Sit, Allison, Sit. Good Girl. NOOOOOO...Sit!

Why can’t I sit still? Why can’t I turn my brain off? Why do I get uncontrollable urges to rake the yard, do laundry, jump up and down, scrub floors, clean out closets and sometimes watch fainting goat videos on YouTube? Well folks, that’s called adult ADHD. It’s a total strength because I get shit done. A lot of it. The downside is, I truly can’t sit still and relax for long, which is why I watch short TV episodes and not movies. I have been known on occasion to pick up someone else’s house (I know, the nerve!) reorganize their things and sometimes do all their dishes (I’m sorry Lindsey). I can swear to you that I can’t help it. If I don’t move my body I will start talking really fast because the energy has to come out somehow. I can remember playing a geography game in 5^th grade and we had to sit in our desks. I knew a lot of answers because Geography was my favorite and reading the text book was a major past time for me. I was getting so excited (as in, jumping out of my desk, shouting and probably spitting everywhere) during this game that I was asked to go sit in the hallway, which secretly I was thankful for because my mental needed a serious time out. 15 years later in grad school I was sitting around at game night and was screaming all the answers repeating 5^th grade all over again and because I was drinking, I bet I was really spitting all over the place. Me on drugs is not pretty, I choose to “Get High on Life,” which oddly enough was the poster that I made that won the annual Northside Elementary poster contest. Full circle people, keep up. Mariluz describes my personality as a lab puppy and in many ways that’s true, except that I am potty trained the majority of the time. At the end of the day, the common denominator for disaster here for me is having to “sit” or “lay down.” If you ask me to sit for too long I will start picking at things, shaking my leg and shouting out the capitols of South American countries. Please don’t ask me to sit…or lay down for that matter.

I was told that my arm movement would be restricted because of my mastectomy and that I needed to lay down and recover I had a panic attack because all of the sudden I really, really, really, really wanted to rearrange my kitchen cupboards. Like in that exact moment. The mere thought of me not being able to move plates, toasters, panini makers and spices around was equivalent to ripping out a piece of my soul. To all my psychologist, counselor and LCSW peeps, I know you are picking up a pattern here in my behavior and my reactions to things, and to answer your question…yes I am aware of it. Moving is therapeutic for me, so just let me move about the cabin dammit! Even if I am missing a body part. By the way, all of my complaints about Marco’s superhero level energy and how he can stay awake for 5 days straight is all my fault. Well, it’s a little of the apple juice’s fault too. I refuse to take 100% responsibility, as I should, I’m an American. Anyhow, let’s go back and review really quickly: I have breast cancer, am pregnant, just had a mastectomy and now I can’t rearrange my kitchen cabinets. What the hell?! It’s obvious I did a piss poor job putting the kitchen together three years ago and now it needs to be fixed, immediately, and no mastectomy is going to stand in my way! Plus, shouldn’t losing a boob make it easier and faster to do things now? Am I a secret genius and just increased my efficiency to complete tasks? Plus, there is a major piece missing to the puzzle that I forgot to add. The day I came home from the hospital, my little blessing of a neighbor, Mikey, made and installed a walnut bar top for my counters. It was supposed to be the first thing I saw when I walked into the kitchen, but it was the second thing I saw because the first was my dirty kitchen floor. I know, I’m an asshole. When I saw the bar top so beautifully installed with beautiful flowers on it I wanted to cry and pick Mikey up and spin him around, then get started on rearranging my kitchen. I got irritated that I couldn’t pick him up and spin him around even if I wanted to because of my surgery, so I just kept saying, “thank you.” The feeling of being overwhelmed and grateful for such a wonderful gift left me with a response that wasn’t aligned with how I was really feeling. I still have a little guilt over that moment. What I really should have said was, “I can’t believe that you did this for me. You gave up a lot of your time and energy into fixing up the room I love most and I am so grateful and appreciative to have such wonderful neighbors and friends like you guys.” For some reason I just couldn’t say it…

