Missing Socks and Breast Cancer. Who Really Has The Answers?

Where in the hell do all the socks go once I put them in the washing machine? I just bought Marco ten pairs of socks, so TWENTY socks total. I put twenty in the washing machine and when I sat down to fold socks there were seventeen. Is the sock fairy flying in at night and stealing stinky, sweaty socks for her collection? Did I drink too much last night and hallucinated that I saw twenty socks or maybe thought a good solution to doing laundry for the fifty seventh time today was to throw random socks in the trash? If I did do that, why didn’t I throw matching pairs away? Well, because I drank too much, which makes sense. But then why aren’t the socks in the trash the next day? This quite possibly could be the most complex word problem known to man. So complex that the answer can only be solved by government officials in the Whitehouse that have special clearance. That would be my one question if I ever met a presidential candidate. “What do you plan on doing with all those socks your hoarding at the Whitehouse?” They would look at me with a blank stare and call for backup but we’d have a silent understanding that I knew what was really going on.

 It’s one of those frustrating things in life in which I will never find the answer. Which is exactly how I feel about never getting justification or answers as to how I got Breast Cancer in the first place. Around 246,000 women who will be diagnosed with Breast Cancer in our country this year. There aren’t any statistics available for how many of those cases will be Paget’s Disease, but what is available is Paget’s makes up for less than 5% of the yearly Breast Cancer cases. In my search for justification as to the “why” of my whole situation I followed the recommendation of my surgeon to undergo Genetic Testing.

About a month before I delivered Simona, I started the Genetic Testing and Counseling portion of my journey to see if I could get some answers as to why this all happened, to find my missing sock, so to speak. I have one paternal aunt who had breast cancer and that’s it. I am very active and healthy. I am young. Why in the hell did this happen? I opted for a blood panel that tests for 17 different gene mutations, including the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes. 56-87% of Breast Cancers come from the BRCA gene mutation. So, my chances were good that my cancer was genetic. Before having my blood drawn I met with a genetic counselor and provided her with all of my family history, thanks to my mom. We discussed the different ways cancer develops: genetic mutation, lifestyle choices and environmental factors. The session was extremely interesting but there is so much information it’s hard to take it all in. I highly recommend that if you or someone else you know is going to start this process that you work in pairs and bring a notebook to take notes and reiterate to each other what each of you heard, so that you know you completely understand what is happening. That’s comprehension for dummies and it works fantastic for me. It was important for me to follow through with testing because the results were going to give me my timeline for not only my next mastectomy but further testing that would need to be done for my mother, sister and my children. If I tested positive, my oncologist, surgeon and I decided my other breast was to be removed as soon after delivery as possible. Positive test results also mean that each first degree relative has a 50% chance of also carrying the mutation. 50%! When I heard the percentage I began to think about my mom, my sister, my niece, my nephew, my son, my future daughter. Remember when I said cancer impacts an entire family? This is another piece of that, we’re not just talking about emotional aftershock, this could now impact their health. On one side of the coin, I was thankful we detected it in me, so now my family could make informed decisions for their health. But on the other side I couldn’t help but feel sick to my stomach, because this all seemed like an awful story that just didn’t seem quite real, one that you’d read in a novel and recommend to your friends but with the disclaimer that it was a heartbreaking read.

