An open letter to Derek Jeter

Dear Mr. Derek Jeter,

Do you feel bad for people who have or had cancer? OK, good. Keep that answer in mind as you read this.

A lot of people have been sharing that Gatorade commercial you made, and that's all well and good, but I think you're being ridiculously selfish. Those of us who are the same age, who spent our formative years watching you play drama-less, Hall of Fame-caliber baseball, are now forced to acknowledge that we, too, are getting old. But we are nowhere near retirement. So I think it's only fair that you share your retirement money with us - or rather, me.

See, I dedicated many years to your cause, shepherding breathless and overexcited young girls to the latest Jeter merchandise as part of my thankless job at a sporting goods store. Their giggles still ring in my ears like the sound of kittens being tortured. Oh, and did I mention that I had cancer? That should be good for some extra dough. Anyway, PM me and I'll give you the account number for wiring money.

Yours truly,
Heather LaBruna




p.s.
I met your old pal Bernie Williams the other day when he landed in a hot-air balloon behind our house (honest to God!) and he gave his blessing to my "Derek Jeter Wealth Redistribution Plan." So please do the right thing. (Oh, and despite what the picture may look like, I swear I was NOT high on medicinal marijuana!)

P.P.S.
Should you feel uncomfortable giving a mere mortal such as myself your hard-earned dough, go ahead and donate some moolah to the Young Survival Coalition in my name. Somebody should benefit from your damn retirement.

My mammoversary

A lot has changed in a year. For one thing, my boobs
are smaller and perkier...

Exactly one year ago today, I opened a can of worms. A big, fat, malignant can of worms.

I remember the feeling of the blood draining from my face as the mammogram technician pointed to the suspicious areas on the screen. Maybe the radiologist, Dr. Solomon, might like additional images of those troublesome spots, she said. Yes, of course he would.

I remember how it felt to sit in that oddly placed, uncomfortable little chair in the hallway outside his office, my right leg twitching uncontrollably because the adrenaline was really pumping by that point. I felt like the bad kid, sitting outside the principal’s office as I watched a much older woman breeze out the door, another clear mammogram under her belt/bra.

I remember walking in as Dr. Solomon was talking to my ob-gyn, Dr. Charles, on the phone and hearing him say to her, “She’s very young...,” and realizing for the first time that, when it comes to breast cancer, those words probably don’t mean anything. I was nine years younger than my aunt, who, at 45, had been the youngest Connors woman to be diagnosed.

I remember Dr. Solomon pointing to various parts of my breasts on his computer screen and uttering the words "very suspicious" over and over again. I lost count. Everything about my breasts seemed to be suspect. I was harboring terrorists. Mammorists.

I remember Dr. Charles' voice on the other end of the line, reminding me to remain calm. It could be nothing. But if it was something, we likely caught it very early, and that’s why we do these tests.

I remember the look on the mammogram technician’s face as she walked me down the hall to the neighboring breast surgeon’s office to make an appointment for a consult. I had gone from having a routine baseline mammogram to a consult with a friggin’ breast surgeon. Yet, I actually felt bad for the technician. Even though I was the one with the shit test results and uncertain future, you could tell I had completely ruined her day and she took mammograms-gone-wild very personally.

What I don’t remember is the drive home, though I arrived there and no massive pileups or catastrophes were reported in my wake, so I guess I did OK.  I do remember trying several times to dial Sal’s work number but my fingers were suddenly like Vienna sausages and I kept messing up. Finally, I got it right. 

... I also found myself a "doer." Here I am actually engaging
in a group activity, the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life, back in June.
My friends and family have been a constant source of love and support for me.
Without them, this would have been a much more difficult journey.

“So, how did it go?” he asked, probably expecting me to crack some jokes about boobie pancakes or something.  
But there was only the sound of my labored breathing.

“How did it go?”

I struggled with my composure, but like my number-dialing, I failed. “I…I…uh…I… Can you clear your work schedule? I need to have a breast ultrasound,” I croaked out. I lost it at that point and sobbed about my worst fears coming true and all the suspicious spots on the mammogram.

I remember the big hug he gave me when he got home, because words were not needed and he was just as scared as I was.

I remember as I waited for my ultrasound and biopsy appointments, some older folks tried to be helpful, telling me their close encounters with suspicious mammograms, which ultimately showed benign growths. That's what I had, some harmless cysts, they said. But these people didn’t have my family history, hadn't lived their lives with a nagging suspicion that one day they'd develop breast cancer.  So although I appreciated them trying to ease my mind, I admittedly wanted to hurt them when they said stuff like that. Like, hurt real bad. Like the way people get hurt in the “Godfather.”  (On a side note, if you ever encounter someone going through a similar situation and you really haven’t been there, and you really want to keep all of your limbs, just offer your support, positive energy, prayers, whatever. Tread lightly when drawing parallels, lest your comforting words sound like you’re dismissing that person's legitimate fears —“You know, my cat had suspicious spots on his x-ray but it turned out to be just some undigested Meow Mix!”)

