My Cancer Story: Part Two

It’s been almost two months since my bi-lateral mastectomy and reconstruction…or partial reconstruction I should say.  Both surgeries went great totaling 5.5 hours and that glorious anesthesia I told you about in part 1.  However, the recovery isn’t so clean cut…up and down at it’s best.  And I’m an Enneagram 4, so that’s saying something.  

I’ll admit, I went into these surgeries a bit cocky.  Leading up, I would jokingly say to friends who asked how I was feeling about it all, “Oh, I’m good!  I mean, it’s not everyday insurance will pay for a boob job!” (Which I’ve never even considered…I’d much rather spend the money on travel, shoes, or art.)   With my self-preservation dominant subtype, I tend to walk through suffering with a fairly smooth exterior and a torrential interior.  The insides don’t always match the outsides.  When faced with a crisis, I go into over-functioning mode with a heaping tablespoon of optimism.  

Busyness, family time, work, and exercising have kept me sane.  Oh, and antidepressants I’d been prescribed about 8 months earlier for an out-of-left-field anxiety invasion.  

Sidenote: I’m a firm believer in natural or alternative interventions such as meditation, movement, self-care, and especially therapy.  Yet when all else fails, I’ll take a pill.  I’m not precious about this, simply practical. If there is help to be had, I want it.   

The anxiety I’d experienced was hormone related.  It would surge in my body at random times throughout the day in tidal proportions.  Yet, nothing was actually wrong.  I wasn’t fearful in my life. After a week of sleepless nights, I reached out to my psychiatric NP and lots of trial and error later, we landed on the right medication.  I can fake it through anxiety, but I am a you-know-what-without sleep. 

Little did I know that 8 month later, I’d find a lump in my breast that was cancer.  The cancer was comprised of these hormone receptors that they test you for in the biopsy.  Mine ended up being estrogen and progesterone positive—HER2 negative.  Suffice it to say,  an apparently hopeful outcome that directs the next steps in recovery.  So, it’s all connected, friends.  Our bodies and emotions are basically enmeshed.  

Am I saying that if you struggle with anxiety you may have cancer? 

No.

This part of my story is more about listening to your body and all the intricate things she’s trying to say.  I knew deep down that the anxiety I’d experienced was hormonal because it was so physical and not an indicator of anything provoking in me. 

Deep down, I listened to the wise words of my weary body.  “You’ll be okay.  This stuff will pass.  All of your hard work and self-care will support this process.  Now it’s time to wait.”

It’s like my body was pre-grieving the cancer, the loss, and the change.  

Learning to listen to my body over the years is perhaps the most important piece of inner work I’ll ever do.  When I found that lump, I listened to my body say, “this is serious,” yet I waited three months to get into the Breast Specialist to have it biopsied.  Thankfully, it was still early on, stage 1, when I was diagnosed, however I cringe to imagine a different turn of events had it not been detectable to the touch.  

Which brings me to the most disconcerting piece of the story.  I had a mammogram in September of 2020.  It didn’t detect the cancer.  I had another ordered by my OB, more of a diagnostic one.  It also didn’t detect the cancer.  Did you just lose your jaw? You’re not alone.  I burned with hot shock and awe after learning of this.  Thankfully, the diagnostic ultrasound clearly identified it.  

If you’re reading this asking yourself, “Isn’t that why we get mammograms? To check for disease, most commonly, cancer?”  An appropriate question.  And apparently there are exceptions to the rule. 

We must stay connected to our bodies and in doing so, listen to what she is saying at all times.  A mammogram is only the first line of defense.  We are tasked with the lifelong assignment to advocate for ourselves and our bodies at every turn.  The healthcare system is limited and simply can’t do our work for us.   So ask lots of questions and do self-exams regularly.

My PSA to you:  If you have a family history of breast cancer (especially on both sides like myself) or find any lump-like mass, big or small, go get a mammogram and ask for an ultrasound.  I’d also recommend taking the genetic test that detects gene mutations that make you more prone to developing cancer later in life.  

Bottom line: You are your most valuable advocate.  Your body will not lie to you.  

The first two weeks post-op were brutal.  Since the plastic surgeon wasn’t able to go direct-to-implant which he’d initially planned on doing, he put these clunky expanders below the skin and muscle of my chest.  I felt like I had a wooden bookshelf lodged inside.  It made sleep and movement of any kind painful and awkward.  They also put these grenade-like drains inside that collected blood and fluid from the surgery site.  I couldn’t bare to look at my body.  When I did, I saw a foreign form—concentration camp-like—staring back at me.  It was as if part of my femininity had died.  

I vacillated between Percocet, Advil, and Tylenol for the pain.  Sleep was impossible.  And worst of all, I couldn’t pick up my 20-month-old son for a month or more.  

There was plenty of silver lining: I felt beyond loved, supported, and encouraged by an outpouring from my family, friends and community with well-wishes, prayers, meals, and texts.  This flood of kindness carried me through those first two-weeks and beyond.  Thank you, again from the deepest part of my heart.  To my husband, Daniel, you are a picture of  loving-kindness, commitment in the tough times, and a servant’s heart.  I’ve seen you selflessly shine in the most beautiful way through it all.   

I now know I won’t have to have another surgery like they’d initially thought to graft healthy skin where an eschar, or dying patch of skin had developed...praise the Lord! 

I will have to undergo intravenous chemotherapy in a few weeks, though.  I’d hoped to avoid it, however I’m apparently at high risk for the cancer to  come back later on, even though it was removed.  Genetic testing proved I’m not out of the woods yet.   I’m not looking forward to this, however I know it’s the right course of action to take.  I’m praying the side effects will be minimal.  

Once I’ve completed three rounds of chemo, the plastic surgeon will gradually complete the reconstruction and I’ll walk free.  The process will  take a full year, longer than I’d like, as so many things do in life.  I’ve come to appreciate each stage of the process, actively waiting for my body to continue to speak.  She’s craving movement, stretching, rest, and kindness at the moment.  As a grateful tenant, I’m happy to oblige.  

I’m a healthy, active, young (ish), non-smoker.  I take pride in my self-care.  Because of these things, the recovery beyond that first two weeks was fairly fluid.  The story might have had a much different outcome had I not been so committed to this path of self-compassion and care.   

This chapter of my life will come to an end.

And yet life will always harbor new pain.  We’ll never fully be free from that reality.   It’s the suffering, or story we make up about our pain, that’s optional.  

Pain grows us up, humbles us down, and gives us new perspective and meaning.  That meaning, if we’re willing to tease it out, is the stuff of spiritual transformation.   

And so, thank you, Cancer.  You’ve been a rigorous and thorough teacher and you’re not done yet.  But it is time to get on with the rest of the story…