What They Don't Tell You

These past few weeks have been a hell of a year.  There are a lot of things that no one tells you about cancer, surgery, and the multiple effects they can have on ordinary life.  A good friend of mine who has been on his own ride with cancer, did warn me at the beginning that I'd either not know enough things or I'd be inundated with too many things I don't need to know. He has his own blog (The Cancer Sucks Chronicles) and encouraged me to start writing on this site again as a release of sorts, so here I am. Blame him.

Once more, I feel the need to complain about the pain side of the surgery. Partly because I'm still furious about it and partly because I feel entitled to a little whining. I wasn't expecting this level of pain, and wasn't led to believe it would be as bad as it has been.  "Minor discomfort around the incision" is what I was told to expect. That misleading statement was not only wrong, but somewhat cruel.  There should be an entire handbook dedicated to the potential pain, and "minor discomfort" is definitely not how I'd describe it.  Mind you, the way I would probably word it would likely have to be heavily censored. 

I truly believe that with any surgery, and especially one where you lose a physical part of yourself, there should be a longer and more frank discussion around what to realistically expect.  A little counseling session on the pain level that may occur and some guidance on how to cope with it should be standard practice. It would also help to have the surgeon and family physician in agreement on pain management methods before the surgery.  It could save the patient some long days of unnecessary and unreasonable pain.

A conversation on the emotional impact of cancer should also be part of a universal  care plan.  Some blunt talk about the feelings you'll likely have about not just having cancer (which is a huge shock to start with), but things like seeing your body for the first time after the bandages come off.  I thought I was more prepared for that than I actually I was. I think if someone had talked with me in detail about how things might look after surgery and to expect that first glance to be devastating, my meltdown may have been gentler and shorter.

 I wish someone on the medical team had mentioned that emotional anguish is the other half of this battle. It may have made me feel a little less defeated. I mean, I knew I'd only have one breast (obviously) but the puckered stitches, swelling and bruised skin looked like a weird science experiment.  I didn't expect that, and hadn't really thought a lot of it before the surgery.  Some warning would have been nice. This is going to take a very long time to get used to and for once, I'm really glad that I'm unattached.  I may never be comfortable enough with myself to ever again consider any other relationship status. No one mentioned that, but they should have.

A hint at the possibility of workplace separation anxiety would also have been beneficial.  After working full-time for 38 years, I don't know how to be at home for 6 months and keep my sanity.  I honestly didn't think I'd miss my job so much, and that being out of the loop on everything would feel so isolating. It's only been a month, but I feel like I don't belong anymore, even though I know that's not the case. At least I hope it isn't.  No one talks about that, either. When you spend more than half your life doing something and then suddenly you're forced to stop, it's hard to not feel cut off.  It's like someone stole my identity and it's hard to deal with.  This also was never mentioned, but it's another thing that should be.

I've spent many years challenging the lack of mental health professionals and services in Nova Scotia. I've seen too many failures and tragedies in the system and I now see another shortfall. Preventative counseling -  it should exist, yet it doesn't.  Physicians and surgeons know that cancer and it's baggage is likely to take a huge emotional toll on their patients, yet we don't have enough mental health professionals to be an integral part of the care team. It's also been proven that with a good frame of mind, patients will more easily recover from the physical trauma of surgery.  It's kind of tough to have a good frame of mind when you're dealing with this, though.  I'm thankful that I have friends who themselves have been through this to help guide me. I'm thankful that the physical things were dealt with very quickly, but I'm disappointed that an equally important part of this process wasn't addressed at all. Not before, or after the surgery. It seems wrong to me.

Fortunately, I have this forum to get things off of my chest (no pun intended).  Even though I have my family and some very good friends for support, who have all offered to let me vent to them, I won't. I couldn't anyway,  because there are too many times that I can't explain how I feel, probably because I don't even understand it myself. I don't want any of them to feel bad because they can't fix it, and I've often been on that side of the coin so I know that would happen.  I fear they would get very tired of me, very quickly. Besides, everyone has their own bullshit to deal with, they don't need mine piled on.

So I think  I'll just vent here because it's the easiest way, and if I'm boring anyone, they can stop reading at any point and scroll to something else. I won't even know, no harm done. 

As mentioned earlier, blame the guy who encouraged me to write again. 

Step One - Check

I'm almost 2 weeks post mastectomy.  All in all, it wasn't horrible, but it hasn't been a walk in the park, either.

On surgery day, while waiting for my ex husband to come pick us up (amicable divorce, long story), nerves got the better of me. I'm glad I hadn't been allowed any food for hours beforehand (no more detail should be needed here).

Everyone was tense on the drive over, probably feeding off of my energy.  The directions on the hospital paperwork skipped a step, and after sitting in a waiting room with a few expectant grandparents and fathers for 30 minutes, I began to panic that we weren't in the right area.  We weren't.   Well, we WERE, but no one had told me there was paperwork to pick up first, several floors down.  Once I realized that, then I panicked because time was ticking away wasted.