If I tested negative for the BRCA gene it would give me more time to breastfeed (which is a whole separate blog post…feeding with one boob, fun!) and my mammogram could come months later instead of weeks. As I had mentioned before, being diagnosed while pregnant, left a lot unsaid because further testing was restricted. But now the Genetic Testing could give me an idea of where to go next and how soon. Four weeks pass and I am called to come in and review my results. As I am sitting with the genetic counselor I start sweating (I know, big surprise) because I have no idea what the results will be. I just want to enjoy the rest of my pregnancy and have a healthy baby girl that is not going to have a predisposition that leads to chairs like this,  offices like this, with counselors like this and reviewing results such as these. I love my team of dr.’s and specialists, but truly, the less we see of each other, the better. I keep telling myself, that the results will give me some sort of answer, help my family make decisons and help me put this situation to bed. As the counselor begins to review my results with me I feel an overwhelming sense of joy because I tested negative for the BRCA1 and 2 gene, as well as negative for the 15 genetic mutations they screened for. That’s the exact result I wanted but yet I felt unrest. My mind starts running and I can’t help but wonder, what in the hell happened? My cancer is classified as caused by, ”environmental” factors. I start to obsess over when the exact tipping point happened. Which birth control pill once I swallowed it caused the cell mutation? What car was I behind and where was my exact location when I inhaled that exhaust that caused it? What deodorant, what lotion, what chemical on my food, WHAT THE HELL WAS IT? I don’t remember a single word that my counselor tells me after that because I get lost in my own train of thought and I am by myself. I do remember snapping out of it and saying something along these lines, “So my cancer was caused by something we don’t know what and we don’t know when. It was not related to my son’s breastfeeding or either of my pregnancies? It had nothing to do with my age, my race, my health status, my family history or my genes. I had two types of cancer which could be related (very likely)…or not? What you are telling me is that I’ll never know the answer.” My counselor was so patient throughout my questions because I think she could see that I was discovering that I was never going to know the answer to my nightmare. She looked at me with pouted lips and an empathetic face scrunch and said, “That is correct.”

Then, BAM, it hit me. All the times that I have worked with families, staff and students who have gone through a trauma; the Sparks Middle School shooting, strings of student suicides, deaths of staff members, deaths of students, displaced victims from Hurricane Katrina, the list can go on and on, I could relate to their pain on some small scale, but really what it boiled down to is I didn’t understand what a trauma causes personally, that I had zero clue the psychological toll trauma can cause. Sure, I’ve seen things I wish I hadn’t and probably have some sort of second hand shock from my work as a counselor but I finally understood that trauma forces our brains to justify the situation so it can process and heal, we have a need to grasp the “why”.  But unfortunately a lot of times there is no answer. I am NEVER going to know why. Can you imagine what that’s like? When I look in the mirror and see the 5 inch scar across my chest, I am never going to know the answer. When I put my bra on and my prosthetic falls out with a big thud on the floor, I will never have an answer. When I get my blood drawn and I have to direct the Phlebotomist to use my left side and they ask why, I have no answer. When Marco asks me where my boob went, when I get my blood pressure taken, when I put on a bathing suit, etc. I am never in my lifetime ever going to know the answer to what caused my cancer or where the hell the socks are going. Sometimes when I write these entries I feel guilty because I survived. I feel guilty because there are so many people that have had, are currently having and will have a far worse experience. But then I remember that I’m lucky enough to live to tell the tale, the way I want to tell it and connect those in the community and beyond with the impact cancer has on individuals and families and marriages, good lord the marriages-they take a beating.

Even though I will never have the answers I have had an enormous amount of support to help counteract the not knowing. To the readers, I have no clue how many I have now, but I have had to date 9,729 page views. That is incredible. This whole blog started out as a little paper notebook journal that Mariluz basically bullied me to start writing in. It turned into a therapeutic means when I felt like I was going to lose my shit. It gave me escape from my life for thirty minutes so I could process my day. It progressed to a blog to help me continue to cope with my situation and to help others as well who were going through something similar. Please know that I read your comments. Please know that I appreciate your “likes” and your time. Please know that even though I don’t respond often to your comments, it means something very special to me, I look forward to reading them. Please know that I am aware of the typos and grammatical errors and I am working on not giving a shit because it’s not meant to be perfect, but if you want to find me a ghost writer I’ll gladly accept. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading.

Muh, muh, muh, muh, my Simona!

