A Very Big Deal

and it's going to be OK

Photo: Jannes Jacobs for UnSplash

It was three days ago when I started to notice it, the rolling swell of feelings you can't name right away.

"This is a big deal, mom, and I want you to know I'm here. Anything you need." Kind words from Rachael, brought in tandem with a bag of comfort items. Soft comfortable jammies, a scented candle, and Bessel van der Kolk's book, The Body Keeps the Score.

It sure does.

I hadn't spoken about my feelings yet, the stirrings of...what?

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In the first year of my marriage to Aaron, I had a concerning mammogram, and the call from my doctor's office left me with a sick feeling in my gut that sat there for weeks.

Not long after the mammogram, a needle biopsy named the shadowy culprit DCIS, ductal carcinoma in situ. There would be surgery, but first I had to introduce myself to the properties of these cells, slithering around in a secret corridor, quietly proliferating disease. Not a tumor, not yet. Just the invasion of malevolent cells. Planning a coup.

The not-as-bad news first:

• Ductal: cancer in cells lining the ducts/lobules

• Carcinoma: cancer, but...

• En situ: in the earliest stages

Now, the less-good news:

Nuclear grade 3:

"High grade or nuclear grade 3 DCIS has a high mitotic rate, grows the fastest and is most likely to come back after surgery. It is also more likely to turn into invasive breast cancer." (American Cancer Society)

So.

I learned I could opt for the removal of the cells alone in an attempt to stop the growth with clear margins. Or, I could arrange for a partial or double mastectomy.

If I had to guess from the informed input I received, it seemed the team on board would have recommended taking one piece at a time. See what happens. Take it as it comes. Radiate if necessary. Maybe show up for more surgeries that could ultimately end in mastectomy. Or worse, if not properly monitored.

The myriad possible stops and starts and the final outcomes between those two choices had left me frozen. I spoke with a naturopath and my DO at the time, both practicing outside of oncology, but knowledgeable and supportive; I had yet to hear the confidence that nutrition and sleep protocols would save me. I just didn't have the awareness yet to calmly address the cascading, kamikaze assault of “what-if” missiles being fired into my thought process. There was no process, more like a washing machine spin cycle.

My chiropractor/functional medicine doctor husband, a 30-year health practitioner, talked with me and supported me and offered input, but he didn't force an opinion. We decided to see a specialist in Denver who, upon seeing my x-rays and learning about the specific cell structure, advised me that I would either be coming back every few months to monitor for something more serious that could (would surely) pop up, or I could do the radical mastectomy approach. I chose the latter after hearing the words, "I will say that this is an aggressive cell type, and you will have to be vigilant."

Aren't they all aggressive, little Pac-men who munch everything they can get their teeth into?

I had surgery. A bilateral mastectomy.

They took everything except for skin. They dug around for lymph nodes and took out the ones that had already been invaded. And before they sowed everything up, they stuck in expanders under my muscles, preparing to stretch for the implants that would be added later.

I was hoping to resemble something close to normal, but the plastic surgeon bragged, “They'll be perfect," when all I could see were bandages and a drain for all the fluids that had nowhere to go. They weren't "perfect," but I felt safer in the world. It had all been painful and traumatic, but when the post op’s finished, it's over, and we move on. That was 15 years ago.

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Then, three days ago, my daughter hands me a gift bag with a candle and soft jammies, a book, (and a mug with the fried eggs on it that resemble breasts and made us laugh), reminding me that this is a very big deal.

Tomorrow, I have to do it again.

It's not the same; I'm not sick, but the shadow of urgency remains. My doctor will remove the faulty "medical devices" that suffered some kind of an implosion, that ruptured on both sides, discovered by an attentive radiologist in a routine calcium CT scan.

I will wake up, part bride of Frankenstein, and part scorched earth.

Laying in a bed without being able to lift my arms or see what remains of me. I mean, they took the nipples in the first one so, how much worse can it get?

Emotions are swirling around like bubbles stretching and splitting off inside of a lava lamp. They hold my attention, but it takes some time to hone in on the shape and substance of them. To get a handle on feelings that move like slow water, you sort of have to spread them out on the table to see the whole picture.

I'm sad that my body has been cut, and will be again, and that that part of me will be gone forever.

The last time I went through this, there had been zero breast tissue left to worry about. I ascended out of a deep and consuming sleep into conscious but hazy and horrific pain, and could barely move my upper body. My daughters and Aaron were kind, but they couldn’t understand the devastation, the swirling of romantic dreams sliding down-the-drain, dreams of being desirable after my breast tissue had been annihilated. Taken and disposed of. No one can understand unless they've been there.

Preparing to go to bed tonight, I've shaved everything I can shave. I feel a bit of dread, and I’m embarrassed to cause all of this ruckus over my deformed-yet-disease-free breasts even if it's necessary.

Mostly, I feel powerless. I am willingly surrendering to a highly competent surgeon, along with the dozen or so hands that will be all over me in the morning, cutting, reshaping and stitching. I will bake something special for them when my arms are back in function. When my pecs will allow efforting.

Tonight, I'm thinking of all us who have had to cut off parts of ourselves just to keep breathing.

Just to wake up with our children in the morning.

Just to participate in the work we're meant to do, or have to do.

I'm feeling helpless. Maybe you are, too. Whatever it is, it's a really big deal. I hope we'll keep reaching out to the God we've come to trust, and the people we love, and keep reminding each other that it'll be okay.

And don't forget to laugh.

May we be healed, and may we be a source of healing for all beings.

Thanks for visiting LEAST FAMOUS.