Pathology

There are so many words that come to mind when thinking about the behaviors of those battling cancer. Having had a front row seat to my father’s cancer, I’m familiar with some of the details that are involved with such an event. The approach to cancer obviously varies depending on the type of cancer being treated, but overall, there are specific words typically associated with the patient. Fighter. Survivor. When cancer was said to me, those were the farthest words from my mind.

Waiting. Deciding. Waiting again.

The surgery went well. The pathology report was said to take up to two weeks to publish. It was two weeks to the day. I got the report on Friday the 19^th of April. I read through it and from the mild comprehension I have reading medical reports, it didn’t take but a few minutes to recognize the importance of some of the words used. The biggest question I wanted out of the report was the condition of my lymph nodes. Those were the details that presented the necessity for chemotherapy or not.

When I read the first three lines of the report stating, Negative, I was instantly relieved. The lymph nodes were not removed but sampled. There was no indication of disease in the lymph nodes. The cells sampled from the newer tumors were in fact diseased. All that tissue was removed successfully and with clean margins. No need for radiation! What came next in the report was more surprising.

I elected to have a bilateral mastectomy. I had both breasts removed of their breast tissue. The left side was the malignant side. The right was not indicating any issue. No lumps or suspicious tissue. However, they biopsied all the tissue removed, including the non-cancerous right breast tissue. The choice to have a bilateral mastectomy was not encouraged by the doctors initially but today I was validated in spades. The right breast was on its way to being a problem. They removed a lot of precancerous tissue that had over a 25% chance of putting me through this all over again.

There are still appointments set over the next few weeks. I have an appointment with the oncologist in a couple weeks to make the next decisions regarding systematic treatment and whether it’s recommended or not. She is still working on the Oncotype of the tumors. This is a process that helps her figure out what kind of therapy to use to treat it. The oncology surgeon today told me he doesn’t believe there is a need for chemotherapy but likely hormone blocking therapy. More on that part in a later post (I’m not sure if I will take that path yet or not.).

The surgeon doesn’t feel like he needs to see me for six months from now to follow up and do some scans. I said to him that this was the fastest treatment of cancer ever! One major surgery and I’m on my merry way. He agreed with me and believed that we are in fact looking at that scenario. I’m not ready to say it until I have my appointment in two weeks, but to say I’m very optimistic would be an understatement. Gotta hold on to the real potential of a shoe dropping, because I am still Emma Stange.

The reconstruction side of this journey has barely begun. The new normal for the next few months is here and I’m adjusting to the way it feels. The expanders that I have for this process are NOT comfortable at all. The swelling has pretty much receded and now I’m looking at a very mutilated chest. If I didn’t know that this is temporary, the sight would bother me more than it does. It’s not causing me to flinch anymore, so that’s nice. The next appointment with the plastic surgery team will be nice. I should hear from them this week to schedule my first visit to expanding these things to help prepare for the final surgery.

There are not enough ways to express the complete gratitude I have for my family and friends. I had three separate friends and family come to my aide without asking. The first three weeks after surgery have been a rebirth of the most chaotic nature. I’m still in shock. I have said this all along, if there was a convenient time to go through a cancer battle, it was now. The people, the time, the emotional state, the monetary position, the spiritual foundation, the love, and the peace in my being are all components that continue to provide me breath. I have started writing thank you notes which will take me a bit to complete with my arms being weak. But I can’t wait to mail them out. Without the encouraging calls, texts, cards, and physical visits, this story would not sound like this.

Because I have a few more months of inconvenient steps to get me back to good, the boys are best set for success with their dad. This part has been the hardest. For the past couple of years, I have had them full time except for school breaks. It’s been me and them. I miss them so much it hurts. However, I know that I am not able to be who they need just yet. Giving me this time to heal and recover has forced me to change my attitude. Initially, it felt like a punishment to have to send them away. I have been working through that sentiment and will continue to do so until it doesn’t put a lump in my throat. They are happy and doing well. They are safe and loved. It’s not forever. Thank God for video calling.

