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.

The beginning of "Thank You" and July 18th

Why is it so hard sometimes to say, “thank you?” Or to receive compliments? That is one of my biggest struggles. I am in a helping profession and I am a helper by nature. Need a jacket, here, have mine! Are you hungry? I’ll make you a sandwich! Need a ride? Hop in! I do all of these things organically, almost to a fault sometimes. But, for some reason when I am on the receiving end, it’s almost too hard for me to accept. To know that people want to help me for some weakness that I have or am experiencing, is uncomfortable. I hate to receive what is perceived as charity, however it fills up my little buckle to give it. It makes zero sense, but for those who know me well, they know that a lot of times things I do or think, don’t make much sense. Therapy time! I tend to make things around me harder for the benefit of helping others. It’s almost an illness, except I can’t take an antibiotic for it, drinking helps though. With that being said, here’s another awful part of having cancer: trying to truly express gratitude and appreciation for the outpouring of love. I know it makes me sound like an asshole,                       “ Whaaaaaaaa, too many people love me and want to help me and now I have to, dare I say it, say thank you?!”  That would actually be a really funny title to a self-help book. Whether I am an asshole or not, it is difficult to show a person how much you appreciate their kind words, their meals, their sentimental cards, their gifts to your children, their remodeling your kitchen (I’ll get to that in a bit), their rosaries, their gift cards, their phone calls, their just “being with you”…do you see where I am going with this? It became far too overwhelming to possibly say thank you when I realized that people really care about me. That my existence could possibly be coming to an end sooner than I thought and maybe, just maybe I have left a positive impression on this earth. It’s overwhelming, it’s astonishing, it’s amazing and it’s downright hard as hell to try and say, “thank you”, because truth be told, “thank you” is nowhere close to what I want to say.

 

July 18^th

I am back home. I made it! We survived the trip! I woke up early this morning and checked the Aiken Horse Rescue website to get information on Fia Mia and how I can adopt her. It’s not as easy as things seemed when I was little. I can’t just call and leave a voicemail that I need a horse and expect someone to drive her on over and drop her off in the yard. I’m going to work a more mature angle, horse adoption 2.0. I’ve decided to write the Board of Director’s an email or letter about the impact Fia Mia has had on my diagnosis and to see information on how to adopt her. Can I share something with you? It’s sort of embarrassing, so I’m glad it’s not going to go any farther than the internet. My hidden agenda is that the Board reads my letter, falls in love with my story and delivers Fia Mia to my doorstep free of charge, sort of like something Ellen DeGeneres would do or Oprah. Looks like I am suffering from arrested development of when I was trying to get my Appaloosa. See what I mean, when I say I don’t make sense a lot of the time? Imagine what Darin has to put with on a daily basis…I also called and left a message at Nevada Equestrian Assistance Therapy to set up weekly sessions with a horse. I’m still set on adopting Fia Mia.

My neighbor Mikey comes over for breakfast this morning and tells me that he can’t keep a secret any longer. Mikey has bought me a horse! Just kidding, but that’s actually the exact thing my brain thought of. Why in the hell would my neighbor (he’s actually our very, very good friend) buy me a horse and where in God’s name am I going to put it? Are you starting to see a trend with my thinking? I make no sense. But man do I love horses. As I am awaiting the secret he’s going to tell me, I am worried that my reaction is not going to be as great as it would be if he really was going to buy me a horse. I’m horrible. What he tells me is better, so thoughtful and leaves me with no possible way to say “thank you.” He says he’s building me brand new countertops as a surprise and said that I’ll need a good distraction to help me heal. I stand speechless. I want to cry, but I can’t. I want to jump on top of him and hug him, but that would be inappropriate. I stand in shock and am blown away by the amount of love and support that I have received. I start to squeal and ask when we can get started. Deep down I feel guilty because I just don’t know how to say “thank you,” because there is no way that is or will ever be enough.  

 

 

 

Horse Play and July 14th

My entire life when I was younger centered around my master plot of getting a horse. It was made clear to me that it wasn’t going to come by way of a real horse, so I would always pretend that I had a horse and at times I would go as far as to pretend that I was the horse, just to keep things fresh. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t put up a good fight to get a real horse though. I can remember coming home from school one day and part of my daily routine spanning 2^nd-4^th grade (as anyone’s was) was to read the “miscellaneous” and “animals for sale” classifieds in the Elko Daily Free Press. Why would I do this you ask? Well the obvious answer is that I was looking to see what horses were on the market, duh. I would compare prices, height in hands, calculate price per hand as compared to the other horses and breeds, then I would pretend that I owned these horses and I would name them. I was a total weirdo. The sad part is, I still do this, except I research the hell out of Frye boots. Ask any of my friends. I’ve become a local boot consultant. Anyhow, one particular day after school when I was perusing through the classifieds, I found a great deal on an Appaloosa Mare. She was very old and many hands tall. In other words, she was a big ole horse. I knew that she was the horse for me, so I picked up the phone and called the number. No one answered, so I left a message saying that I was interested in buying their horse and asked that they call me back. It was the perfect plan. I would set up delivery of the horse to my front yard so when my parents came home from work they would see a horse in our yard and because we didn’t have a trailer to drive her anywhere, we’d have to not only pay for her, but keep her! She wasn’t going to live in our yard naturally, because I already had researched the cost of boarding her at the local fair grounds. Screw you Gifted and Talented test for not qualifying me! I just devised a plan on how to school my parents into getting me a horse in my early elementary years. I am either extremely gifted or a psychopath, or both. Great. Things are starting to make sense now…I can’t remember when the horse owners called back, but they did. They spoke to my parents, and as you can imagine they were pretty confused, both parties. I did not end up with a horse. So, I then proceeded to pretend that I was my own horse (Plan B). I stopped reading the newspaper and started barrel racing after school. Except I didn’t have barrels (I used cans) I didn’t have a horse (so I used myself on rollerblades) and I didn’t have a score board to use to time myself (I used a stopwatch). I would proceed to “barrel race” myself I guess, up and down the sidewalk and try to beat my best time. What a gem I am.

