly, my blood got too thin. I was warned not to injure myself (because we all do that purposefully, right?) and to cut back on the meds.
So, I am bruised, bloated, have unflattering hair, 20 extra pounds and the weather finally hits 90 after years of snow and frigidity (okay, 10 months)  and I am told not to shave my legs.
I'm a fucking hot mess, people.

So, here I sit, googling the side effects of Lupron (the drug that will be injected into my ass to stop my periods on the day before I turn 48) and the Aromatase Inhibitors (the highlights are weight gain, acne, and thinning hair) and all I can think is, "Fuck."

I am angry. I am stressed. I am beyond pissed. But here I am, trying desperately to hold it together because I know there are women out there dealing with this hungry beast with far more grace than I can muster on my best day.

But I find it impossible to do so without saying, "fuck."
A lot.

Don't judge me.
I could have picked the dreaded C word. ;-)

It's not all ribbons and racks....

So, I have been thinking. Well, honestly, more like ruminating.
Not too long ago, someone posted about being sick and tired of October being dedicated to Breast Cancer Awareness because, "Let's face it, who isn't aware?" She thought we should be more "aware" of other causes.

I was like, really? "Awareness" is now a competitive sport?

Now, at the time, I was just wrapping up chemo and was due to start radiation.
And I felt like absolute shit.

Maybe you're sick of seeing pink in October (anyone who knows me, knows I am more an OD Green than pink girl, anyway) but saying that we should stop bringing this disease to the forefront because everyone's "aware" is ignorant: because not everyone is aware of how this disease affects women, their families, and their psyches.

Yes, we doll it up...we plaster pink all over it and put funny sayings like, "Save Second Base," or "Save a rack," on T-shirts, etc.

But there's another side to all this---a darker side. A deadly, disfiguring, body and mind altering side---and to have that side dismissed because someone is pinked out?
Makes me mad.
REALLY makes me mad.
Forget the green Hulk, people: you don't wanna see ME in all my pink freaken glory, MAD.

Because of breast cancer, I can never fully trust my body. Because of breast cancer, I have lived in some sort of pain or discomfort for one year. Because of breast cancer, my left arm must be babied and kept from sun burn and injury (injury includes hang nails---seriously---and again, if you know me, you KNOW this "babying" ain't gonna happen). Because of breast cancer, I can count on one hand how many nights of unbroken sleep I have had. Because of breast cancer, my body was poisoned and microwaved---and because of THAT, I may develop other cancers (Mind Fuck, anyone?)  Because of breast cancer, my vision has changed. Because of breast cancer, my skin has changed and my stamina and muscle tone has changed and my....

And as a woman who had two lumpectomies, I cannot imagine what the mastectomy and mastectomy + recon girls deal with!

Get the picture?
I will NEVER be who I was before May 1st of 2013.
That woman is gone.
Imagine that. Imagine having all your assumptions about your future completely obliterated.
It's tough to imagine it when you're NOT living with cancer.

And let's explore what it does to families, shall we?
It's expensive.
What "fun" money we had, went to pay for my treatment. So, the treatment sucks AND you can't afford to have fun to offset the damn treatment. Then there's the husband and kids who wonder if you're gonna die. They don't say it, of course, but it's there. It's always there. And the mother who now wonders if her daughter will outlive her---something she always took for granted. And the brother who worries so much, he sat thru all my chemo treatments, trying to be upbeat while watching his sister be treated to a poison cocktail. And then there's my friends...the ones who visited and called and who were likely terrified thinking, "Is my friend gonna be ok?"

I could handle going thru this. Seriously. Going bald, feeling like shit, countless side effects: all manageable.
What was hard was watching my loved ones watch me go thru this.

Yeah...maybe the world is "aware." Most women get mammos and see their GYN for the once-a-year grope, but do they go beyond that? Guess what. Are you "aware" that mammos are the lowest diagnostic tool out there? That tomographic mammos and ultrasounds and MRI's are better tools to find cancers?

I had a clean mammo four months prior to finding my lump.
I rarely did self exams, because I thought the yearly mammo was my insurance.
I was "aware."

But awareness wasn't enough. I still got breast cancer.
And if you're female, there's a one in eight chance you will too.

I used to feel pretty...

OK, so I have kinda put this one off because I don't fish for compliments and didn't want the sympathy posts to flood my feed...but I gotta get this out there for all the other "I used to feel pretty," girls.

Before my diagnosis, I was in good shape. I ate what I wanted (pretty much) but exercised regularly. My body was in great shape. My hair was always shoulder length or longer, and I wore appropriately fashionable clothing and shoes. For a middle-aged broad, I looked pretty good. A woman knows when men check her out (because let's face it, they aren't exactly discreet buggers) and it happened pretty frequently when I went out.

Now? I am carrying 25 extra pounds, my hair is 60's sitcom lesbian styled (think Alice from the Brady Bunch) and I wear sweats and kicks ALL. THE. TIME.

So those obvious sideward glances I used to get?
Not so much.

It's ok, considering I am married (most days happily so---Hi, Honey!) but that little confidence boost you get when someone is checking you out? Haven't had one in almost a year.
That kinda sucks.

