Three Months!

Today marks three months since I had my bilateral mastectomy, which I will (in order to make you laugh) henceforth refer to as my BM.

A lot has happened since October 18th! I've kept you up to date on most of the biggies, like blood clots, swimming a mile, and the mysterious Mondor's Disease (which is healing up nicely, thanks for asking!) I'm still on the coumadin for the blood clots...that'll end in April, hopefully. Coumadin is one of those lifesaving/pain in the ass drugs, like prednisone. I have had my clotting time checked (via finger-prick, AT the doctor's office, with a $25 co-pay each time, 11 times so far.) This is necessary to make sure the coumadin is at a "therapeutic level." If it's not, I risk another blood clot if my blood's too thick, or bleeding to death from a razor nick if my blood's too thin. Fun times, huh?

Okay, moving on. There IS life post BM. The only thing I still have trouble doing is laying on my stomach, reaching the top shelf in my kitchen, and filling my C-cup bras, which is why, a couple weeks ago, I got rid of them. This was a big day, a symbolic day. Who knows why I even kept them that long? 'Coulda chucked them on the morning of October 18th. Maybe I secretly thought I'd be the exception and mine would grow back.

I've packed about 100 boxes, as I am in the process of selling my home. I have lifted almost all of those boxes, made runs to the dump, and numerous trips to Goodwill. I have painted and scrubbed, and as of two days ago, I've even shoveled snow. So, YES. I have my strength and range of motion back. I'd put both at 90%.

I was told by my dear Dr. F that the best way to make BM scars diminish is to rub them with aloe vera. I have a friend who donated one of her aloe plants to the cause, and it now resides in my bathroom, where every couple days, I cut off a chunk and...well, I'll stop there. Let's just say the scars are looking good. I still am mostly numb, which is strange, but common. Nerve regeneration is a slow process. I still occasionally experience phantom pain. Go figure.

I'm kind of wondering how long to keep this blog going. I feel that my cancer journey was rather short compared to some who have to endure chemo and/or radiation. I am thankful that those treatments are not a part of my days right now, as they would likely flatten me at a time when I have a lot to get done. God is merciful and good. I will stick to my word and write the compression-tight blog that I promised so long ago. Maybe I'll end with that...we'll see.

I guess I didn't really give a lot of thought to what life would be like after my BM, so I haven't had any expectations dashed. Recovering from anything is a process, and like any recovery, there are good days and bad days. I have days when I grieve the loss of my breasts. Most days, though, I'm just happy to be zipping along.

Until next time...

Range of Emotion

Part of bouncing back after major surgery is restoring the range of motion of the affected parts. This has been an interesting process. My exercises have included something called "wall walking." Do you picture me as Spider-Woman? Good. I like that. But truthfully, the only thing that's walking on the walls is my fingers. I stand about 10 inches from the wall and walk my fingers like little mountain climbers, up the wall. All that it takes to progress in this exercise is to make it further up the wall today than yesterday. I am also using a yardstick (SO high-tech!) to do some exercises recommended by the American Cancer Society for mastectomy patients. Getting in the pool has done wonders, and I actually swam REAL laps on Wednesday. It felt great. I am getting my range of motion back.

Then there's the range of emotion. This is, to be grammatically sloppy, a whole nother story. Healing from a mastectomy is a different kind of healing than say, from an appendectomy or gall-bladder surgery. In both of the above, a body part is lost, true. But few people grieve the loss of an appendix or a gall-bladder. (Do they? If you have, let me know---I'll take back what I said, I promise!) I AM grieving the loss of my breasts. They were, after all, an outward expression of my femininity. My range of emotion in any given week since surgery (4 weeks and 3 days already!) runs the gamut from "I am a cancer-free miracle!" to "I'm. So. Freaking. Ugly." At the end of the day, I gather up the fallen-leaves of emotion that have gathered and swirled and take a look. Thankfully, most days end with the positive messages winning. But it's a range, that's for sure.