Our children change our lives. We have good days and bad days with them, in fact sometimes, and maybe even often, we rotate the good and bad with each passing minute. One minute Marco will be hugging me saying, “I wuv you mom” and the next he’ll close fist punch me in the face because he can’t have a seventh package of fruit snacks. A few months into my second pregnancy, after one particular instance where Marco had won rounds 1,2,3 and 4 of a boxing match with my face I laid on the kitchen floor and cried because I couldn’t believe that I actually thought having another one of these things was a good idea. I remember Marco rode into the kitchen on his bike and ran over my hand, winning round 5, and I cried harder in sheer disappointment with my choices. I’m sorry but I do not believe anyone that says parenting has been easy for them. Those that claim this notion are either on psychotropic medication, have a full time nanny, start drinking at 7AM or have a really bad habit with lying. And then there are those moments that are so endearing and wonderful that it cancels out the pain from the last blow to the shin, face or private part. Those are the moments when you say to yourself, “I want another baby.” Marco had one of those endearing moments once, which is why I got pregnant for the second and last time.

As weird as it sounds I have actually enjoyed the deliveries of each of my children, thanks to epidurals, which are way better than any Wednesday-Saturday night I had in college. However the side effects of their deliveries were way worse and I don’t want to discuss any of that. The anticipation of meeting each little baby has been so exciting and I can remember vividly both moments when each of my children were handed to me. Obviously Simona’s delivery was different than Marco’s and it was just as emotional but in a different way. I have looked at my Adventure through Cancerland as a ruler. All along my “ruler” each inch was a different step to completing the process and delivering Simona was a significant step towards progression. I was induced at 5 AM, binge watched Season 1 of Jane the Virgin and by 1:10AM our sweet little baby was born. In between those times I learned the secret code that the Labor and Delivery nurses use for when an ugly baby is born (“ She looks just like you, mom.” Think back to if you have ever heard that…), answered a lot of questions about my cancer by every single person that came into our room, watched Darin take a nap, rooted for Jane to ditch Michael and marry Rafael, gave recaps of each episode to each nurse that came in so they could binge watch a telenovela vicariously through me and deliver babies at the same time, watched Darin take another nap and plotted how I could hurt him, paranoia that my milk ducts weren’t removed from my right breast set in around 10 AM and I started to panic that my missing breast would magically fill with breast milk and I would explode because there would be no way to get it out, sat with said paranoia for numerous hours and wouldn’t share the information with anyone because I knew this is what we called an “irrational fear” in grad school, listened to Darin complain that the hospital couch was uncomfortable and upped my plot to hurt him, talked to my OB about breaking my water, paranoia sets in that my OB was going to wear a pirate hook to break my water, shared said paranoia and got made fun of (thanks Dr. T!) because apparently that was a confirmed irrational fear, attempted to have water broken and almost climbed up the wall in pain, epidural started, paranoia sets in that I will be the .000001% of the population that has a horrible side effect-specifically a spinal injury that leads to a brain disorder, I do not share that information, facetime my sister but for some reason I end up facetiming my brother in law’s father-so I explain to him how my labor is going, water breaks while bouncing on a yoga ball-ewww, long period of time where nothing happens, more boredom, no progress, turn up Pitocin, no progress, crank up Pitocin, shift change of nurses, answer more cancer questions, exhaust Season 1 of Jane the Virgin, more waiting, more Pitocin, night time sets in, paranoia sets in that then it suddenly hits me! No, not the labor pains, something worse, way worse. I blurted out to Darin, “Oh my God, what are we going to do if Marco is the good one?” You see I had never considered this option over the past 36 weeks. Never once. But, in those last few hours it dawned on me that we had a 50/50 chance of Marco being dethroned and the odds are always against me. I sat in a daze for awhile picturing what my life was going to be like, then 10 PM rolled around and…it’s go time aaaannnnddd the epidural wears off! Darin’s face starts to resemble the color of silly putty and he says he needs to use the bathroom. The nurse calls the front desk to say there may be a “dad down” in the hallway. I’m holding my own leg, the baby is coming and Darin takes a break to pee. 1:10AM a beautiful, healthy baby girl is brought into the world and lays right on my chest and holds my finger. I remember thinking how strong she seemed. The nurse smiles at me and says…, “She looks just like you, mom.” That’s right, she said it. I WAS JUST TOLD IN SECRET NURSE CODE THAT MY BABY WAS UGLY. God dammit. I started laughing because that was my second fear. Parents, don’t try to tell me that never crossed your mind when your baby was in utero, you thought about it, you know you did! My first fear was that I wasn’t going to have a healthy baby. Thank goodness she was healthy, but great, now she’s ugly. To be honest, she looked just like a baby turtle, so I couldn’t really be mad at Nurse Secret Hurtful Remarks. But that secret code also insults the mother’s looks. My OB asks we want to take our first family picture and at the same time I say, “Sure!” and Darin says, “That’s okay.” To recap, I’m down to one boob, stretch marks everywhere, a large varicose vein and now I have an ugly baby that looks just like me, which must be true because Darin is refusing to take a photo with us. This is the opposite of winning, people.