Don't get me wrong: my worth is NOT tied up entirely in my looks...thank GOD, because going bald woulda killed me if it was. But, I no longer feel attractive. At all. EVER. And THAT is not good.
I'm smart enough to know that outlook is a powerful tool in the "kick cancer's ass" arsenal. And as someone who has *officially* ass-kicked, I feel pretty good. That said, I'd like to feel pretty again....and not in the "Hey, you've been thru hell, you look damn good despite the trip," kinda way.

I know I am not the only one struggling with this. And that's why I am posting this entry: so that all you gals who *used* to feel pretty know that you're not alone. Because you're not. We're here...we just don't wanna have a pity party over our looks, when we're still here living and some of our friends are not. Yeah...survivor's guilt in the face of vanity is an ugly thing to behold.

This disease is cruel. It kicks your ass, it threatens your life, steals your looks AND your confidence.
If it were a person, it'd be doing 100-life in the state pen.

And hopefully while there, it'd be forced to be someone's bitch.

Lifts and Separates

Those of us over a certain number of years remember Jane Russell hawking "Cross Your Heart" bras on TV...the ones that, "Lift and separate," she chirped into the camera with a smile.

Ya know what doesn't "lift and separate?"
This:













Worst part? Depending on the website you go to...this thing can set you back over three hundred bucks.
WHY would anyone BUY that, you ask?
Lymphedema.

Why am I not even gonna consider this thing, even if my armpit swells to the size of Iowa?
Itsafugly.

I draw the line...right here and right now on this bad boy. Nope, no, not eva gonna happen, nyet, no.
How about a side of NO.

See, this is my line in the sand....prior to breast cancer, I wore pretty bras. Lacy bras. Bras that were available in many colors. French demi bras (my personal favorite). Bras that supported---yet made the girls look good.

Now that I am post-treatment and poofy, I am supposed to wear some psyche-ward reject just because my left breast went rogue?
I. Don't. Think. So.

I will practice self lymph massage. I will keep my PT appointments. I will do whatever I can to keep this condition from forcing me into industrial underwear marketed by Goodyear.

As god as my witness...

I'mma gonna hafta evict a bitch....

Today, I took the reigns.
No appointment was made FOR me...*I* made the appointment....and NOT because I *HAD* to, but because I *wanted* to.

I went to the Y and signed up for the Livestrong program.
Now, I don't really give a hairy rats' ass about Armstong and his doping and his Tours de France (or anywhere else).
I give a shit that the man gives back.
So...screw the haters.
Hmph.
Anyway, so I am sitting there, completely feeling weirdly comfortable in a cramped, stuffy office, giving the intake RN all my info. I couldn't even understand why I was so comfortable, I just knew I was. And while foreign a feeling lately, it was pretty awesome.
And then, at the close, she asked me what I hoped to get from the program...and the light dawned.

"I want my life back. I want to do something for me that isn't about the cancer." Yeah, I have steroid weight to lose, but I was always physically fit---until these last few months. I've lifted weights most of my adult life. I was always strong (I always tell the man he's lucky he didn't marry a delicate creature when we do work around the house). But lately? Weak as shit. And always tired...well guess what?

Screw. That. Noise.

I am gonna do this program and I am gonna feel good and I am gonna get my size 6's back over my ass.
Yes I am.
And I am doing it not because exercise is good for cancer prevention (because, let's face it...it prevented NOTHING)...I am doing it because I look good when I exercise.

Vanity.

I've never had a lot...(thank God, or the last few months would have devastated me) but I do have some.

I'm glad I tapped it, once again. She and I are gonna evict this free-loading cancer bitch from my life.
And we're gonna look good doing it.

Poofy

You know that phenomenon when you're having a bad hair day, and you call your hair dresser and you make an appointment sometime next week, and the time between the bad hair day and the appointment is filled with fantastic hair days?

Yeah...apparently, the opposite happens when you make an appointment with a lymphedema specialist.

See, I was pushing my surgeon for the OK to weight lift again. I am used to being physically strong...I have been a weightlifter for 17 years, on and off. My arms used to resemble Linda Hamilton's in Terminator 2. I LIKED those arms. I MISS those arms...I no longer HAVE those arms and I want them BACK.
So.....Doc made an appointment with the lymph specialist to see what my risks were and to discuss what I could safely do, nine months post surgery.

And in the last 4 days, I've been experiencing pain in my armpit and breast. And they feel...poofy.
Anyone who knows me, knows that the word "poofy" and I are not BFFs. I don't like poofy hair. I don't like poofy clothes. I don't like poofy colors (um...blog name, hello?).
So What the...Poof?

It hurts, it's not devastating or anything, but it's cranking me because I have YET to find clothing that is flattering and comfortable post surgery...considering the weight gain (fuck you, steroids) and the scar tissue (good Italian skin heals nicely, but it needs time) and now we're gonna add "poofiness" to the mix?

Gee, cancer...thanks SO MUCH!!! I mean, you didn't give me *enough* presents this year!

<sigh>

[Looks in Mirror]

I'm gonna call my hairdresser...I haven't had a good hair day in months...