I remember thinking, if all this testing shows what I think it's going to show, things would never be the same.

And I guess you can say the rest is history.

Goodbye, girly parts!

Today's the day... Thanks to all who have supported me throughout this ordeal in little and big ways. This should be it - hopefully! - for the major surgeries. With just nipple reconstruction ahead, I'm finally starting to see that light at the end of the tunnel!  Next stop: Menopause Station!

Check out this BRCA2+ chick, locked and loaded for her hysterectomy/oophorectomy today. Special shout-out to my son, who loaned me his toy ray gun, and my husband, because it takes a special kind of guy to help his wife fashion a tampon bandolier.

Hello surgery, my old friend...

Here I sit, on the day before my second surgery in eight months. For some reason, I dread this one most of all. Compared to the first, it’s certainly not as massive of a surgery, this “ectomy” combo meal (“I’ll take the No. 2: a hysterectomy with a side of oophorectomy. And let’s see. Oh yes, I would like to wash it down with some dee-lish-ous magnesium citrate. ”)  

For a good time, call 1-900-POO-PARTY

I’ll be in the hospital one night, recovering from the loss of the “girly parts”—very technical terminology my gynecological oncologist has asked to borrow—and coming one step closer to being done with all of my surgeries.

***

But let me back up a bit. So much time has passed since my last blog—almost four months, to be precise—that I feel a recap is in order. (Or if anyone made a shitty Hollywood movie about my life, you’d insert a montage here.)

 The big milestone for me was finishing chemo on April 15. The actual completion of it was pretty uneventful. I kept thinking that after eight, seemingly endless rounds, this deserved to be aired on Telemundo, where there would be balloons dropping from the ceiling and shit. “Chemotherapy Gigante! Arriba! Arriba!” But no, I got my last infusion and quietly went on my way, left to traverse that vast terrain known as “Oh shit! Chemo’s over so I no longer have a safety net.” 

 

Yay! No more chemo! Now what?

I grilled my oncologist at follow-up appointments about what we’d be doing to make sure the cancer hadn’t come back. I felt disappointment settle in as he informed me that, for the most part, screening would consist of clinical breast exams by the breast surgeon every six months and testing if I had symptoms. Given my relatively young age, they had to be judicious with any radiation-based screenings, as getting those frequently could result in radiation-related cancers. Oh, the malignant irony! And technology such as MRI is super expensive. But given I had no symptoms when my breast cancer was discovered, I wasn’t keen on waiting for some to appear before I took action. (Mental note to self: Harass oncologist to abide by my made-up surveillance program, which involves having several oncology specialists on stand-by, 24/7, to check out my every ache and pain.)

The really tough thing after finishing chemo was how I managed to look sicker. The last drug in the regimen, Taxotere, had finished off my eye lashes and eyebrows and done a real number on my tear ducts, leaving me simultaneously with dry eye and tears streaming down my face. My eyes were red-rimmed from all the wiping I was doing.  

Chemo is not kind to the ocular area.

Every morning in those early weeks, my eyes were glued shut and every morning my husband, Sal, had to retrieve a warm, moistened washcloth from the bathroom and wipe the ‘ol ojos so I could actually open them. Taxotere also seemed to upend my reflex response time, so much so that I took myself off of driving duty for a bit; you and your rear bumpers can thank me later, drivers of New York. 

Anyway, my zombie eyes and headscarf were a dead giveaway to everyone around me. “Look, I don’t mean to get into your business,” the girl behind the bakery counter at Adams said to me as she scribbled something on the back of a business card. “But here’s my mom’s name. She’s on Facebook; look her up. She’s been our rock, our inspiration.” I couldn’t read her handwriting. Another time, when I was at the customer service desk, signing up for a Price Chopper discount card, the girl behind the counter started asking me questions about my diagnosis. Turns out her mother had had breast cancer and succumbed to it less than a year prior. “Did you get your boobs reconstructed?” she asked. I didn’t even flinch. Ah, cancer. The great modesty-killer.

 A mom at my son’s dojang asked me politely about my headscarf. After I told her, she smiled and tugged on her short, blonde hair. She, too, was a survivor. We were apparently everywhere.

***

But back to this surgery business. Maybe it’s because of the preventative nature of the procedures that I’m fretting; unlike the mastectomy, there would be no big, bad tumor to target, although my gynecological oncologist had warned me they could find something malignant. Maybe it’s the dreaded sudden menopause at age 37. Or maybe it’s because I’ll no longer be able to do the one thing I was put on this planet to do: reproduce. Likely, it’s a mix of these things. My husband and I were done with kids anyway. (Sorry about that unnecessary vasectomy, Sal!) But this marks the no-going-back point.

