Chances are.

So yesterday was the big day. I met my oncologist, Dr. V, and got a chemo plan. She began our meeting by entering all my cancer specifics into some computer program. Age: 38....General Health: Good....Estrogen Receptor: Positive...Tumor Grade: 2....Tumor Size: 2.1-3.0cm...Nodes Involved: 1-3. <Insert fake computer sound here.> From this program, out popped my odds. If I do nothing, I have a 41% chance of being alive and cancer-free in 10 years. If I do this chemo and take these crappy hormonal drugs, I have a 79% chance of being alive and cancer-free in 10 years. Okay, I think, I teach statistics. This is easy. I pick treatment.

Despite knowing statistics and weighing these odds, there were a couple of moments yesterday that bothered me. For one, 10 years. Hello? I'd like to live past 48. For another, when you get cancer, you have to fill out a questionnaire a day on your family history. Dr. V saw from my questionnaire yesterday that I had a deceased sibling. She naturally asked how did he die. Car accident, I say. Her reply was "Your poor parents." I'll translate this seemingly cold statement. (I speak fluent doctor now.) What she meant was the probability of having a child die in a car accident at 30 AND having a child diagnosed with cancer at 38 is crazy low. How unfortunate for them. Which shows you looking at numbers means nothing when the house wins. I mean there was a 1 in 10 chance I'd get breast cancer in the first place and well, I lost that hand. (You're welcome, other 9 women. I took one for the team.) Is there such a thing as I have had my fair share of bad luck?

Here is another thing that bothered me. They don't phrase your odds by speaking in probabilities or percentages. Instead, the report says 79 out of 100 women are alive and without cancer in 10 years after combined therapy. So do I celebrate the likelihood that I'll be alive after all this? No, I don't. I think about the 21 other ladies that won't... because when you sit in an oncology waiting room, 100 people translates into a lot of real human faces. Get busy, genius science children, and cure this problem now.

So what will my chemotherapy entail? Well, months of crap. Specifically, I will get 4 treatments of the "bad" stuff (adriamycin and cytoxan). Side effects include nausea, mouth sores, hair loss, weight GAIN (seriously, universe!?) and fatigue. These treatments occur every two weeks, then I get 12 treatments every week of taxel. I don't know how bad that round is. At this time in the meeting, I was still thinking about the weight gain part. So that's 20 weeks. 5 months. March, April, May, June, July. That's my summer...the summer of my discontent. I could be in a clinical trial that would extend my chemo potentially six more months. Still thinking on that.

My treatment is scheduled to begin March 7th, but there are a lot of variables. My plastic surgeon has to give me a green light for anesthesia so a chemo port can be put into my chest. The chemo port surgery has to be scheduled with my favorite breast doc, Dr. D, and she's a popular gal. I need a MUGA scan (no idea...heart thing?). I need an x-ray. I need blood work done. Meanwhile, my boobs are in holding. I'll have to just keep these expanders until all this is over. Three weeks after chemo is done, I can schedule my implants. I want those foobs super bad. All in all, it will be a crap time, but I'll be okay. I shook the Magic 8-Ball and "It is decidedly so."

But Doctor...I'm a lover not a fighter.

Turns out that I didn't imagine that Dr. D and I had a bond. She did want to be my hero, and I knew as soon as she sat down with my folder yesterday why she never called. I get why she waited to tell me the results of the surgical biopsies in person. I get it and not only do I forgive her, I love her for it. I love her for placing the report in my lap and immediately hugging me. I love her for sighing "Oh Anna." I wanted her to be my hero, too.

When she removed my breasts, Dr. D took six lymph nodes. The report placed in my lap yesterday just as clear as day read that 5 of the 6 were benign, but one single node, one traitor of a node, tested positive for metastatic carcinoma, and "metastatic" is a word I never ever wanted to see. It means I still have cancer. It means they didn't get it all, and now that there is this little piece that got away, I have to engage in chemical warfare with my body. Now that this spooky stuff has invaded my lymphatic system, Dr. D so sweetly told me that she can't cut it out. I am now placing my trust in the next hero, an oncologist, who will develop the chemotherapy cocktail to save my life.

Because of my denial then anger then tears, I was immediately led into a small room after the news. They fetched Ken from the waiting room and a social worker. The social worker was a cancer survivor and she worked her magic, a magic that only someone who has been through it can do. She explained how chemo will work, how I may be nauseous but they have medicine to help, how I will definitely be tired but could work part-time, how my hair would go, how it won't be forever and the hair grows back. She showed us photos of herself in various wigs, some cheap, some not. She looked great by the way. She explained that I probably wanted to get my hair cut pixie style short pretty soon, get accustomed to seeing myself differently, and then, yes, I would want to buzz it eventually. She told me where to shop for wigs and gave me brochures for support groups. I left her with hope but still in a fog. I left in a hope fog.

I won't lie. Last night was tough, but today, I am okay. It isn't bravery that gets me through this crap. It isn't inspiration or even my faith (forgive me, God). I tell you what gets me laughing in the face of this disease...two boys, ages 10 and 12, and a man that vowed to love me in sickness and in health. We have a great family. I am not even joking. You'll be jealous when I describe how happy we are, how we get the best of everything without even trying, and damn if I am going to spoil that for them. To see them smile is all the ammunition I need to fight. I might wear a big, bright pink Britney Spears style wig during this. I just might do that, but please don't say I am brave. Don't comment how positive I am because sometimes I am not. What I am is a good damn mom. I am, and I am a pretty big partier. I have no intention of letting cancer rain on my parade. Watch me come out of this with better boobs, skinnier and an awesome wig collection...and no cancer. I know that's what will happen because things just work out for me like that. Don't be a hater.