Point being, I went to very strange realistic and imaginary lengths to try and get any time I could with a horse. I never would’ve imagined that 20 something years down the road that I would be blessed with the best horse experience anyone could ask for.

July 14^th Aiken Equestrian Rescue

We went to a horse rescue ranch this morning. I met a horse named Fia Mia. When I first walked up to her she glanced up from her trough and swished her tail. I glanced at her and walked down to see another horse whose head was peeking out of his stall. I stood there and gave him a pat and enjoyed taking in all of his “horseness.” I heard a snort and turned around. Fia Mia had her head out of her stall, so I walked down to see her. As I approached her, she hung her nose out and was waving at me in a sense. The closer I got, the farther she hung her head over the stall until our faces were about 4 inches away from each other. Our eyes locked and immediately, I had chills. Fia Mia pressed her cheek against mine. My eyes welled up with tears. I could feel a breakdown happening, so I stroked her nose and walked through the stables and out into the open field to take a couple of deep breaths.

We rode around the ranch and Marco loved feeding the horses and riding in the golf cart. When we made our way back up to the stables I stopped back by Fia Mia’s stall. Same thing happened, she walked right up to me again and layed her head on my shoulder and pressed her weight into me. It was the strangest feeling, I could feel her weight, but could also feel mine leaving me. Not my physical weight, but emotional weight was lessening. My shoulders felt lighter, my stomach and back felt lighter, my jaw didn’t feel tense. We stood in this entwined human and horse hug for what seemed like forever. Before I knew it, a rush of emotions come over me and my neck and chest feel wet. I had so many tears running down my face that it feels like I turned on a faucet. My eyes became cloudy and I couldn’t stop crying. Fia Mia would pull her head back and stare at me every once in a while, then would wrap her neck around me and pull me into her body. It was absolutely incredible. I let her hug me and I stood there and cried my little heart out, not caring who was standing around watching or what people who be saying or questions I was going to have to answer once I was done. I let all the bullshit go and stood there in public, being hugged by a horse and cried. Fia Mia absorbed all the fear, anxiety, worry, distress and whatever other toxic feelings were overwhelming me. That horse single handedly (even though she’s a large horse, get it?) let a wall come down for me and allowed me to take a real breath, not the short thick aired breaths that I had been surviving on for the past weeks.  There truly are no words that can even describe that moment for me, even reading this back over I think the writing sucks and doesn’t paint the picture of what it was like for me in that moment, and then I realize, that is the beauty of that memory, that makes it my own and unique. I can close my eyes and remember everything vividly, yet I can’t possibly put the moment into words What I can put into words though is that I did not journal any more on my vacation. I didn’t have to run upstairs and hide to release any feelings I was having, because there was none. I played with the kids on the fairway, chased Marco around the neighborhood, swam with him in the pool, smiled, laughed and enjoyed those moments that I had missing because I was too damn paralyzed with the unknown. Fia Mia gave me the gift of “being” and that is something that I will never, ever forget and something that I appreciate every morning when I wake up and see her framed face on my gallery wall. I got my horse after all.

 

 

July 11th and Pamela's Introduction

July 11^th

My first day in South Carolina I wake up sick to my stomach. I make it down the stairs and head into the hallway where I hear my mom, sister and aunt up talking. I assume my mom has already told my aunt (she was not aware of what was happening) what was going on and it seemed way too early to tackle that subject so I hied in the hallway like a weirdo debating whether I am going to go back upstairs or head into the living room and get it all over it. I take a deep breath and decide to face the music.

Luckily no one mentions anything to me about it and I’m thankful. We eat breakfast on the porch and I tell my mom that I’ll talk to Linda (my aunt) when and if I’m ready. My mom says that was fine and she feels hesitant saying anything because she doesn’t want to ruin our vacation. I agree because I haven’t seen this side of the family in almost 9 years and I’m not sure if it would be worth it now to say anything, even though Linda is the only person in my family who has ever been diagnosed with breast cancer and it would be helpful to speak to her, but I’m not sure about the timing. I mean, when is the correct time to slip that information in? “Hi Linda, I’ve missed you, it’s been so long. Sure, I’ll take some French toast for breakfast. By the way I have Breast Cancer. Do you have any orange juice?” There is no way to approach this without it being incredibly awkward. Lord knows I would drop the bomb on her then offer to make her a sandwich since that seems to be my M.O.