A calm day in Menopause World

There are also health issues associated with plunging the body unsuspectingly into menopause at such a young age. 

I’ll be more prone to heart disease and osteoporosis, as my trusty pal estrogen will no longer have my back. I’ll struggle to keep weight off thanks to a metabolism that’s in the shitter and my hair will likely thin. (I’ve also been told by several of my older friends that I’ll need to start carrying tweezers, as the hair will pop up in unwanted places, such as the chinny chin chin.)

But you know me. I like silver linings. So I guess I can be happy that the end of periods has come. To mourn this “loss,” I had my husband go out and buy me a box of tampons. I’ll never use them. Mainly I just wanted one final opportunity to make him buy tampons.

Spring has sprung (at least in my mind)

“You can go bra-less as often as you like.”

              Seriously, is there a more amazing sentence than that, especially if you’ve worn a bra since you were in the 5^th grade? This was just one more gentle reminder recently from my plastic surgeon that my new “breast” tissue wouldn’t sag like actual breasts, that the world was my bra-less oyster, and halter tops and tube tops and the like were mine for taking… Just as soon as it decided to actually warm up outside.

THIS is why I am so looking forward to spring, that proverbial sign of rebirth. I have new knockers, a new outlook and I’d be finishing up chemo in a few weeks, hopefully never to revisit the latter. Am I bragging? Yes. Do I deserve to be? Um, fuck yes?

Don't look at my boobies! They're hideous!

            Amid all this cancer crap, I had decided that my ultimate silver lining would be the ability to finally look at my body in a positive light—and to think, it only took cancer and labor-intensive reconstructive surgery to accomplish that.

Speaking of surgery, recently my son Fio actually got a good look at the new girls when he walked in on me changing after my shower. I don’t parade them around, but I also made the conscious decision not to go into “Phantom of the Opera” hiding mode, like I was some sort of monster, when he’s around.  He smiled, then looked at them curiously.

            "Where are those things that used to be growing out of your boobies?”

             “You mean ‘nipples’?”

             “Yes.”

            “When Mommy had her surgery, they had to take them off. There was a bad growth under one of them.”
             “Will they grow back?”
           What the hell do I look like, kid? A crab that can regenerate body parts? Instead, I explained to him that the doctor would make new ones, and that I’d be feeling better soon and everything would return to normal. 

            “Don’t worry, Monkey Man.”

            He seemed mollified by my answer. But I’m not really sure how to read toddlers, and I know my health crisis, while not brought up too much by him, still had an effect. His pre-K teacher, also a breast cancer survivor who had had the same reconstructive procedure as me, said it seemed like frustration and tears came more easily as he attempted various tasks at school. She chalked it up to everything going on at home. And that’s the thing about cancer: It doesn’t leave your family out of it. But what I love is that he isn't ashamed of me. Hair, no hair, nipples, no nipples, he loves me for me and just wants to see the return of the old Heather  (he’s like his dad that way).

Don't you hate when women flaunt their bodies?

Since publishing my last blog, which featured my nipple-less boobs at the very end, I had gotten some passive-aggressive disapproval on my decision, which, from my perspective at least, seems really trivial. I know not everyone may agree with my choice, and that’s perfectly fine. But here’s the thing: You never know how you’re going to respond to a crisis till you’re in that position. I certainly never dreamed I’d put a picture of my boobs out there for all to see. But I think people should know why I did it.
            On a very basic level, it is for every woman out there who’s been diagnosed and emotionally/physically scarred by breast cancer.

            It is for every woman who is scared about losing her breasts and bewildered by her reconstruction choices—yes, there are options out there that can make you feel more normal in light of what cancer has taken away, and this is what one of those options looks like. In fact, get a second opinion if you’ve been told you’re not a candidate for a procedure such as DIEP flap. Shit, I had three prior abdominal surgeries and I was. My plastic surgeon has said many women are candidates, but are turned away because either the surgeon they saw doesn’t do it or doesn’t know enough about it.              

It is for every woman out there that has been made to feel that this is something she should hide. Would you tell an injured Iraq war veteran that he/she should cover that face, because, quite frankly, those facial burns freak you the hell out? No, of course not.  That would make you a colossal dick. We all carry our battle scars. Why should it matter that my scars are carried on my breasts and my abdomen? I didn’t ask for this crap. But I do want you to ask me about my scars. Then I can lecture you ad nauseam about being proactive about your health.