My whole life I have gotten joy out of doing things for others and helping them along their way. I can do it so effortlessly that I lose my own self in the mix. When I got sick people were lining up around the block to help us out. Being on the receiving end was extremely hard for me to show just how appreciative I was. It’s a humbling experience when you let someone else pay you back, so to speak, or effortlessly help in a situation when you need it the most. The help starting pouring in immediately and of course I over analyzed everything down to the most magnified detail because I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Friends and family would yell at me, “Just let us help you!” And that my friend, is much, MUCH easier said than done. In fact the most humbling of all my experiences, the one that made me throw in the towel, was when I realized that immediately after surgery I could no longer use the bathroom on my own. Relieving myself was no problem, but someone had to walk with me, then unroll toilet paper for me and alas, wipe me up. Using the bathroom and taking care of yourself in that way, is for most of us an independent activity. Think about it the next time you use the bathroom and I promise you, you will walk out appreciating your health. I remember Darin giving me a lecture in the hospital in front of the nurse saying that I’m stubborn and he knew I wouldn’t call and ask for help to use the bathroom, so the nurse needed to make sure she came in and checked with me frequently. I kept thinking, “no one in their right mind (and I emphasize “right mind” because this sentence can go in at least 7 different directions) is going to joyfully and obediently ring the assistance bell and request to have their ass wiped (after operating on my own since 1984) by someone they’ve never met, or know very intimately for that matter!”  Excuse me for not jumping at that exciting opportunity each time nature called. So, that’s where my first real humble pie was served and those bites, although coming in changing forms with each stage of this process, are still hard to swallow.

 I never knew or could understand what the cancer process was like for another person or for a family. We hear the word, “Cancer” and immediately think the worst. Then you hear the words “In Remission” and immediately think the best, but what you don’t think about are so many other words, emotions, memories, lost independence, gained confidence and experiences left to process once the trauma soaks in. Because that’s what it is, a trauma, and anyone who thinks this process is not, I invite you to sit and speak to someone who has or had cancer. But, as my children’s pediatrician has said, “There is light and joy that come from trauma,” and she is correct because I know it, I’ve lived it, I’m crying looking at her right now. Her name is Simona Ilci List Arigoni.

Coming up next: The Day We Met Simona. 

When times get tough, take your mom to the adult store.

One week post mastectomy

Another recent lesson I’ve learned, well not really a lesson I guess, but something that I have been reminded of is that the world will continue to turn and life will continue to throw things at you even when you're down. I know this sounds silly, but after this whole thing happened this summer I sort of thought that maybe I had met my quota of bad luck incidences. I could list every single weird thing that has happened to me and I can guarantee you would think I was lying. I had convinced myself that Breast Cancer gave me a pass for the remainder of my life and that things would be smooth sailing from here on out, in fact, I really believed that I would wake up one day with a package from Oprah on my doorstep of an address of a beach house she had purchased for my family. Yes, I realize I have quite the imagination, but a girl has to believe in something. Shortly after I was starting to recover, my ultrasounds were showing that our sweet baby was not growing at the rate she needed to be. I was put on a modified bed rest (which is like a death sentence for me) and had two non-stress tests per week to monitor her. Shortly after that, one non stress test indicated that our baby had not made any movement in 45 minutes. As the Dr. was writing my orders to check in at the hospital I became very quiet and was worried. He grabbed my hand and asked me if I was ok. I could feel the tears of frustration and fear building up and with a dead pan stare I looked right at him and said, “No.” My Dr. responds with, “Well I think you look really pretty today.” I thank him because I actually took a shower that day and wore lip gloss. So Darin, Marco, my sister and I spent part of Marco’s birthday in the hospital getting checked out. Everything turned out fine. My mom guilt set in that his birthday was ruined so when I asked him what his favorite part of his birthday was, he responded with, “Going to the hospital!” Another reminder to “let it go”. From that point forward I was put on strict bed rest and given an induction date of October 23^rd. Things weren’t working out the way I had hoped this pregnancy, and I was trying to stay positive and grateful for what I did have, but I still didn’t have my damn beach house and now I was worried the baby was in danger. My mastectomy and possible spread of other cancer didn’t matter to me anymore because I needed her to be ok. As much as I try to be a strong, positive guiding light for others around me I could feel my patience was starting to get tested and I was going to crack soon. How much more can a person take? Don’t ever ask yourself that question because life will up the ante and in my case that certainly happened. There is never a quota we are assigned of shitty experiences and that cliché of “things could always be worse” is actually true. When things get tough, it’s best to laugh.

