Tee Shirt Topics

Things that I want to put on a tee shirt:

1.) Is That A Port In Your Shirt Or Are You Just Happy To See Me? (Great to wear during the reconstruction process.)

2.) Ask Me Questions About My Estrogen Patch! (Arrow pointing towards the patch on my arm, which was put in that rather visible location by the Physician's Assistant before I left the hospital. I have since relocated the patch to a more discreet locale.)

3.) I'm Not Cold, That's Just My Fipple!

4.) Guess What, There Is No Such Thing As A "Good" Cancer

Which goes nicely with this one:

5.) Anyone Who Says Cancer Is A Gift Gets A Punch In The Face!

Kung Fu Mama

I had a hard time coming up with a way to describe my mastectomy to my (then) kindergartner and pre-schooler without scaring the crap out of them. Kids, Mommy has this crazy-assed genetic mutation and is getting both breasts removed! And some other parts too! So, I concocted a story that would help them understand my limits (resting, no lifting, soreness, etc.) without really going into too much detail about the actual procedure.

Here's what I said:

"Mommy is going into the hospital overnight so the doctors can fix her chest muscles. She got a boo boo, but she's going to be fine. Mommy will need you to be her helpers and lift things that she can't lift. She will have to rest for a while but soon she will be back to normal."

OK, pretty reasonable. Next obvious question from the kids:

"How did you get your boo boo?"

Me:

"Well, I was lifting the uh, deck umbrella, and uh, putting it up high in the garage and I pulled some muscles." Not as well thought out by me. But the explanation seemed to work. The kids were great, didn't seem too anxious, and since I was home from the hospital 24 hours later, the story seemed pretty valid. (I do have some thoughts, to be shared at a later point, on the rather insane concept of returning home 24 hours after a mastectomy.)

But maybe it just wasn't exciting enough. My kindergartner was getting a ride home from school with a friend of mine. She called me a few days later and asked me what we told the kids about my surgery. I explained the story and she laughed.

"Your son told my son on the way home from school that his mom had to get surgery because she was stabbed in the chest with a giant beach umbrella."

Hi-yah!

Questions, we get questions.......

Q: Okay, so I admit I'm kind of clueless. What can I actually do to help out a friend who's going through all this shit? I guess telling her I'm jealous of her free boob job is a bad idea, huh?

A. Well yes, first off, let’s start with what would NOT be a good idea. A few weeks ago they had one of those feel-good segments at the end of the national evening news, a little vignette meant to be inspiring or show us a bit of Americana, blah blah blah. This time, they featured a woman who goes around to hospitals visiting cancer patients, toting her little keyboard and a guitar, singing uplifting songs like “Wind Beneath My Wings” and so on. It was beautiful, touching, really warmed my heart to see that kind of selflessness..........and let me say this right here and now, that if there are ever any Kumbaya-singing wandering minstrels near me at any time, ever, you are very likely to see me arrested and cuffed to a hospital bed for assault with a deadly ham.


And yeah, the boob job comment? Bad, bad idea. I'm just sayin'.

Stupid Shit People Say

Oh, where to begin? We’re planning on making this a regular column of sorts – and if you’d like your own tales of dealing with stupidity/asshattery chronicled here as well, please email us! – because we can pretty much say with certainty that we’ll never run out of material. Today’s installment:

How are you doing? Are you terminal?

Seriously?? Are you terminal? You might as well just state the truth up front, that you’re a voyeur who watches nothing but reality tv shows and has a sick fascination with the bad shit that goes on in other people’s lives, and hey, seeing someone dying would be, like, way cool. Or something like that. Because I don’t know what other explanation there is for such a bizarre question.

Wow, for me that would be the biggest tragedy EVER, if I lost my rack. You must have kicked a lot of puppies in a past life or something to earn all that bad karma.

Yes, that’s exactly it. So even though I now volunteer with a Doberman rescue group, help older people with their gardens every year, and have a general saintly mien about me that’s beyond compare – it’s all to no avail. I’ll never get beyond the bad luck I’m cursed with from being Attila the Hun in a former life.

All the people I know who had breast cancer really feel that they turned out better for it.

Umm, no. No. I liked myself just fine before, thank you very much, so I don’t think the “new me,” the one with radiation fatigue, scars all over, lopsided boobs, and extreme bitterness from having to deal with the clowns at BCBS and their fraudulent practices, is going to be any better. Besides, what ever happened to just going to a day spa for self-improvement?


