Well, I had a boob job….albeit, it was just one side. No, it wasn’t because I’m “doing one at a time” on some kind of layaway plan but rather, it wasn’t THAT kind of “boob job.” I actually feel like the past several months of my life has been all about “boobs”. Remember when I last wrote, I was telling you how I’d been flung into Square One because someone I’ve cared greatly about for many years had been a total boob of a person to me. This is different. Last year while dancing and singing and eating my way through Tuscany with a group of phenomenal women, I also found a lump in my breast.
When I got home, I immediately called my OB/GYN who had me come in for a needle biopsy. She called with the words that I’d heard before, “the cells are irregular” so you “need to get it out.” And just like before, I called the breast surgeon, made the appointment, went in and heard, “this doesn’t look like it’s cancer.” This time she gave me the option of waiting and watching or doing a lumpectomy. I chose waiting. The last biopsy I had was several years ago, and it came back identified as “just fat” but the process had felt so medieval. I remember laying face down on a table with my face resting in one of those contraptions like when you are getting a massage. Only this “massage” table had a hole where my left breast hung through. Poor thing just hung there pointing at the floor. The surgeon used some kind of machine that sounded like an old Singer sewing machine (it was even operated with a foot pedal) but instead of a needle, there was a tiny knife or saw that cut into my breast so she could take out the lump.
I chose waiting and watching.
At my next appointment, on the ultrasound the lump evidently looked different. There were several “hmmmm”s and harrumph-type noises. She looked at the ultrasound then came back and felt my breast. Went back to the ultrasound then “harrumphed” again. “Could you come back this afternoon after my last patient? I want to do a core biopsy?” Since I try to not schedule coaching clients on days when I’m doing doctor-type appointments (I always try to “better” the experience of visiting a doctor by adding in meeting a friend for breakfast or treating myself to a visit to my favorite bookstore/gift-shop where I tend to wander for hours in a blissfully happy state). So, I had nothing on the schedule and said, “Sure, why not?” At this point, I’m beginning to wonder, but I choose to focus on other things that I actually have control over. I was relieved to hear this experience would be different than last. This time I was given a local anesthetic and got to watch what seemed to be a video game just for surgeons. The surgeon placed a little “gun” tip against the side of my breast and we both watched on the ultrasound as she inserted the long needle of the gun into the breast and then took aim to “shoot” the tumor. She did this five times (I think she definitely has a highly competitive streak in her), and each time the needle would draw out a chunk of my breast. There was really not much pain however I was left with quite the purple bruise shaped like a gun on the side of my breast. I sent a photo of it to my husband via cell phone while he was at work…first time I’ve ever sexted…and he replied with a row of ‘???????’. Looking at the text message again, I decided it probably wasn’t easy to identify this 54 year old body part in a close up photo unless you were a regular subscriber of National Geographic magazines.
I was expecting a call from the nurse so when I heard my surgeon’s voice, I knew immediately it was cancer. Having spent practically every year of my life, beginning at age 16 until my parents died in 2014, accompanying one of them to an oncologist of various specialties, researching best practices and recommended treatments using pathology reports and arguing with some about suggesting an outdated form of treatment based on my research, taking them to treatments, sitting in the waiting rooms during surgeries, sitting by their hospital beds during recovery, and serving as an interpreter of doctor speak…I knew when the doctor called, I had it.
I remember when my mother was first diagnosed with colon cancer, I think it was around the spring of 1979. We lived in a small Indiana town and our family physician was also a close family friend. My mom had tended to be someone with a lot of physical complaints so when she told him that she had found blood in her stool when she went to the bathroom, he told her that he thought it was likely hemorrhoids. Now, my mother was one who easily went up the “doctor ladder” if she didn’t like an answer. Matter of fact, she had quite a list of specialists in her little black book, so she just went to an internist and he found cancer. I remember our doctor, our family friend, was so upset that he said he couldn’t tell my mom the diagnoses. My dad had to tell her. So that Thursday evening as I was driving to lead a support group for women, my surgeon told me, “it’s cancer”. In that moment, my brain registered the information, heard her mention having an opening in her schedule to do surgery the following Tuesday and that my options were a lumpectomy with radiation or a mastectomy. We agreed to meet on Monday to decide.
Monday morning, my 26 year old daughter sat on my bed quizzing me on my decision. When I told her I wasn’t sure yet, she commented, “I don’t know why you wouldn’t just have the mastectomy and get it over with; it’s just a boob”. I thought about it for a moment and replied, “well, it’s MY boob and I’m kind of fond of it. I don’t want to lop it off any more than I’d want to lose a foot”. I was glad when she didn’t point out that feet are actually useful appendages.
So I went into the meeting and after many questions and much discussion, decided on the lumpectomy. Tuesday came and all I could think about was that my surgery didn’t start until 1:30pm and I was expected to be NPO (no food or drink) after midnight. While I could often delay eating until late morning, I was certain I was going to feel like a lost nomad who’d been wandering in a desert for a month and was dying of thirst. If nothing else, I am always well hydrated.