I meet with my oncologist a week from Monday. Bring it. Meanwhile, I still have these damn drains.

Mastectomy Hangover, Part II

I went to the plastic surgeon yesterday. They did take the pain purse away. The nurse just pulled that tubing out like she was pulling dental floss. One side came out fine, but the tubing on the other side got hung up on something in my chest. I could feel it all coiled up in my boob patty. I was very snappy with the nurse. Poor thing went and got the doctor who charmed that tube right on out, thank the Lord. So the pain system is out and I aint missed it one bit. The drains, however, and that tubing are still attached to me. At first I was disappointed because I really am sick of looking at my boob spaghetti sauce and hauling around an external plumbing system, but after the pain tube trauma, I now know that removing that drain system is going to hurt like hell and I need a bigger warning (and a couple of valium) before I endure that. They won't pull the drains until I am exporting less than 30mLs in 24 hours for two days straight. Currently, I am logging in at 50 or more.

As long as those 'blood grenades" are there (thanks for the term, Ranny), I can't shower and that really, really, really sucks. Ken set up the pool lounger system again today and washed my hair. He also gave me a sponge bath. Poor Ken...hair washing, bathing, and emptying blood. I bet past items on the hubby to-do list are looking better now.

On the up side, my plastic surgeon, Dr. K, was able to add more saline to my expander packs. Meaning- I have little boobs! She said I was healing well and looking good. They will add more and more each time until I am expanded enough for the implants.

I am super disappointed in my breast doc. I thought she and I shared something. She gave me the pink shirted teddy bear and in recovery, she kept her cold doctor hands on my burning forehead to keep my cool. She always rubbed my arm in conversation and she freaking removed my cancer. What happened, Dr. D? You said you'd call as soon as you knew the results of the path report from surgery. You said it would be about a week. Well, guess what? It has been a week and I need to know if you got it all. I need to know if those lymph nodes are cancer free. I need to know if this is over. I have watched my phone all day. Please call. I feel like a teenager...wearing my training bra and sitting by the phone.

Mastectomy Hangover, Part I

Well, it's done. The boobs are gone. I won't lie. The whole recovery thing hurt like hell for the first few days. I have waited this whole time for the worst part and have recently decided that the worst part is the summation of a lot of little crappy parts. For example, immediately upon awakening from surgery, I had oxygen tubes up my nose and I was crazy, crazy thirsty and all I got was ice chips. Then I finally got to a hospital room where I could get some icy water only there were a million tubes connected to me. There was an iv for antibiotic and pain meds. There were the drainage tubes collecting what looked like thin spaghetti sauce from my boob area and there were tubes connected to my legs. They put these tight stockings on my legs and some contraption that gave my calves a massage every five minutes to prevent blood clots. Sounds nice, huh? No, the stockings were awful. I was so hot and those nurses would not remove them. One particular nice nurse almost did late into the night but changed her mind...even after I promised her I would do the "bicycle" or whatever every few minutes to keep my legs going. This was the same nurse that after I asked for a scrunchie and my roomie, Lois, asked for an orange sherbet replied, "What do you think this is... The Holiday Inn?" She turned out to be my favorite because of her awesome sarcasm. Sincerely, she was the first to help me pee. All those tubes made it a MAJOR ordeal to get up and go to the bathroom. So there you go...the worst part was having to really pee and waiting for the nurse army to get you unattached and rolling to the toilet.

I am home now. I still have the drainage tubes leading to little bulbs that collect my boob spaghetti sauce and I have a pain pump that I tote around like a purse, but I don't have that iv or the stockings so I am much improved. It is weird to not have boobs. It is weird and I look spooky in the mirror. I look homeless and pasty. My home health care team (Ken and my parents) have been phenomenal. Ken figured out how to wash my hair without getting the rest of me wet and my mom cleaned and packed lunches and managed food intake. My dad got the kids on and off the bus and fixed my light switch and my vacuum. My friends have pampered me with food and treats and so, so much love.

My chest hurts...feels like muscle spasms. It hurts just enough and the tube situation was so traumatizing. All I can think is please let this be over. No more surgeries, God, please. I will do it if I have to, but I hope I don't. And please, God, no chemo. I am tired of the medication already. I have no appetite and don't feel myself. I feel like I was okay and cancer broke me. I don't know the answer to these questions. I have to wait for the path report from the surgery, but my surgeon smiled and I just feel it deep in me that it is over. Soon I will get my new implants and my life will return to normal, God willing. For others though, like my hospital roomie Lois (I'll have to blog about her later), the cancer story continues. I feel a new sense of purpose to bring orange sherbet, sweet ice chips and scrunchies to all... because somebody did it for me.

Thanks to all my community of care. I will remember every single one of you and the love and kindness you have given me and my family. There, indeed, is a special place for compassionate souls in heaven. Get ready. Sarcastic Anna is coming back. I return to the plastic surgeon tomorrow who hopefully will remove these drains and pain purse. Then I can tell you all about the flat-chested life. So far, so good. I am down ten pounds in probably boobs alone.