My attitude is good. I’m off all the pain medication except for a muscle relaxer, which I’m nearing the end of that bottle. The pain is not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Don’t get me wrong, this shit doesn’t tickle. It’s not kicking me down as heavily as I anticipated. The next few months are going to be unpleasant, but I’ll take these over months of chemo and/or radiation any day. At the end of this journey is a long weekend vacation in Key West with my name all over it. For those of you who said, “Cancer picked the wrong one,” you were right.

Aguish

It’s been one full week since the surgery. On paper, everything is exactly as expected. The incisions are healing properly, and my pain is adequately managed. My first post operation appointment went well, and I should have the drains taken out this coming week. I’m still anxiously awaiting the results from pathology to determine what, if any, treatment is necessary. I’ve been doing as best I can to take it easy. I’ll be honest, sitting still like this is not easy.

Today, while scrolling the vast internet, I came across a piece of art entitled, “Anguish.” It depicted the image of a woman on her knees, with her face bent over close to the ground. Her hands are on either side of her face. She is sobbing into a reflection of a pool of her own tears. It struck me like a knife. If you’re uncomfortable reading the raw and gory details of a woman post op from a bilateral mastectomy, please don’t read further. I tend to deal with the gnarly nature of life through the art of dark humor and unfiltered honesty.

The first exposure to my reflection was nothing short of alarming. Sure, I’ve seen photographs of what a woman’s chest looks like after this kind of surgery. There is only so much preparation one can conduct until the images are your own. I knew what to expect, physically. Emotionally? Absolutely not. My incredible daughter and loving best friend/sister were so encouraging and supportive. They were nothing but loving and gave words of praise. Inside my head, a full-blown assault of shock shook through my body. I have never seen such violence on my own body. It’s graphic. I’m slashed across the chest. My nipples are gone. The boxy shape of the expanders replaces where my breasts once were. The only thing recognizable in my reflection is my tattoo in between the two boxy shapes.

These past days have been up and down. I have good days and not so good days. I’ve had a couple of really bad ones. The pain of recovery is thrice over. First, the pain of the surgery itself. Second, the pain of the expanders. Finally, the pain of emotional overload. There are days I am so intensely overwhelmed with so many thoughts and feelings that it feels like I may explode. The mania of all of this has caused me to start anti-anxiety medication. I feel zero remorse in that decision. If I continued to try to do this on my own, I was going to lose my mind. So far, it seems to be helping a lot.

The other night, I took a shower. As I was leaning over and drying my legs, I caught a very different view of my new chest. The skin dangled in distorted ways. I hurried to complete the process of drying and then promptly sat down and sobbed uncontrollably. Anguish. My vocal cords rang notes I had not sung. Guttural groans and intense wails echoed the bathroom and through the house. Rage pulsed through my body and turned my face red and made my ears ring. I am deformed. I am amputated. The severed nerves pulsed through my chest searching for what was once present. I made full eye contact with my reflection and watched as I grieved.

Cancer. I have cancer. Cancer caused this. Could I have taken a less aggressive approach? Yes. The doctors strongly encouraged me to do a lumpectomy and radiation. They encouraged me to take hormone blocking therapy for five years post lumpectomy and radiation. They encouraged me to take a longer, yet optimistic, course to treat this cancer. Years ago, I had already made the decision to have a bilateral mastectomy given the circumstances. I have no regrets. But shit, this is hard. I wanted to get rid of the cancer as quickly as possible.

I am currently experiencing a very personalized version of hell. There is very little control I have in my life right now. I’m dependent on doctors to heal me. I’m dependent on treatment to work. I’m dependent on my family and friends to help me recover. I’ve had to make the painful choice to send my boys to their father to protect them from this. I’ve had to take a timeout from the career I have worked very hard to build. I can’t drive. I can’t use any of the vices I typically use to cope through stress. I’m raw dogging this experience and it’s rough.