In all seriousness, that stuff didn’t matter. That sweet baby looked right into my eyes the second I held her and she just stared at me. She still does in the same content way she did the first few minutes of her life. It was like she came out knowing that she was not only a miracle but my guardian angel who truly saved my life. You see, had the cancer been found any sooner aborting her would have been among the list of options presented by my medical team. Had the cancer been found any later, the possibility of the cancer spreading to my lymph nodes would have been much higher. None of those options are ones that I like to think about, but they must be discussed in order to put this situation into the correct context. We visit yet again, how cancer impacts and clogs up all the aspects of our daily lives like a tree root does with pipes. Cancer doesn’t just happen and go away, the impact lingers, it forces conversations to be had that are ugly, it puts thoughts in our minds that are normally too painful to think about or locked so far away that we forget they were ever there in the first place. All of those moments that I hid somewhere to bawl my eyes out, the seconds that would tick by in the dead of night as I lay thinking of gut wrenching scenarios, the awful ethical dilemmas that we faced with each decision, the fights that Darin and I would have that stemmed from fear and desperation, the loneliness and isolation that I felt going through this even though I had the best support system anyone could ask for, I mean all of this crap, for lack of a better term, was gone instantaneously when I held this sweet baby for the first time. She calmed me completely and I promised her that I fought and sacrificed to make sure that I would get to hold her and that I would fight even harder and sacrifice even more to make sure I could watch her grow up to be the badass woman warrior she was determined to be, even if she does look just like me.

Over the next two days Darin and I knew we needed to give her a name that encompassed her badass journey. My breast surgeon recommended, “Crusher” but that didn’t sound feminine enough to me. “Crusha,” maybe, but “Crusher,” no. My surgeon also offered to bring in some fake tattoos to give her a sleeve before we left the hospital.  I wish she would have. For two days, Darin and I studied this baby’s every move to see what sort of name would come to us. It was important to incorporate both of our mother’s names, as they were and are both very strong females and of the upmost importance to us. We decided on Simona Ilci List Arigoni. “Ilci” is the combination of both of our mother’s names. Simone means “one who hears” or “bearer of the cross”, and for her, it’s perfect. To hear, does not just mean the audible. It’s to be aware, to read between the lines, to interpret. I couldn’t think of a better name for a better person, because she truly is the best person I’ve ever met.

             Look, it takes a lot of guts to post a picture of yourself after hours of pushing a baby out.

                            Please notice Darin napping. This process was really hard on him.

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!