After sorting it out and following the blue train to the red boat and then the green wave back to the 3rd floor, I was already done with patience.  Anyone who has been to that particular hospital will know what I mean.   

The staff were running behind, my daughter was getting antsy (usually followed by mouthy), my sister was a wreck and the ex was nowhere to be found.  I was getting annoyed and dumbfounded as to how the first surgery of the day (mine) could be "backed" up when my surgeon and anesthesiologist were there and ready to turn me into a one-tit wonder.  

The meltdown came when the ex walked around the corner with coffee and bagels.  In hindsight, I'm sure he thought I was already in surgery.  However, after many married years of him doing many things like that, it was the tip of the iceberg. I had really hoped to keep my mascara intact for the surgery, but the coffee scent undid me. And yes, I went into that OR looking as good as I possibly could, because screw cancer.

By noon, I was home and settled on the couch.  There wasn't much discomfort, but I was pretty medicated so probably just hadn't felt it as much.

Three days later, I felt it.  I mean, really felt it (and still am). I had assumed I would have some pain at the main surgery area, but haven't so far.  The pain I do have is under my arm and feels like I'm being pinched, stabbed, burned and beaten simultaneously. 

I have no information on how the surgery went, if there was anything of concern etc.

My surgeon is an excellent slicer/dicer, but he appears to not know how to "people".

He also wouldn't prescribe anything for pain and said Tylenol should be enough.

He was wrong.  Very wrong. 

I see him in February for the post op appointment. When he's done talking, I may jusk kick him in the man parts till he drops and then toss him a bottle of Tylenol.  

My next blog post could be from jail. 

The Countdown

Well, two blog posts in one week.  That's new.  Usually it's months, sometimes a year between posts. It's 5 a.m. and I can't sleep.  The thoughts in my head needed to come out, and this seemed like a good time to write.

It's 26  hours till surgery time, and I still don't feel ready.  I'm prepared in the sense of button-up clothing, pain med stockpiles and chore schedules for "the others", but I'm not ready for the rest of it.

My boobs never meant much to me before, especially since I'm not particularly well endowed in that area.  Now, however, they mean much more to me than they ever did.  I'm not sure how to navigate only having one.  I never really had a ton of cleavage, but now I won't have any at all.  What's going to catch the crumbs? Where is the boob sweat gonna go when I have a hot flash??  How uncomfortable is that damn prothesis going to be? How will I wear strapless anything when they don't make strapless bras for prothesis boobs?  All things I took for granted, and seemingly superficial, but all valid questions for any woman.

I'm at the mercy of the unknown right now.  I have a fear of something happening during surgery.  I am worried that the surgeon will find more than he planned on finding once he starts.  Scared that there may be cancer in my lymph nodes.  Terrified that this may be bigger than expected.  Holding my breath that the new pain in the other breast isn't also cancer.

Fear is new to me, and I don't like it.

I'm not someone who is accustomed to feeling fear.  I've been through many curveballs in life that brought worry, sorrow, challenges and heartache.  Nothing really brought fear, though.  Until now.  I don't know how to navigate it and calm myself and it sucks

In hindsight, I probably should have made some time for counseling, but I didn't.  With all of the preparation, appointments, paperwork and Christmas, there just wasn't a lot of free time for that.  So, now I have 26 hours to counsel myself for this new reality.   Too bad I can't bill for that, those people make a good penny.

Once again, today I will be leaning on friends and family to keep me away from the ledge.  It's a long drop down, thankfully they all carry a lifeline rope.

2019

It's the last day of 2019.  On one hand, I can't wait for this year to just end.  On the other, I wish I could just freeze time to this day.

 For the past decade, I've fervently hoped, every New Year's Eve, that the next year would be better.  It had to be better.  Yet, each new year brought more heartache and hardship.  Some people say those were challenges, I prefer to say they were bullshit. 

The part of me that wants 2019 to end is the part of me that wants to get the next chapter of my journey started.  I want the stabbing, constant pain where my tumour is to stop.  I want it gone and I want the anxiety to end (even though I know that it won't).

The other part of me wants to stop time and go back to being normal.  Back to when I knew nothing about breast cancer. Back to not being a total hot mess of an emotional trainwreck.  Back to when I didn't fear every single little ache or pain.  Especially back to when my own mortality didn't invade every waking moment. 

I don't want to be part of the Cancer Club, even though all of the other members that I personally know are the most extraordinary people in the world.  Thanks for the invite, but I wasn't looking to sign up.  2020 means that my membership is renewed for it's first annual cycle.

