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...

So. Damn. Tired.

As I sit here typing, I am on my third cup of coffee (and this one's mocha) and I've just eaten a pancake with peanut butter and syrup.
Hey, don't judge.
It's the shiznit.

I should be buzzing....I should be bouncing off the walls. I should be ready to rescue the world while juggling puppies and herding kittens.
But all I wanna do is lay down. And sleep. I have no desire to do much of anything...I'm just tired.
And I have been for awhile now...some days I can fake it like Sally (as in "When Harry Met...) and plow ahead.
Others?
Well, let's just say, I am moments from logging off and hitting the couch.
I'm tired of being tired.
Seriously...I try to keep up, and then BLAMMO, it hits me. My brain stops working and my limbs feel heavy...

And it's not like I don't have shit to do...I DO...I just don't care. And that's not like me. All the docs say it's normal. But this "normal" isn't MY normal. When do I get to take possession of me again? That's all I wanna know. When will I have stamina? When will I have desire? (And no, I am not referring to sex---although I *would* be referring to it if I even remembered what sex *was*).
When will this be fun again?

I can't speak for all people who've gone thru a cancer diagnosis (especially since we all have different diagnoses and prognoses) but this energy suck is tough....I mean, we're hit with this scary-assed shit, we're battered, scarred, abused---and we don't have to energy to enjoy the after-battle?

Not cool.

That's it, cancer...you are NOT COOL.

Yeah, yeah...diagnosis depression is a real thing...add it to the "normal" fatigue of the cancer battle, fatigue from medications, and you get what I am driving at.

The good news is, when people around me bitch about life or their schedule or their ass-aches, the only reason I don't snap their arms off their bodies and beat them with the bloody stumps, is because I am TOO DAMN TIRED.

So all of you reading this who may have whined about something trivial in front of me, lately?

You're welcome.
;-)

A Brave New World

Today is "World Cancer Day."

Ya know what? After all these years and kabillions of dollars, I think we should not NEED a "World Cancer Day."
*I* think we should have a cure.
But I do wonder: will we ever?
Let's face it, it's NOT financially smart to cure a disease that costs kabillions to fight and can generate kabillions in contributions, because everyone has been affected by it.

So, is the "war on Cancer" the same losing battle as the "war on Terrorism," or, "war on Drugs?" Are they all just revenue makers???

I know, I shouldn't be Debbie Downer, but I am having a hard time with "Gracious Cancer poster girl," personality, today...she just seems to be unwilling to smile pretty and look perky in her buzzcut and (theonlythingthatfitsis)sweats.

I am not ignoring the massive improvements we have made in cancer treatment...but those improvements are crazy expensive. Just four treatments of chemo cost more than a LUXURY SUV. Add to that two surgeries and 33 radiation treatments and the multitude of doctor visits...and then multiply THAT by the number of people battling this insidious disease. I don't even know what to call numbers that go that high.


Anyway...

As I sit here, looking out on snow covered trees, I wonder...will there ever be a world in which a "cancer day" is not needed?

Adrift

So, I saw my surgeon on Friday.
I almost didn't, because Providence was a suckfest of traffic that day and it took me 40 minutes to go from Branch Avenue to Eddy Street.
For those who know RI, 40 minutes is what it usually takes to travel the state from end to end.
Seriously.
Anyway, he examined me, told me that I looked good, was apologetic over my needing chemo ("I really thought you wouldn't, but this is why we do the Onco test...so we KNOW,") told me to hold off on weight lifting, told me to stop being hard on myself ("The weight will take awhile to come off. Be patient!), told me that my bouts with exhaustion are normal ("Your body has been pretty beaten up.") and then made my mammogram appointment for April. He smiled and asked if I had any questions or concerns.
I said I didn't.
HAH! There isn't gonna be a day that goes by that I won't be "concerned" that cancer has come back to claim me...but no...no questions.
And then I left.
And then, as I walked to my Jeep, I realized...
I was kinda...done.

I was DONE treatment. My next appointment is in March with my Onc and then the April Mammo.
I am technically not a cancer "patient" anymore.
Well, I still have the 5 year maintenance plan: I have about a month and a half of Tamoxifen under my belt (and more hot flashes than I can frigging count, to prove it) but, there's no "active" treatment.

I am adrift.
I am terrified of calling myself a "survivor," as I may tempt fate.
So what am I?
I mean, what am I besides a slightly overweight, buzz-cut sporting, scarred up, marginally lopsided woman with doubts and fears and concerns?


I know this sounds weird, but to me, this is almost scarier in some ways than active treatment...I'm an action kinda girl. Problem? Fix it.
I don't understand "waiting it out."
I am a doer, not a waiter.
Waiting requires patience.


WTF is patience?



Patience is that thing cancer is gonna try to teach me, isn't it?