I guess one of the strategies for a full-recovery that I'd recommend would be to give yourself a little more room. Just as I am having to make time in my day to work my way back up to a full range of physical motion, I need room in my day to work my way back up to expressing a full range of emotion. Life IS different, and to pretend otherwise is...well, pretending.

Phantom Pain

I've been thinking a lot about "phantom pain" lately. It intrigues me. The Mayo clinic defines it this way: "Phantom pain is pain that feels like it's coming from a body part that's no longer there. Doctors once believed this post-amputation phenomenon was a psychological problem, but experts now recognize that these sensations originate in the spinal cord and brain."

If you think about it, your brain has been wired since birth. It's the message-center. Imagine how many messages your brain sends to your body parts on any given day, without you even THINKING about it. Truly, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

I have sensation two inches out from my chest. Two inches out, there is nothing. Zippo. Nada. Now, we all know that something does not have to be present to cause pain, but seriously, this is WEIRD!

My Dad died 13 years ago. Prostate cancer cut him from my life when he was only 65 and I was 38. And yet, there are days when I honestly think, "Oh, Dad will love to hear that story!" And I almost head to the phone to call him. It's phantom pain! I was so used to sharing joys and stories and laughter with him...it was wired into me after 38 years of being his daughter.

My life has changed in big ways this year. That breast cancer and a mastectomy was a part of it all has given me much opportunity to consider symbolism. Cancer invaded me. It was found. It was dealt with. I am forever changed by it. Is that a bad thing? Believing as I do in a Good God, I am going to say NO. It is not a bad thing.

Phantom pain is a reminder. It reminds me of what was, and what is no longer. By God's grace, I will be a more compassionate, kinder person because of this reminder.

Reflection

Before I had surgery, one of the big questions simmering in the back of my mind (and yours, too...admit it!) was "What's it like to look at yourself in the mirror for the first time after having a mastectomy?"

I chose not to do a lot of "googling" before my surgery, because I didn't want to get all crazy with anxiety. I felt it best for me to steer clear of input from the masses and just process what was about to happen to me on a very personal level. That's just me.

So, the day after surgery as I was being readied to go home, the nurse came in to change the dressing on my wound. I endured this without so much as a glance-down. When I got home, I changed into my comfy jammies, again, without looking. It wasn't until the next day that I took a look. And it wasn't a mirror-look, it was a glance-down look. I didn't cry. I didn't even gasp. I just marveled. Where once were breasts are now two nine-inch scars crossed with steri-strips. Just like that.

I'm sorry if this is too much information. It's just so WEIRD processing an amputation. I am blown away that modern medicine has made this whole thing possible, from detection to amputation. Three months ago I knew nothing. Now I am a cancer survivor. I am in awe of the fact that Dr. F did something SO invasive and today, 15 days later, I'm home, doing laundry, getting in the pool, driving my car. My body looks SO different to me when I look in the mirror. I don't love it. But then I never really LOVED my body. Clothes DO fit me differently. My bra-basket sits in my closet, dejected over being utterly ignored. My chest feels tight, like there's duct tape wrapped around me. I am flat as a pancake. My friend Judy and I joke that I need a 38-T bra..."T" standing for "trainer."

I am adjusting to the new way I look. I have my moments, believe me.

But mostly I just marvel.

Pool Party!

I'm on day 14 of post-op fun-n-games. I decided it's time to get in the water! Dr. F okayed this. In fact, he said, "the sooner, the better." Getting my arms moving increases the flow of good fluids (like lymph) as well as bad fluids (like the stuff I've been getting drained out of me by Dr. F). So, before my next (and maybe last) visit to the doc on Friday, I'm gonna stimulate this stuff as best I can. Anyway, it was SO good to get in the water. One of my posse-girls, Gayleen, is actually a pool therapist, and she helped me tremendously in figuring out which muscles needed exercising and how best to do it. I found that there are stretches I can do in the water that are impossible on land. For instance, I cannot lay flat on my stomach at home, but I can do that in the water. If you are recovering from a mastectomy, I recommend you ask your doc about getting in the water.
P.S. Does this bathing suit make me look flat?