My Name is Not Cancer Girl

My name is NOT Cancer Girl.  Nor is it Poor Thing.  It isn’t even I’m So Sorry.  It is Eileen.  Please remember that.  Eileen.  And there are many things about me which are not, and never will be, compromised by my breast cancer.  For one, there are my three boys and my husband.  My love for them is eternal and no amount of chemotherapy, radiation or surgery will ever change that.

Let me get you up to speed.  In December 2007, I was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ (dcis as it’s known in the breast cancer circles).  It was fairly rampant throughout my right breast and I needed a mastectomy.  I decided that I wasn’t going to have to do the cancer-thing again and I opted to do a bilateral mastectomy.  We took a few lymph nodes to check for evidence that the disease had spread…it hadn’t.  YAY!  No chemo, no radiation, no more cancer.

I also did my reconstruction at the same time using the TRAM procedure.  That’s where my expert plastic surgeon took my belly fat and made me a pair of awesome, perky new tits.  So, I walked out of surgery with 2 new boobs, a tummy tuck and confidence that I was cured.

Life happened, and I forgot about my surgery.  I was the same me, but I could go braless.  Granted, I had no sensation in my boobs, but really, after nursing 3 kids for a total of 40 months, I didn’t have much anyway.  I finished up getting my tattoos (it’s the final part of the reconstruction where they make the nipple a pretty pink again) on August 10, 2009.  I was DONE!!!!  Happy day!

Yeah, until about 3 weeks ago, somewhere around September 17th.   I felt a lump in my right armpit.  I double checked my left armpit, there wasn’t a matching bump.  I made my husband feel it.  It was there and I couldn’t ignore it.  I called my surgeon’s office, and after leaving a message for a return call, this is our conversation:

“Hi, this is N from Dr. S’s office.  You called about a lump.“

“Yes.  I’d like to come in and have Dr. S check it out.”

“Is it painful, red or are you having any oozing?“

“No.”

“We can get you in with a PA on October 8th.“

“Are you kidding me?  There’s nothing sooner?”

“Nope.  You said that the lump isn’t painful, red or oozing.  That’s what I’ve got available.“

“I have no nipples any more.  Where would you like it to ooze from?”

*chirp*

“One moment please.“

*10 minutes later*

“Dr. S will see you on September 24 at 2:45.“

“Great.  See you then.”

Really, my entire breast health history is there and they didn’t even check it.   Who are these people and shouldn’t they listen to the full message I left where I said, “I am a BILATERAL MASTECTOMY patient of Dr. S’”  Healthcare in America needs an enema.

So, I go in.  I know it’s not good.  They do an ultrasound and the tech says, “Dr. S will need to talk to you about this.”  Dr. S comes in and says, “We’re going to do a biopsy today.  I never do same-day biopsies, but we need to.”  So far, this hasn’t been one of my better Thursdays.

Monday, September 28th and it’s my husband’s 45th birthday.  I love my husband, I’m cooking and we were having a house full for dinner that night.  The call comes in at 3:03 (somethings you just remember).

“Hi Eileen, it’s Dr. S“

That’s never good news.  When the doctor calls, it’s always bad, shitty, awful news.  They leave their nurses to make the happy calls.

“It’s back and it’s invasive ductal carcinoma. I took the liberty of calling Dr. A and setting up an appointment for you tomorrow….“

There’s a whole bunch more that got us to where I’m sitting today.  I had all the required and ancillary tests.  I cried about how this shouldn’t have happened (Dr. S said it happens in less than 1% of cases).  I sobbed about how I wouldn’t see my children grow up, and that my 5 year old wouldn’t remember me. I made people make promises that I didn’t care how they kept.  I had people praying to Hashem, Jesus and Allah, sending positive energy, lighting candles and visualizing white light for me across the globe.

And the bottom line is that I have the best possible bad news.  Somehow, we caught it early.  My PET scan shows only the one point of disease.  It could have been so much worse.  There could have been metastases in many places.  But, I am one of the lucky ones, my prognosis is excellent.

So, please, when my soon-to-be bald head walks up and smiles at you, please don’t say “I’m sorry”  or think of me as that poor Cancer Girl.  I will kick cancer’s ass.