              It is for every woman, in general, who has been made to feel like she should cover up, that she’s not good enough to wear the swimsuit she wants or the dress she’s been coveting because she’ll be picked apart. You know what I say? Life’s too short. Rock it. It never was about your body anyway. It’s about the insecurities of others and their definitions of “appropriate” and “inappropriate.”  Work from your own dictionary (or try Webster's I Don't Give a Shit What You Think, So Blow It Out Your Ass: New World Edition).

             So, yeah, those were my boobs. You got a problem with that?

             And spring, when the hell are you getting’ here? Mama’s got some tube tops to wear.

               

The mom gets in the picture

I've decided to give you ladies and gents a break from me waxing poetic about diarrhea. Instead, let me tell you about a wonderful photo shoot I had with the delightful Tamme Stitt Photography in Kingston. Tamme is the same kick-ass broad who took my original "fuck cancer" photos, and she's the kind of gal who makes you feel totally comfortable from the get-go - which is good because I was very bald, and I was very topless for a good portion of the shoot. She's also super patient, which is also a good thing because not only are my children spastic, but my 4-year-old son, Fiorello, constantly interrupted her photo-taking to show her yet another stink bug carcass he had uncovered in a nearby window. She graciously photographed all of the deceased. 

So, for these keeping count, Tamme had to shoot hyperactive children, a bald head, reconstructed breasts and stink bugs. Man, if that doesn't show a photographer's range, I don't know what does.

Anyway, I know a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll stop yammering and let you have a look for yourself. Word of caution: The very last picture is of my reconstructed breasts. If you think you might find this offensive or nightmare-inducing, for God's sake, DON'T LOOK! (Although, if you're easily offended or skittish, what the hell are you doing on my blog anyway?)

Me and my family

There's nothing more important to me - they're the reason I'm fighting so damn hard to make sure my cancer doesn't come back.

Everybody, this is Nora. She's not impressed by anything. A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

When Nora saw my bald head for the first time, she smiled, then shared some of her toys with me. Clearly, I was finally her equal.

Nora calls me Mimi - a variation of "My Mommy." It's precious - except when being screamed at 5 a.m.

I seriously couldn't ask for a sweeter kid than Fiorello. The thought of him starting kindergarten in the fall keeps me up at night more than thinking about a cancer recurrence. I wonder how lenient NY penal code is for chemo patients who beat up their son's bullies. Hmm.

Before bed, Fiorello always gives me a "big, fat yum-yum kiss." Thanks to my chemo, we have to be a lot more careful with these kisses and their associated germs.

Most of the time I don't wear the $750 worth of wigs I purchased.
I've grown weary of my son introducing me, "This is my Mommy. That's her wig."

This is my husband, Sal. He's pretty much the most amazing spouse ever. He keeps shit running in our house and prevents me from going insane.That's a full-time job right there!

The one thing that's really pissed me off about cancer is that it's kept me from spending as much time with my family as I would have normally. I couldn't pick up my daughter for a long time because I was healing from surgery. The reality of having to hold down a job while battling chemo fatigue has forced me to put Fiorello in daycare full time and ship Nora off to her grandparents five days a week. I can't remember if I said this recently but... FUCK YOU, CANCER!

Through it all, we manage to keep a sense of humor, which, in turn, helps us maintain our sanity. Sort of.

 

Knitting and stuff

Say the words "cancer" and everyone who's got the talent will immediately whip out their knitting needles and go to town. Seriously. I've never had anyone knit me anything in my life; now, I'm suddenly the proud owner of a menagerie of skull coverings. 

 

Swear to God, this yarn was the exact color of my Cabbage Patch Kid's hair. Wonder what she's up to. She's, like, 30-something now. Wait. Maybe...I'M HER! (Hat credit: Samantha Gonzalez's friend, whose name escapes me)

My cover of "The 40-year-old Cabbage Patch Virgin." (Hat credit: Amanda Carmichael)

Nipple hat. You knew it was coming. (Hat credit: Jennifer Burns)

My attempt at Punk Rosie the Riveter is totally weak. Looks like I'm practicing my hand puppetry. (Hat credit: Amanda Carmichael)

My ode to "Pulp Fiction" Uma. Although, being a breast cancer warrior, I couldn't with good conscience put a cigarette in my hand and totally recreate the vibe. (Hat credit: Jennifer Schreiner)

Now, just me

Feeling saucy, feeling "Steel Magnolias." If I had hair, I'd totally be hitting up Truvy's Beauty Parlor.

Channeling my inner Garbo.

I know I joke a lot, but when the reality of cancer is always staring you in the face, you kinda have to...

Still to come: Nipple reconstruction and some contouring of the breasts to plump them up and fill in where they've settled. Then the spread in Playboy: Surgical Edition. (Boobies credit: Dr. R. Michael Koch, New York Group for Plastic Surgery)