2020 will be the year of "the uniboob" for me.  The left one will go just 2 days shy of it's 55th birthday.   The 2020 birthday won't exactly be a hoot.  Incisions, drainage tube, pain, and whininess aren't great selling points for a birthday fete.  Prostheses, ugly bras, changes to my usual wardrobe choices, and tissue stretching exercises will be on tap for most of the winter.  Treatment, likely in the form of chemo (because why change my luck now?) will take up the spring into summer.  Hair loss, pale skin, nausea and general yuckiness for Spring Break.  Whoo hoo!! 

I imagine that 2020 will be the start of looking over my shoulder forever.  I know that I will never have a day that I won't worry about recurrence, because I'm a worrier by nature. It's what I do (and I'm damned good at it).  I'm also a planner. Constant worry creates solid planning and preparation skills.  This one though, I didn't plan for.  I had worried about many things, and prepared for my many imagined "what if" scenarios, but not this.  It was never on my radar.  So it stands to reason that because I can't plan or control the outcome, I'm going to worry from now till eternity about cancer.  I've already become a hypochondriac. In the last month, my swollen foot meant that I definitely had diabetes; my migraines became other tumors; my acid reflux turned into an esophageal blockage....and on, and on.

This will be the year where I lean on my beautiful daughter, instead of the other way around (which it should be). She has already become my rock and this coming year won't be easy on her.  That's not what I wanted 2020 to be for her and it breaks my heart.

To sum up, 2020 terrifies me.  The term "Happy New Year", in my case, kind of seems a bit silly.  I'm sure as hell not going to be particularly happy.  I can guarantee my family that I'll likely be more of a snarky, sarcastic grouch than usual, and that's saying something.  I can guarantee my friends that there will probably be long stretches of radio silence.  I'm going to need to retreat, and it hurts me to know that this will hurt some of them.

I don't want to let go of 2019 yet.  It was one of the worst years for me, but also one of the best. The bullshit of 2019 brought some good.  The best was the feeling of being loved. I honestly didn't realize how many friends I had, or that people can care as much as they do.  I've been touched by so many people that I still don't know what to do with that, and I can't thank them enough.  New friends, old friends and new old friends.  It makes a walk down Cancer Lane a lot less scary.

I can't stop the arrival of 2020 but I will ask it to please be gentle.  For once, can you please just enter and exit peacefully and reasonably?  I don't want to have to hit you up the side of your head with my fake boob, but I will if you're a bitch.

My thoughts on Let's Talk

It's Bell Media's Let's Talk Day, but this blog won't be trying to spread it's message. It won't be sent individually to every friend, acquaintance, co worker, neighbor or near stranger in my contact list.  It won't be texted, messaged, snapped, or tweeted. No tagging, hashtagging or neon colored post background.  It will be quietly placed on my social media accounts, where very few contacts will even open the link.  That's ok though, this is my own form of therapy right now so it's more for me than anyone else.

I'm not a huge supporter of the Let's Talk Day, but I'm also not a hater.  As someone who has experienced mental health issues first and second hand for a good number of years, I'm somewhere in the middle on this initiative.  On one hand, I applaud the fact that a well known organization has tried to reduce the stigma of mental health problems.  On the other, I'm afraid it sends a false message that talking and asking for help will result in actually getting the help that you need.

I won't recount all of the failures and abysmal treatment processes that I've been exposed to because this is a blog, not a novel.  I will however, describe what I experienced today as I think that should sum up my thoughts on the topic.

Like so many others, I have suffered occasionally with mild depression and anxiety.  I am currently battling another round, and have been since November.  After Christmas,  I realized I could use a bit of counseling so that I could get back on track before it got worse.  Four weeks ago, I called my Employee Assistance Program to arrange an 8 week counseling plan.  The counselor they matched me with dutifully called me within 48 hours to schedule an appointment.  Not a bad start.

Two weeks ago he called to change my Monday appointment to  3 PM Tuesday.  I haven't seen him since.  Tuesday came and along with it messy weather and a migraine.  I called early that morning to reschedule, and left a voicemail asking him to call me back.  By Thursday, with no call from him, I left another voicemail.  Then another. On Friday I finally reached him.  By that point, he had no availability for a week and a half.  Today was my rescheduled appointment.

Now, part of my current issue is that I have suddenly become terrified of driving in any kind of  messy weather.  It's a long held anxiety, but one that I had overcome in recent years.  For some reason, it's back.  Today we had messy weather.  Today was my appointment.

Not wanting to go another two weeks with no support, as I will be in BC next week, I spent most of the morning worrying about how to get there without driving in the snow/ice pellet mix that had started after I drove to work.  Thankfully I have amazing coworkers.  I left my car at work and one work buddy dropped me at my therapists office, with arrangements made for my daughter to pick me up afterward and another coworker to drive me to work tomorrow.  Problem solved.