Minefields and July 20th

I have a complicated personality sometimes. I am impulsive yet thoughtful. I am wreckless yet responsible. I face the most intense things in my life head on. I am a lot of other things, but they aren’t relevant to this post. My impulsive nature has led me to some of the best things in my life and into some of the worst messes. Regardless of the best or worst situations, I always learn a valuable life lesson and become more well-rounded and experienced. For 34 years old, I feel like I have already lived a lifetime, and in a lot of ways, that’s true. My dad has a really funny way of describing both me and my sister. He says if there was a minefield that we both had to race across we would finish at the exact same time, except my sister would take her time, calculate each move, tread carefully and have a meticulous plan to get her across unscathed. I, as he likes to point out, would run like a bat out of hell, with no plan, get blown up, keep running and come across the finish line missing limbs and body parts with smoke barreling off of me. What’s funny, is that, in a way that has been what my summer has been like, and oddly enough, I ended up across the finish line missing a body part. My decision to have a mastectomy was one that was impulsive. There is no other way to put it. That impulsive decision saved my life. When I heard the words, “I’m sorry, you have cancer” my whole outlook on my body and specifically my boobs, changed. I wanted that shit out of my body, so be it if it meant I had to remove a breast. There was little time left to question because there was about 10 days in between making the final decision and heading to surgery. I felt braver knowing the surgery was coming because I was going to kick this cancer in the ass. I started to become less sad and scared and more angry, like I was preparing for a fight. My journal entry from the evening of the 20^th was short. I was focused, prepared and my emotions were in check. There was no need for me to sit down and let it all my emotions flow out of me, because I had already done that over the past weeks. I knew what I had to do, I knew my and my unborn child’s risks and I was ready.

It’s the night before my surgery. I went to my first Reiki appointment tonight and feel great. I’m ready, clear headed and motivated to get this over with. I can’t tell if I’m extremely calm or if things haven’t truly hit me yet.

That’s all I wrote, but it’s not even close to what I remember, but it’s very telling on what my state of mind was going into surgery. I remember the smell, the temperature, how soft Kim’s hands were, even the temperature of her hands. I remember where everything was placed in her office. I remember the books on her shelves. I remember the tone of her voice, where she found “prickliness” in my right breast but great energy everywhere else. I remember the tears coming instantly when Kim said the baby’s energy was great and she was very healthy and very strong like her mom. I remember the snot running out of my nose because I was crying so hard when Kim pointed out the mist above me that represented all those who have passed that loved me and were in the room with me that moment to help me be strong. I remember the color of the sunset when I walked out of the appointment. I remember the light rain on the windshield and that I only had to use the wipers twice on the way home.

I did not have another journal entry until eight days after my surgery. Naturally, I was a little consumed. In those eight days, a lot happened. My next post will be to cover as much of those 8 days as possible from memory.

Musical Mess and July 19th

I have been sensitive to music for as long as I can remember. There are so many songs that will flood me with all sorts of emotions. My parents always listened to music when I was little and we would gather around the TV and watch Austin City Limits on Saturday nights. Other weekends they would play George Strait and dance in our living room. Then there were the times that my mom would put on Yanni (when she was cleaning, because that’s exactly what you need when you’re Pledging the coffee table.) The second I would hear that familiar “Signature Yanni” sound come out of their tweed orange and yellow weaved Bose speakers I would start to bawl. All of the sudden in my mind, my dog died, Nickelodeon was cancelled, my best friend lost her BFF half heart necklace, my parents told me we were moving and to really drive the knife in farther, I cut my bangs too short. THE HUMANITY! You are now getting a glimpse into my musical upbringing, so you can now imagine how confused my parents were when this scrawny awkward looking middle school white girl developed a love affair with gangsta rap. It was so relatable to me, you know, especially growing up in a rural town in Eastern Nevada. I look at is as, I am very musically well rounded. I am sure you are starting to find through reading this blog that I am a total weirdo. I don’t expect you to relate to me with the breast cancer piece, but it would be comforting to know that someone else has bawled their eyes out to Yanni, oh yeah, and maybe a little Foreigner, and maybe a little Bonnie Rait. POINT BEING, I am sensitive to music.