The surgery went without incident and I woke up to two Frankenstein-ian wounds on my left breast. Someone had used purple marker to mark the spot and then there were thick black sutures that looked and felt like sturdy leather lacing used to make some expensive Italian shoes. And there was this tube. A tube coming out of my breast and safety pinned to my hospital gown. A drain to divert the liquids that my missing lymph nodes used to take care of. This quickly became my LEAST favorite thing about this experience. (and for those of you who know me, you know I’m ALL ABOUT THE EXPERIENCE right?) I am simply one of those people that should never have anything attached to my body. I already tend to have difficulty getting myself hung up on doorknobs and on handrails. As I inherited this from my grandmother, my extremities often look like I’m a victim of domestic violence or have just gone to a tattoo artist who likes to do more coloring than line drawing.
Most women say waiting for the results to come back is the worst part. I was so nauseated from the antibiotics and pain medicine, I slept most of that time away. It was wonderful to hear that there was no cancer in the lymph nodes and that while an aggressive form of breast cancer, most of the cells were slow growing. My surgeon said that she hadn’t been able to get a clean margin on one side of the tumor so she went back in a second time to take out more tissue. The second time was success! I was just grateful (seriously over the moon grateful) that it didn’t involve re-opening the lymph node incision so there was no drain and tubing for me to snag on my bathroom doorknob. WAHOO! It has now been 2 months since the last surgery and I am back to normal (I know, “normal” is highly overrated but in this case, I’m taking it).
So why am I once again sharing all this? Why am I opening up to you about the scariest, most pain-filled months of my life so far? More Square One learnings. One reason is because I know that I’m not alone in these experiences and I want all the incredible women I’m connected to to know that they aren’t alone either. There is nothing worse than feeling you are alone in your pain, that no one understands or experiences what you are going through. To be able to share that with other women who can say (without giving advice or judging your choices), “I’ve been there,” is greatly comforting.
Another reason I’m sharing is because it has made me take a step back and reconfigure my year…sometimes we have to do that and as motto goes, “and, that’s ok”. Not easy, but it’s sometimes necessary and it’s most certainly ok. Since “Thing 1” (my Seussical reference for the Eat, Pray, Love bathroom-floor moment that occurred on MLK Day this past January) is still unresolved and I am not ready to make any decisions – especially not any decisions based out of fear due to “Thing 2” (the breast cancer), I decided to suspend the retreats for 2017 . I’m focusing on the 2018 Kenya Retreat plans instead.
While I will miss the women who were eagerly awaiting dancing on the terrace and drinking Limoncello at our beautiful villa, Tuscany will still be around, given it’s current track record, for Wayfinding Women retreats in years to come. I still have to learn about what treatment is going to be recommended to keep me from having a repeat performance of Thing 2 anytime soon. I appreciate your understanding on this so much. I’ll see about December and the Christmas Market retreat…we may decide to do NYC again instead of Europe, who knows.
What I do know is that right now, I am feeling called to support individual & small groups of women get through their Things 1 and Things 2, whatever those may be. I’m continuing on with my private clients because they inspire me constantly (yes, I’m talking to you!! Mwwwah!!) I am also feeling called to remind women of the importance of gratitude and celebration. Yes, I am celebrating. I’m finding more than ever it’s important to LOOK for things to celebrate because there are times gratitude and joy just don’t come naturally. But it’s there. There is always something to be grateful for. I am even grateful for the current diagnoses and I actually chose to be grateful from the moment I found the lump, last October. In all my journeys, I have discovered that amazing things happen when I choose gratitude over worry or anger or any other possible reaction. The Universe always seems to meet me with more to be grateful for.
I want to be clear though. That doesn’t mean I’m all Pollyanna over here. There have been days I’ve had a really hard time convincing myself there was any reason to get out of bed ever again. There was another day while driving to a meeting, I had so much water flowing from my face that I am sure the driver next to me might have confused me with the dog “Snot” from that Christmas Vacation movie.
One rather rough day I was feeling whiney from the post surgery pain and the not knowing if it was in the lymph nodes plus I was just exhausted from not sleeping, was nauseated and cranky from going off pain meds and dealing with that darn drain. I had posted on Facebook something like “when things get hard, I go to deep gratitude”. And it’s true, I really do try to summon up REAL gratitude because there is always something to be grateful for…even in the midst of a tsunami. One of my favorite Wayfinding Women commented “I do something for somebody else, and that makes me feel better”. My first reaction was to feel that wash of shame for feeling the way I did and for having exposed my neediness to all my favorite FB peeps. Instead of being inspiring I was being selfish. It would have been so easy to keep heading down that path, allowing my inner lizard to continue whispering the sweet nothings I’d heard throughout my childhood reminding me that “others have it worse” or “who do you think you are to be complaining or feeling life is hard?” But I stopped myself and used all the wonderful teachings I’d received from Brené Brown about allowing rather than numbing my feelings, getting curious about them and being compassionate with myself (great teachings from empathy expert Karla McLaren). I know the beautiful Facebook friend would never have wanted her comment to be construed in a negative way. And it’s so true that doing for others is a great way to feel better ourselves. Sometimes, it’s just not physically, mentally or emotionally possible for us to do that. I know it’s become rather cliche but we really DO have to put the oxygen mask on ourselves first. Sometimes, we even have to sit in an frickin’ oxygen tent for awhile before we have the ability to care for others. And that’s okay. Matter of fact, it’s more than okay. Sometimes it’s a necessity.
Big hugs and great love,
Ann
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