When I first took my bandage off I either almost passed out or passed out a little. I remember opening my eyes and my mom was just staring at me. Oh my god! My boob was missing?! Is that what they meant by mastectomy? No wonder people in the hospital kept asking me if I was aware of what my procedure was! Just kidding. I don’t know why I passed out, but I did. Maybe it was because my boob was gone, maybe it was because I had a bloody drain hanging off of me, maybe it was because of my huge scar across my chest, or maybe because that was the welcoming into my new normal. Either way, I quickly reminded myself that it is what it is and I started the process of getting to know my new chest. Which, by the way, my scar is pretty bad ass. There are times I have considered not getting a reconstruction because man, that thing is a definite statement that has been earned. At first, it did look strange, having a size D boob on one side and a size 4^th grade on the other. It was obvious there was something odd going on under my shirt so I decided that I would try to find something to slightly even it out. How am I going to grocery shop with this problem? I can’t schedule my prosthetic appointment until 6 weeks post surgery. I mean, I could care less truly what other people think of me but I look like I just stumbled out of a circus. I rack my brain on how to fix the situation and because I am extremely logical, the answer is crystal clear. My mom and I head off to the adult store, Suzy’s, to check out some sort of inflatable boob toy that I could put in my bra. I remember thinking, there has to be some sort of blow up boobs in a place like that and I just need one to stick in my bra. Needless to say, my mom and I looked like a couple of complete fucking weirdos walking into this place. First off, all these dudes are sitting in their car in the parking lot. Gross. Why? I know why. Word to the wise, don’t make eye contact with these guys or you will become the main focus of what they are doing in their car. I waddle out of my mom’s car, largely pregnant and catch a glimpse of my mom and I in a window and start laughing. We look like wholesome church going folk who are looking to bless all those pornographic loving individuals inside. Really, I’m a pregnant one boobed Breast Cancer survivor who needs her mom to drive her everywhere, especially to the adult store to get a blow up boob. No biggie.

There are two people’s laugh in the world that will send me into hysterics when I hear it. My mom is one and Sarah Goicoechea is the other. It doesn’t matter what Sarah says, if she is laughing while she says it, I will go into a laughing fit and can’t stop. For example, she could say, “ Darin slept with another woman, got her pregnant and now they are taking both your kids and all your Frye boots to their beach house that Oprah just gifted them” and as long as she was laughing while saying it I would be rolling on the ground peeing myself. But, for real, if she wasn’t laughing I would be going straight to prison for the damage I would cause. No one takes my Frye boots. No one. So, we walk in and there are a few guys checking out stuff and right there in front of our faces is the Dildo section. I capitalize the “D” because this section should be its own country. I hear my mom say, “Oh my god, that’s just right in your face” in that laugh that she has and I instantly start giggling and because I’m largely pregnant I pee myself a little bit. She keeps saying that sentence because it’s all her brain will allow her to do and I am having a complete laughing fit I cannot stop. The customers become uncomfortable and slowly trickle out walking like Charlie Brown, you know the kind, slowing kicking the ground with their head down, because clearly, we are distracting them from their good time. Before I know it, my mom is talking to the cute girl behind the register and I’m trying to convince myself that I can use a porn star boob as an insert.  You can’t make this stuff up. The visit was a bust for me, and for every guy there and in the parking log (literally).  We head off to Macy’s and I find these water inserts that at least mellow out the situation a little. I hardly end up wearing them because I quickly grew into not giving a damn about my new normal. But, for those of you looking for a little “boost” I highly recommend these inserts, plus if you ever catch yourself in the middle of a water balloon fight, you are already wearing your artillery. 

Katie the Great and July 20th

I have to hand it to my sister. I haven’t mentioned her a lot in this blog, but she was with me through most of this ordeal. She gets a gold star. For real. She’s not the most touchy feely, “let’s talk about our emotions” kind of a gal. I give her warning that I am going to engage in human contact with her before I hug her, you know, just so she can mentally prepare herself.  She is small and petite but is scary as shit. I’m pretty sure she ruled a country in a past life. The best thing about Katie is she has the power to verbally mutilate anyone, yet she’d pass out if she saw them bleeding from a paper cut. In fact, for Christmas she received a pocket knife when we were little. I remember her opening it and going to the bathroom with it. A few seconds later I heard a loud “thunk”. She had cut her finger and passed out on the floor when she saw the blood. I would like to dedicate this post to her because she had to truly operate outside of her comfort zone during this whole ordeal. She was a huge support for me and had a very logical and easy approach with everything. She was here to go to appointments when I needed her, here to watch Marco when I needed and served as the largest piece of Kleenex for me a few hours after my surgery. I even made her hold my mastectomy drain full of blood just to f*@$ with her. I need an element of fun in everything I do because I get bored. So, Katie, if you are reading this, I love you and appreciate you being there more than you’ll ever know. I’m sorry I got snot all over your cute outfit you wore to the hospital on surgery day.