One of my biggest fears prior to surgery was the very real potential of having to work through body dysmorphia on a level I’ve never experienced. I’ve had body image issues my entire life. I’ve been called fat. I’ve been told I shouldn’t wear certain things because it didn’t fit my body type. I’ve been told I’m too skinny. I’ve been compared to bodies I could never emulate. Long story short, I have spent the better part of the last ten years trying to be not only ok with the body I have but love it. Having reached a space of peace with my life so recently, only to have it completely altered, has been infuriating.

I will adjust to this. I have no doubt that I will be able to get over this and get to a new space of acceptance. But this just might be the hardest road yet. Because for the first time, I will be battling just Emma. Every time I see my reflection, I try to take my time and take in the optical illusion that is my new chest. It doesn’t feel real, but it is so very real at the same time. I fight against the intrusive thoughts with the silver linings I have found since diagnosis. This is temporary. These slices across my chest will eventually drift below the reconstructed breasts. The scars will eventually become a faded line under tattoo ink I plan to use to cover them. In the meantime, I see violence and mashed tissue resembling that of a Ziploc bag.

Phantom static electricity vibrates through my skin where nipples once were. I can feel the tips of them, though they are not there. I want to relieve the tension of the pulsating nerves with touch, but I’m numb. I look down at my body and can see straight to my lap without obstruction. I’m flat. There is some air in the expanders that gives some kind of shape resembling a breast, but it’s a far cry from the bust I once bore. This doesn’t feel like my body. Working through the acceptance is going to take a long time.

I’ve been through some ridiculous trials in my life. Some of it of my own making. Some of it is not. Nevertheless, this current chapter of my life is proving to be on the same level of challenge as losing my sweet Connor. While there is nothing remotely similar in physical impact, the emotional toll is. The biggest difference today is time and experience between these two events. I feel much more equipped to handle this. However, I am feeling such loss that is unseen to anyone. Sure, you can physically see that my body has changed, but there is a graphic experience happening in my head.

Throughout this journey thus far, I have felt more love than I ever have. People have really shown up for me without asking. How in the hell I ever thought I could do this alone is beyond me. There’s truly no way I could have. Having my daughter literally around the corner from me has been a God send. I am so grateful this happened now when she’s been able to help me out. She’s been instrumental in my sanity. She’s made the absolute best recommendations and has provided me emotional and comical relief. The first week after surgery, I had my chosen sister staying with me and her compassion wrapped me up like the warmest, tightest hug. My brother is here with me now and it makes me tear up just thinking about how amazing it is that he is here. Next week my best friend will be here to help me out as well. Love. I am loved and I feel it.

I have been blessed with the gift of friendship both long distance and local. An old friend from junior high lives here and we have become closer friends through this. I am so grateful for her. There are a few who check in on me daily and let me rant until I am done. There are so many blessings already received through this trauma. I see them. I feel them. I need every single one of them.

In all honesty, I don’t know how to get through challenges anymore without focusing on the outcome and the benefit. I’m grateful for that state of mind. It is certainly a tool I require to keep me from succumbing to the depression banging at the door. I’m a mere inconvenience away from curling into a ball and just losing it. At the same time, there is space to be given to the negative emotions I am truly entitled to express. My entire world was flipped upside down. It’s going to take me a little while to regain my balance and put everything back where it belongs. For now, I’m allowing some time to feel this anguish. This depression is warranted and deserves a stage. I’m confident in my ability to rein it in when it’s time.

Recovering from this has merely begun. There are still months of this ahead. Even without potential chemotherapy, the reconstruction of my breasts is going to take a few months. If you’re wondering if I’m ok, I’m not. But I will be. Everything just changed and there’s still so much more going on than what I’ve shared. What no one tells you about dealing with cancer is how isolating it is and how much of the battle is waged in your own head. This is hard. Very hard.