Knowing my music sensitivity, I listened to absolutely nothing after I had my melt down in the car listening to City High (Thanks Katie Louk for identifying the song first in my trivia portion back at the beginning of this blog, I still haven’t sent your $5.00 yet). I mean if a dorky song by City High was going to cause a full on anxiety attack there is no way I could take a chance and hear Yanni on accident. I could not be trusted with acoustic or steel guitar noise, violins, accordions, flutes, explicit lyrics…actually any musical noise was a “no-no” because the silence was hard enough.

July 19^th

I went to Target this morning to get our nieces and nephews’ birthday presents because July and September are birthday hell months. I thought the distraction would be good for me to do something fun and to be honest, we all know Darin isn’t going to give very fun gifts to his nieces and nephews. He would be happy tying some sticks together with twine and calling it an “Earth Frisbee” to give as a gift. Then he would be surprised and bitter when his gift wasn’t welcomed with open arms. So I headed off to Target to start damage control, plus I woke up sad and wanted to go be alone somewhere and cry. I turned on some music and cried the whole way to Target. At one point I realized that I was listening to Bruno Mars’ “Don’t Believe Me Just Watch,” while crying. This is a total oxymoron. This is a song you get drunk at a wedding and booty shake to, NOT CRY. But, that was my mental state. The drive to target was a fog, I bought gifts cards, got back in the car and started crying again. I am still trying to process how in the hell this whole thing happened and it feels so good to flush it all out and cry, I just can’t do that at home because I’m trying to protect Marco from it. There is still this looming fear that this cancer has spread and I feel like I am holding my breath until I get my pathology report back after surgery. When I pull into the driveway I see Mariluz’ sister Mela in the kitchen. I quickly wipe my eyes and take a deep breath before walking in the house.

Me, Marco, Darin, Mikey and Mariluz all end up watching The Goonies. It feels good to sit and tune out. My boob really, really hurts today so a distraction helps. It’s back in the peeling, cracking and bleeding phase. It feels like I dropped a hot curling iron on my nipple, so any type of bra or shirt rubs and is painful. Plus anything I wear soaks through with blood and I can’t put gauze or anything on it because I have to dry it out when it gets like this. Marco wants to go to Mariluz’ house after the movie so Darin and I go to sushi. I wear a new dress I bought and put on a little makeup because I know I’m not going to feel sexy or attractive for a while after my surgery. Darin tells me I’m going to be just as beautiful with one boob as I would be with two. It was very sweet, especially because he never compliments me. I keep wondering if he’s going to be repulsed by me after my surgery happens? I don’t think you can divorce someone on the grounds for disappointment for losing a body part, can you?

When we get home we set up the slip n’ slide for Marco in the backyard. For some reason my lunch has motivated me with a “fuck it” type of attitude and I decide to put on a bikini top that is too small because the next two days are my rack’s “last hoorah” if you will. I joke that I’m not going to wear a bra at all tomorrow. After the slip n’ slide we all decide to go to the Peppermill and swim. YES, WITHOUT BEING A GUEST OF THE HOTEL. I get major anxiety when I sneak into pools, which is weird because when I was younger it was more of a major event when I actually followed a rule. Anyway, me and my extra small top marched into the Peppermill and bounced around. It was nice way to take them out on the town before saying goodbye. We eat dinner at Amanda’s and take Marco for a doughnut after dinner.

When we get home Darin crawls into bed with Marco and reads him part of Charlie and Chocolate Factory until he falls asleep. I stand in the darkened hallway listening to him and peak around the corner every once in a while, watching them reading and cuddling. With tears pouring down my face I keep thinking that I am too young to die and can’t imagine that I may have to come to terms with the fact the I may not being seeing many more of these sweet moments between a dad and his son. I feel sick to my stomach but stand there burning this memory into my brain.