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.

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)

Notes from a recliner...

I could say I’m not sure why it’s taken me this long to update my blog, but that would be a lie. I haven’t had the energy because chemo is kicking my ass and I didn’t want to admit it. That’s more truthful. And just to give you some perspective on that: The surgery in which they cut off my breasts, then sliced into my abdomen, from hip to hip, in search of fat to use to for stuffing in an 8.5-hour Build-A-Boob Workshop marathon—THAT was a cakewalk compared to chemo.  

On a psychological level, a part of me struggles with all of this because I was declared “cancer-free” after surgery. My chemo is preventative treatment. No big, bad boogey man tumor to target and destroy. Though my lymph nodes were negative, my biopsy and subsequent surgery showed evidence that the barrier to my blood vessels had been breached by the cancer, so we’re shooting in the dark at any rogue cancer cells that may have escaped into my bloodstream. I keep telling myself I’m doing all I can to ensure I’m here for my family as long as I can be, and that’s what keeps me going across the Bear Mountain Bridge every two weeks to continue the vicious cycle.

But let me back up a bit…

It's easy to be super smiley BEFORE treatment.

My first chemo treatment was on New Year’s Eve. Though the anti-nausea meds were supposed to carry me through the typical three-day rough patch, I was sick to my stomach within three HOURS of getting the infusion. This triggered a lot of medicine tweaking. So, the first couple of treatments were really kinda torturous.  Right now, I’m recovering from my third infusion.  I’ve developed sores in my throat, which make swallowing trickier but are eased by a prescription mouthwash. The nausea wasn’t nearly as bad (special shout-out to the drug Emend!) but the fatigue and bone aches related to my white-blood-cell booster shot, which my husband gives me the day after each treatment, were worse this time around. In fact, I have yet to get out of my La-Z-Boy recliner today.

By now you may be wondering, “YES, but what about the HAIR?!!” In between treatments two and three is when les follicles started to unburden themselves. I’d run a wide-tooth comb through, in a vain attempt to detangle the matting, and that’s when I’d feel the sickening release of not only the knots, but the rest of the hair, too. In huge clumps. Till the bathroom sink looked like a small sea of brown waves. It physically nauseated me, and that’s when I shipped the kids off to my in-laws and told my husband that we had a date with the shaver.

If you ever want an intimate bonding experience with your spouse, I highly suggest letting that person shave your head. I sat hunched over in the bathtub, listening to the snip-snip of the scissors and watching lock after lock fall into the stark white tub. To be honest, I didn’t even know I had THAT much hair still attached to my head. And did I really let it get that gray?  Then came the buzz and Sal gently keeping me updated as he changed the guards on the shaver to get closer and closer to the scalp.

Me and my wonderful husband-barber, Sal

Pretty soon there was just stubble.

After 37 years of trying to cover what I presumed to be a massively deformed Irish head—‘tis true, it’s why Irish people are typically “blessed” with full heads of hair—I was now confronted with my very bald noggin. And it was actually normal shaped.  Thank the lord! My fontanels had gotten their shit together!  I got teary-eyed, but I didn’t all-out cry. It actually wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be. My hair was crappy anyway.

I have two wigs on hand to cover up the cue ball, and I only wear them occasionally. Wigs just aren’t my thing. I’ve spent my life with flat hair, and to suddenly have volume? Freaky. Mostly I wear them because Mother Nature, bitch that she is, decided to make this the most friggin’ freezing winter ever.

Anyway, I’m holding out hope for treatments five through eight, which will contain only one drug, supposedly less brutal than the duo I’m taking now. In the meantime, I think I’ll get up from this recliner and get my smoothie from the fridge. You want anything while I’m up?

 

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 I'll be participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life on June 7 in Pine Bush, NY. Will you consider supporting me?
For more information, click here to visit my Relay page.