I’m seven days past my mastectomy and feeling good. We got the news yesterday from my surgeon that as of this moment I am cancer free! Thank goodness I opted for the mastectomy because two additional tumors were found underneath the cancer on the outside. I ended up with two different types of breast cancer. Every time I think about that, I just sit feeling stunned. Had I opted for a lumpectomy, those tumors would’ve turned invasive and I could have been a goner. When we received the good news from my surgeon we all hooped and hollered in the office giving each other (Dr. included) high-fives like we just won a game of beer pong where the winning prize is life, instead of a really bad hangover and weird viral infections from a dirty ping pong ball. I felt such a sense of relief but am well aware that I wasn’t fully showing it because I don’t feel like I can completely relax yet. I honestly feel like I am going to have a huge meltdown in the future where everything comes spilling out or wonder if I am going to have some form of PTSD because this was a trauma in a way.

The night before my surgery, I was worried how Darin, my mom and my sister were going to do in the waiting room. I had the easy part of getting knocked out, they on the other hand, were going to have to sit and wait and wait and wait. I decided to write each one of them a card in the hopes to reassure them during my surgery and to reinforce to them how much they each mean to me. I write the cards, then write a special note for Marco to have in his lunch because he will go to preschool to keep things as normal as possible for him. I covered all my bases except for someone very special. My poor infected boob that I’ve been tight with for 34 years. I take my shirt off, say a few words in the mirror and snap a photo, just for memories sake. However, I couldn’t quite stop there because the natural instinct when one has a photo of a body part on one’s phone is not to keep it private but is to share it, obviously. I find my select chosen trusted compadres, create a group text and attach the photo with the caption, “Adios, Motherfucker.” Yes, my mother was included on that text.

In the morning, I wake up at 4:00AM and get ready to head to the hospital. I feel calm and ready, almost like I am getting ready for a battle. When we arrive at the hospital Darin and I go back to the prep station and I get changed and meet with a group of nurses. My surgeon pops in and we laugh and joke a little bit. The breast cancer nurse navigators come by and want to make sure that I am sound in my decision and that I have been given all my options. I sure as hell hope I feel sound in my decision, I am under an hour away from having a body part removed, sort of important to feel confident with that decision! I remember laughing when she was asking me questions and to be honest, I probably came off as a little bit of an asshole. If any nurse navigator reads this blog, please know my intention was not to make any of you feel bad. I guess I assumed that by the time I would be hooked up to my IV with my big beautiful purple hospital gown and super comfy tread lined socks that I would’ve considered all my options. My vitals are taken and my blood pressure shows that I’m “cool as a cucumber”. Darin says, “holy shit, you weren’t kidding, you are calm.” I smile, because…duh. Two separate nurses come in to review my file and both confirm with me my procedure and I get that look everyone gives me when they realize that I was diagnosed while pregnant. I never get comfortable with it, but I can’t let it sway me because I am in “go-time” mode. I am wheeled back to the operating room and can hear Of Monsters and Men playing on my surgeon’s iPod. Way to start the party! I start talking about Marco and then, lights out.

I wake up feeling great, except the pain is pretty high. I immediately ask how the baby did and was told her heartbeat was perfect and that she was very strong like her mom. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes because I was more worried about her, than myself. I am then wheeled upstairs to Labor and Delivery (just in case). Everyone on the L&D floor, went above and beyond for me. The nurses were very concerned and asked a lot of questions. I could see the genuine concern on their face and that was very touching. The nurse supervisor came in and started asking me what happened. As I began to review the timeline and everything that happened, I could feel the anxiety kick in. My throat tightened up, I began sweating and I could tell that a very large let down was starting to happen. I held it together while I spoke to the nurse, but the second she walked out the door the tears came flooding down my face uncontrollably and for one of the first times that I can remember my sister was standing right next to me and hugged me. She’s always been there, but this time she was “there,” fully present and ready to process emotions. I balled. You know that type of cry that comes from deep down in your stomach? The type where you can’t distinguish between hysterical laughter or crying? That’s what happened. In fact, we both cried. I had held so much in and only would let down little bits at a time, but this time a drugged up cry came spilling out of me and I was absolutely exhausted when I was done. I’m not sure how long that lasted for, but I was so proud of my sister. She let her guard down and was there for me without question when I needed her the most.  

Coming up next…the mastectomy after party!