My therapist works out of his home with a separate office entrance.   The door was locked.  I rang the bell, no answer.  I called his number, no answer.  His car was there,  there were lights on in the house.  I rang the house doorbell, no answer.

So, I'm stranded in his driveway with no car to sit in or leave in.  It's now pouring and getting colder.  My daughter isn't scheduled to pick me up for another hour.  My sister doesn't drive much any more so I didn't want her venturing out in bad conditions to come get me.  My data plan is low, so I can't Google cab numbers.

I ended up walking a good 15 minute trek to the nearest grocery store and payphone.  I'm not dressed for this.  The sidewalks and roads are a messy, slippery mush of ankle deep snow and water.  I got about 10 feet before my trendy yet impractical boots were filled with water.  I think I cried for 3 blocks out of frustration, despair and self pity.

After exhausting every cab number to no avail (apparently they also don't answer phones), I finally called my sister to come get me.  By this point, I was unravelling and quickly.  Thankfully my daughter called and it helped bring me back down to a reasonable level of human. Enough that the grocery store security guard stopped eyeballing me.


During most of this ordeal I kept thinking to myself "it's Let's Talk Day.  But I can bet my ass that no one is talking about this kind of farce".  This kind of thing, my dear readers, is unfortunately more the norm than the exception when it comes to getting help when you need it.  It's sad, it's unacceptable and it's dangerous.  But that's what it is.


So, you can likely now imagine my thoughts on Let's Talk, at the moment.  While quite a few colleagues were sitting in Let's Talk presentations, I was navigating my cold, wet, tear streaked self to a phone booth to try to get home when I should have been spending that time getting the help I need. I certainly can't say it wasn't for a lack of trying (on my part).

Ironically,  the only part of me that stayed dry was my head.  Likely due to the Bell Let's Talk toque that I got at work and had shoved in my pocket for "just in case". If nothing else, their toque worked for me.

My Little Blog of Mistakes

Mistakes.  We all make them, because we're human.  Some of us make more than others, due to sheer stupidity, synchronicity, or plain old bad luck.  That's where I come in.  I have a fondness for writing and penchant for bad luck.  I have toyed with the idea of blogging again for a while, but a lack of subject matter kept holding me back. However,  I recently remembered something that I'd been told once about teaching what you know.  I'm going to hope that this philosophy also works when writing about what you know.  I know a lot about mistakes.  Therefore, I shall start a little blog about the mistakes I've made (some humorous, some not), and the lessons I've learned (don't get too excited, I didn't learn much).

As I wrote that opening paragraph, a little voice in my head said "you probably picked the wrong blog site, Dumbass".  I also heard "no one is going to find this blog, let alone read it", followed by "you're going to ruin your wet nail polish for no good reason".  But I digress.

This could well end up to be another mistake, but at the very least I will improve my typing speed and perhaps clear the clutter from my mind.  As a middle-aged woman, currently housing a young adult daughter and her main squeeze, their two geckos, a senior aged sister and her two shitzus and two cats, my mind can tend to get a bit cluttered.  So can my house, but that's for another blog.

I could likely go back to my childhood for mistake topics to write about, but I think I'll just save everyone the heartache and take it back about five years ago.  It's a good starting point, as it was right about that time that I started an entirely new life chapter.  I think perhaps the book was upside down though, because not much turned out the way I had originally planned my story.

Why five years back?  Because five years ago I became "uncoupled" (as Gwyneth Paltrow termed it), and the mayhem began.  So if you're willing, or have nothing else to read, check back frequently as I start to recant my tales of mistakes.  You'll either laugh, cry, or beat your head against the screen.  At the very least though, I hope you get some enjoyment out of this and maybe learn a little something from someone else's mistakes.

The Graduate

I have just seen the most beautiful young woman.  She is tall and lithe, elegant and stunning.   She radiates youth and happiness.  She is my daughter and tonight is her high school prom.

Looking at her, I am filled with love and pride, amazement and awe, and a little envy.   I love this girl with all of my heart, and have from the moment I first held her.
I can remember being unable to imagine her starting school, let alone finishing it.

I have watched her struggle, cope with more than she should have had to, and feel more pain than most kids do.  I have also watched her rise to every challenge and look life (and peoplw) square in the eye with a little bit of "I dare you".  She didn't always succeed at the challenges, but she always found the courage to face them.  I have always been proud of her for not giving up, and she can't possibly know how much I respect her for it.

I am amazed when I look at her and see glimpses of so many good  family traits, from both sides.  She has the physical features of both her father and I, fortunately the more attractive ones.  She has her aunts love of purses and impulsive change; my mothers love of baking; her paternal grandmother's feistiness; my Dad's creative abilities; her father's love of animals, and my sense of humour.  She managed to take a little good from all of us and mold those traits into an intelligent, talented, witty, soulful and beautiful package.  To me, that is an amazing thing.