Anyone else care to chime in?

Step Away From The Mouse

The value of good girlfriends cannot be underestimated. Two nights before my ovaries/fallopian tubes/uterus surgery, my friends came over to keep me company and share some laughs. I baked a most delicious cake in the shape of a uterus, complete with gummy worms to represent the fallopian tubes and cupcakes topped with M&Ms to represent the ovaries & eggs. A few glasses of Champagne later, I open up the "Fuck the Hormones Basket O' Goodies." Screw you, Menopause! I'm getting some presents: Pocket Rocket vibrator, K-Y Jelly, soft washcloth (for those pesky night sweats), and a couple of other fun treats. Thank you, ladies!!

Meanwhile, I put my basket o' goodies on a low shelf in my home office located just off my bedroom. A few days after surgery, I am hanging out in bed when my 5 year old, who is rustling around in the office, comes out with the Pocket Rocket in his hand.

"Mommy, what's this?"

Without missing a beat, I say, "Honey, put that down. It's something for Mommy's (pause) computer."

Fipple and Other Fun Words

I want to start a running glossary list of all the new and extremely fun BRCA and BC words that Tasha and I have learned and/or made up:

1.) FOOB, FOOBAGE, FOOBALICIOUS, and of course, FOOB CLUB.

Anything with the word "Foob" means Fake + Boob. Foob. Say it loud and proud!

2.) FIPPLE. This is like Foob, but for nipples. Fake + Nipple = Fipple. Fipples give visual closure to the Foobs.

3.) PIE CRUST FOOB. Well, this is when you sometimes get an unfortunate and annoying complication of a Foob settling in a weird way, creating dimpling that looks like a pie crust freshly made with thumb prints in it. Replacing the Foob implant with a nice new one a little bit larger resolves the problem.

4.) ANGRY EYES. A la Mr. Potato Head. For those who have upgraded and gotten larger Foobs than pre-mastectomy cup sizes, there is an interesting side effect when the Fipple is added. Fipples are located below the original mastectomy scars. The scars look a lot like eyebrows (at least until they fade) and the Fipples look a lot like eyes. Thus the rather disconcerting "Angry Eyes" effect.

5.) APPALACHIAN MOUNTAIN BOOB. This is when surgery/radiation makes the boob look like what happens to the tops of mountains in Appalachia. Easily explained with a slash motion of the hand. Not to be confused with the "Hiking the Appalachian Trail" concept.

6.) AQUARIUM BELLY. After a hysterectomy, the tummy swells up a lot and makes many sloshing, gurgling, bubbling noises. Looks and feels like a 55 gallon fish tank is lodged in there. Especially noticeable in bed when turning over from back to side.

7.) FAT-N-SURLY. This is another name for the drug Tamoxifen, which is used to treat and prevent breast cancer. In addition, "Fat-N-Surly" is a good name to describe pretty much how all women feel after surgery.

I know there are more definitions out there. Feel free to add.

Garden of Pharmacological Delight

Having major surgery means you get to try out lots of different types of drugs. Legally. Percoset, Vicodin, Oxycontin, all the big boys. Unfortunately for me, painkillers make me nauseous and shaky. Dammit! I think it would be a lot more appropriate and fair if I got a huge buzz from painkillers. Right? I mean, recovery would be a whole lot more fun.

Now, if only my doctors would prescribe some morphine for me to take at home. I could not believe how RIDICULOUSLY EUPHORIC I felt my first night after surgery on that stuff. After settling in to my bed, the nurse placed a little joystick (aptly named) in my hand, with a button on the top. "If you feel discomfort, just press the button and you will self-administer morphine."

Me (rapidly pressing the button over and over again as though I'm playing Space Invaders, and YES, I recognize that referencing Space Invaders completely dates me since this is only relevant if you grew up in the 70's): "Um, I assume you have this rigged up so I don't accidentally overdose myself?"

Nurse (curtly, perhaps?): "Of course, you can only receive a prescribed amount."

'Nuff said.

Basically, I hit that button regularly all night long and experienced moments where I was completely one with the universe. I figured out how to achieve world peace. I understood calculus. I came to terms with my feelings about my mother. I haven't felt like this since the Dead show at the Meadowlands in '89. WHEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Ah well. Short lived euphoria in the garden of pharmacological delight. Now it's back to reality and a bit of ibuprofen now and then.