I never thought I’d be jealous of someone's idle chatter about their ghastly looking shoes they need to return.
I listen to people talk nowadays in a fog of my own internal grief and hopelessness. It's a fog I’m very much trying to see through in the best way possible - I’m on the phone with my therapist, I’m running, I’m trying to imagine brighter days not leaden with worry and pain and guilt and fatigue, I’m telling my friends honestly how I’m feeling…
Don't know how to start this but, um, forget me for the moment, and if you have spare prayers and thoughts, please shoot those over to my mother. She has had a frightening last couple of days and is currently in the hospital after bad falls and some scary news.
All this while I'm getting these peppy emails about the Jimmy Fund Telethon that's coming up. All this while I'm getting call after call about surgery post-ops and pre-ops and radiology consults and scheduling problems and this that and the other thing.
I had a panic attack yesterday, a real one, full blown gasping for air in my car during my lunch break, and this is even before I learned the EMTs had rescued my mother from a bad fall. I'd told her earlier that day that I wasn't up for her to stop by my house after her appointment in Boston. So she hadn't come, went home with my aunt, and fell hard in her driveway.
Zak is at the hospital with her now. She's in bed on her Kindle. More tests and scans. Will update more later.
Life, dude...it can be beautiful, and it can also be bat shit crazy.
MRI results are in. The dastardly spot - the one I wanted them to see - is gone. Poof. Disappeared. Explained in my past post this wasn't the most ideal scenario. But I'm glad they said lumpectomy is still an option...we just have to clear it with the radiologist and make sure they think beaming it to high hell with radiation will do the trick with just as must efficacy as if I did a mastectomy.
I think one of the most frustrating parts of this whole ordeal is the assumption (and I'd be the same way, if it weren't me) that after [insert terrible body altering substance or procedure] - that I'm done. Through. Finito.
"Oh, so after this you're done, right?" Someone will say, their face all hopeful, their eyes wide. And I don't know who has it worse, me [who is so not done], or this person, who is only hoping with their heart of hearts that I am.
Good news is yes, I'm done with pseudo phase 1 (pseudo, because fertility treatment was a creepy little interloper and maybe that was really phase I?). Chemo treatments, round one, are done. On to surgery. Then maybe more chemo. Then maybe radiation. Then continue Herceptin (treatment via IV). Then pills for 5-10 years.
Yeah, it's exhausting. If there's anything to takeaway - I'll try to save my boob. There's hope for that little fella (or gal).
One bright spot? Got a new wig piece today! I like calling it a "wig piece" for some reason. Wig sounds like pig. Gross.
See Instagram or, see right here! I may get this same wig in like 8 colors (for anyone interested, it's Jon Renau Kristen).
The last couple weeks have wrought the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. My lady Pam has an earful coming her way this Thursday when I sit down on her lumpy futon and purge.
In the course of one week:
First, we officially own a home! We move this Saturday, after my last treatment of Taxol. I'll have a month break from treatment until surgery.