The day goes on and we take the kids to the pool and it becomes a great distraction. After dinner my sister takes the kids on a walk down to the pond and my mom takes her wine (lucky bitch) out to the porch. Linda and I are alone in the kitchen and the timing just seems right. Each time I attempt to ask her to talk, my stomach fills with knots and I start sweating. Finally I suck it up and ask if I can talk to her about something. I start rushing through and fumbling on my words because I want the words out just as fast as I want this cancer out of my body. I think that I am secretly hoping that the faster I say it, the faster I will beat this thing, like it’s a magical correlation of a cure. Insurance companies would sure hate that hidden cure! As my verbal vomit continues to happen I see tears well up in her eyes and then something happens in terms of her response that has not happened to me yet. We both just start hugging, then laughing. It feels so good to laugh. I used to laugh really hard almost every day, one of those days seems forever ago now. Linda totally gets it. She starts telling me all of these funny stories that happened with her prosthetic and people’s reactions to awkward situations with it. She shares her experience with telling those around her, their responses and her treatment. It was in this interaction that I received something that no one else has been able to give to me…understanding. It was so relieving to hear someone else talk about their experience, and to sit and listen instead of having to beat a dead horse about it. Where does that saying come from by the way? “Beat a dead horse?” I would never do that, for one it’s creepy. Why are we beating something if it’s dead? Isn’t that a diagnosable mental disorder? And second, why a horse? Horses are the best, if we have to beat a dead animal, why can’t it be something like an armadillo or a snake?

Our conversation was like a surge of energy for me, I was laughing, listening and actually enjoying talking to someone rather than trying to pretend to enjoy myself. Linda gave me a gift that no one else has been able to give me…I now feel 100% ready to move forward and get this shit cut off of my body.

Let’s go back when I mentioned my aunt telling me funny stories about her prosthetic. She assured me that they, too, would happen to me and boy they happen on a daily basis. Rewinding to her though, she tells a funny story of being a teacher and pulling up to school in her car. She was wearing a turtleneck that day. She gets out of her car and goes around to the other side to get her books out and as she leans back up after bending over she notices that her prosthetic has crept up into her turtleneck and left a huge lump in her neck. She frantically was trying to push it back down into its rightful location as school was ready to begin. She also dove into a pool in Mexico and her prosthetic ejected out of her suit across the water. Sure enough, when she guaranteed that the same would happen to me, she was right…and now I would like to introduce the comedy portion of this entry called “Darn you Pamela!”

First off let me introduce you to Pamela, my prosthetic. I have two sizes:  C cup and a D cup. Darin has named my C cup Pamela and my D cup Dolly. Pamela was worn while I was still pregnant and after delivery I had to put her up on the shelf and pull out the heavy artillery, Dolly. Let me tell you that these things look like giant cotton balls and in no way resemble the shape of a breast. When I don’t wear it, it’s obvious (one side C/D cup one side 4^th grade girl), but when I do wear it, I have a very strange sized boob competing with the natural one. Either way, it’s a circus. Pamela is a trouble maker. She doesn’t like to stay in one spot and is constantly getting in trouble for roaming about the cabin. She is a gypsy prosthetic. For six weeks after my surgery I couldn’t wear anything on my phantom boob side, well I wasn’t supposed to wear anything. But I found ways around it (more to come in another blog). I would pick Marco up from preschool, run my daily errands and just hang around with one boob and a big pregnant belly. I was very attractive. On the day I got Pamela, I popped her in and went to pick Marco up from preschool. When he saw me he comes flying up to me and in front of his teachers and classmates be shouts, “MOM! You got a new boob! Hey guys, my mom got a BOOB!” Was I embarrassed? No. Was I mad that my 3 year old just called me out? No. Did I find it hilarious? YES! Plus, what an observant little guy. His teachers started laughing and his friends peeked up from playing and looked at me unimpressed. On another day, I went outside to Marco’s playground to get him. He comes flying off the slide clearly with an ulterior motive. I squat down to hug him and he reaches down my tank top and pulls out Pamela quicker than I can grab her and holds her up above his head and takes off running. Pamela has just been mugged at a preschool. Marco shoves Pamela up his shirt and starts running around yelling that he just got a new boob. This time, his friends are impressed and they all start chasing him. How in the hell is a piece of gross lopsided cotton more fun to play with than playground equipment? I am helpless against this gang of thugs and watch poor Pamela get smaller and smaller in the distance.  

In my first post I talked about letting things go. These experiences have helped me let go of any sense of normalcy that I wanted. Besides, being normal is boring. Plus, if I am in the .01% of people that will be diagnosed with Paget’s while pregnant, my life is going to be anything but normal. I should’ve starred in Pure Luck. More to come on “Darn you Pamela!” but coming up next is the most incredible experience with a therapy horse that you can imagine…