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.

Here are your New Year's resolutions. You're welcome.

This year, my New Year’s resolution is to live. It’s a deceptively simple concept, one that is not easily accomplished. For me, living means cutting out the bullshit and focusing on what’s important: actually enjoying every day I am able to get out of bed and be with my family.

                Lately, I’ve also been feeling very generous, which is why I have taken it upon myself to make some New Year’s resolutions for you. You can thank me later, because I’m sure whatever your resolutions were, they were complete rubbish. So without further ado…

Heather’s top 5 resolutions for YOU

1.       Don’t say “next year.”

Epcot France is EXACTLY like France (EXACTLY!),
without the pesky euro.

As in, “Well, maybe we’ll do that next year.” Quite simply, because there may not be a next year.  Life is fleeting.

My husband, Sal, has always teased me about my desire to cram an insane amount of activities into an insanely small window of time. It’s just the way I’ve always been and happens to be a good fit for someone who has faced mortality at a young age.
            And don’t let money be a hindrance.  Can’t afford that dream vacation to France right now? Go to Quebec. Go to Epcot. Go to the local library’s “Amelie” movie night, for fuck’s sake. But don’t put off exploring new places and making new memories. Don’t put off living.

2.       Allow photos.

Crimped hair be damned!
Let the picture be taken!

No, you do not look a Victoria’s Secret model. 99.9999 percent of the population doesn’t. But don’t approach every picture as if it’s going to be posted on Facebook and viewed by your sworn enemies from high school.  Oh no, I can’t be in the picture. I haven’t lost the baby weight. Oh no, I didn’t have time to do my hair and make-up.
            Whatever. Just get in the God damn picture so your family has some photographic evidence that you existed. If you look like crap, TAKE THE PICTURE ANYWAY, just don’t post it on Facebook if you’re that sensitive. But if you have kids, I’m guaranteeing they don’t think you look like crap. No, you look like the lady who kisses their boo-boos, reads them their favorite bedtime story and watches “The Polar Express” with them for the 8,000^th time.  
            I tend to be the picture-taker in my family, so I’m absent from a lot of shots. This probably also describes a lot of moms. Let go of your OCD about getting the perfect shot and hand the camera to your significant other or a technologically competent relative, if available (NOT Drunk Uncle).

3.       Lose weight for yourself and your health. No one else.

Don't you just love clip art of athletic women
measuring themselves?

And for the sake of everything that is good and holy, don’t fixate on a number. Yes, you were a size 4 through your 20s, but guess what? You got older, maybe created some humans, and your body changed.

 I remember this past spring fixating on losing those last few postpartum pounds. Obsessing over it, actually. Now I feel like an asshole; I just want to live, damn it! I was striving for some number I had determined I needed to get to, even though I was already a healthy weight.  Oh, but it wasn’t the same weight I was in high school and college. Back then, I was probably 110 pounds soaking wet, with about 10 pounds of that being the Rave hairspray holding up my bangs. Whatever. That is not a healthy weight for me now.

By the way, this is not a phenomenon reserved for women. I recall my days working at Dick’s Sporting Goods, where some guy would ask me if I had these Levi's in a 30 waist. He’d be wearing his current pants belted somewhere down around his upper thigh, the waistband forced into a U shape by his belly. It couldn’t be comfortable, trying to wear what appeared to be the same jeans he did back in 1987. I wanted to yell at these guys, “Fuck it! You’re older and you don’t wear the same size! It’s OK. You’ll actually look trimmer if you wear the size that fits you. Wear pants that haven’t seen all the original members of warrant on tour!” 

Yes, obesity is not good for your health. Yes, it’s been tied to a host of cancers, including breast cancer. But exercise and eat right for your betterment, not a lame attempt to squeeze your ass into your friggin’ high school pants.

4.       Schedule regular exams or doctor’s appointments for the year in January.  

Schedule regular checkups with your physician from the '80s.

You know there are certain annual appointments you have to make: the hoo-ha doctor, maybe a physical with your primary care doctor or eye exam with your ophthalmologist. Ahem, YOUR MAMMOGRAM. Schedule them. I am living proof that a regular ‘ol doctor’s visit can save your life.

And don’t say you’ll get around to it. You often won’t because life gets in the way and before you know it, everyone is singing all that "fa la la la la” crap again and Bam! It’s the end of the year, and you’re left scratching your head and your ass, wondering where the time went. Some doctors also have schedules that are booked far out, so get in there while the getting is good.
                Take care of yourself, please. Or I’ll come find you and beat the shit out of you. Then you really will need a doctor.

5.       Re-evaluate.

Just smile, a-hole.

Figure out what sucks in your life and find a way to make it better. Life is too short.

Call a truce with that co-worker you want to kill (rather than leaving a dead squirrel on his/her desk with a note that reads “This is you” stapled to its head), find a way to do more of the stuff you enjoy. Don’t be afraid to ask for assistance from friends and relatives to help you accomplish the goal of getting more “me” time. Whatever the hell it is, you can make it work.

You know how I know? Because I had a dream last night and Oprah told me so. She also gave me a recipe for beef stroganoff then rode off into the sunset on an ostrich.  But getting back to my point, you can do it. Trust me.

D-Day: Bye-bye boobies

Today’s Veteran’s Day. I know a lot of people have called me brave, but I think that’s a more accurate way to describe those who put themselves in harm’s way by enlisting in the military. I’m just a chick with shitty genetics and a blog.

It’s also D-Day for me. (Although, not D-cup-Day, because I don't have enough meat on me to go that big. A moment of silence for the lost quips, please.) Yes, these are the last hours I’m spending with “the girls” I've known my entire life—the same girls that held up my strapless wedding dress, the same girls that nourished my two children, the same girls that tried to kill me—man, girls are such bitches! Later today, I’ll be sporting the scars of a double mastectomy, and hopefully the near-final version of super-awesome new boobs.

My pre-surgery checklist

While it seems like this whole nightmare began years ago, in actuality, it’s only been a little over a month since I was diagnosed with bilateral breast cancer. Maybe it’s because I’ve been waiting for breast cancer since I was old enough to detect the familial pattern among the Connors women. Thoughts of these ladies and a million other things are running through my head right now.

God damn, nine hours is a long time to be on an OR table.

Well, I’ll NEVER get life insurance now.

I hope the anesthesiologist knows what he’s/she’s doing.
I wonder when I’ll be able to see my kids. Will Fio be scared? Will Nora try to body-slam me?
The plastic surgeon will be spending a LOT of time ensuring my boobies look good, so no more topless cooking with the deep-fryer for me!
Shit, is this really happening?

It’s been tough leading up to this day. (I did get good news recently: My ovarian cyst has shrunk and the gynecological oncologist I saw thought it was just a hemorrhagic cyst. Yay!) Thankfully, I have an amazing husband, ridiculously supportive family and two adorable and distracting kids. Combine that with all the kind thoughts, prayers, phone calls and food from friends and co-workers, and it’s been a hell of a lot easier to cope.

Thank you, from the very depths of my heart.

And what has really given me that warm, fuzzy feeling was hearing that a good number of you ladies decided to get that first mammogram, schedule a long-overdue one, or undergo genetic testing after reading my PSA. If I save anyone’s life, all I ask is that you name one of your children after me, even if that child has already been born. Really, changing a 6-year-old's name is not that difficult.
               I’ll see all of you beautiful people in a few.

 To be continued…