Not a Bad Day

It's one week after round 2 of chemo and I have an appointment to see Dr. McAndrew. I've been warned to expect a long wait. I'm pleasantly surprised however because she sees me right away (call it a perk of being the only pregnant cancer patient in the office?). She's warm as usual and greets me with me a big hug. She tells me how great I look (I'm dawning my fabulous Hermes scarf - thank you, Deb) and is so pleased at how well I'm handling treatment so far. As usual, I have a litany of questions about radiation, future prevention and other abstract, unanswerable topics. She tells me that she highly recommends radiation because there are numerous studies that show that women who have cancer involved in 4 or more lymph nodes and the lymphovascular system have a much higher chance of a localized recurrence even with a mastectomy and chemo. Wtf??? It's the rudest thing I've ever heard. Seriously. She also tells me that in her opinion, it will be difficult for me to find a radiologist who won't recommend radiation because I'm so young. No one will take a chance on me. I guess that's good - but I don't want radiation. Period. I argue my case to Dr. McAndrew.

First, radiation will only prolong this horrific period of my life. I'd like to get on with it, please. Second, radiation often negatively affects the lymph system and I'm already having so many problems with the few remaining lymph nodes I have in my left arm (I finally have full range of motion back, but am pretty sure I also have lymphedema. I did a very light yoga practice - so light I actually fell asleep - and my arm blew up that same night. It still hasn't gone back down. I had been told that lymphedema is rare - like only 1% of people get it - so of course...I'm one of them). Finally, it's significantly more complicated to reconstruct breasts with radiated skin. It looks freakish. Like plastic wrap, I've been told. To avoid looking like a circus freak, I will probably need to have the latissimus muscles in my back removed in addition to implants which would only prolong and worsen my recovery. One doctor told me you don't need the latissimus muscle but um, it's part of my body, so I kindof think I need it. I was told that the lumpectomy was a piece of cake. It wasn't. I can't begin to fathom how long I won't be able to lift my children with lots of missing body parts.

Dr. McAndrew agrees with everything I've said but reminds me that as shitty as all of that is - getting cancer again is worse. Fuck.

We talk more about what I can do to ward off a recurrence, and sadly, diet and exercise are my only weapons. There's no pharmacological prevention at this time for triple negative tumors. There are some ongoing clinical trials - but no results yet. The drug that's being tested apparently has horrendous side affects and costs $5000 per month. Just in case losing all of our money in the stock market wasn't enough to drive us to the poor house (not to mention the cost of being pregnant with cancer). Before she leaves, Dr. McAndrew hugs me again and tells me that she doesn't know how I'm doing it, but my attitude is amazing. "You're an inspiration," she says. I've been told that a lot lately. I'm an inspiration, a rock, the strongest woman lots of people have ever known, a hero. Am I? I cry about 3938874 times a day and usually cry myself to sleep. Not so heroic. And really, what else am I supposed to do? Give up? Die now? I'm just slugging through each day as it comes. I think it's what anyone would do. Right?

I think I'm done with my appointment, but alas...no. I have to have a blood draw. Crap. More torture. John, a nurse I've never met or seen, greets me and tells me he's going to access my port. He's hot. "Are you always here on Tuesdays," I ask him? "I've never seen you before." A new oncology pick-up line? Apparently he's there on Tuesdays and I have no idea how I've missed him. He tells me to take in a deep breath...I prepare myself for the worst and am a little afraid that he's not using the topical numbing agent Anne usually uses. And he's done. No pain at all. "I love you," I tell him. "Can you always do that for me?" I ask. He laughs. I don't. "I'm totally serious." He says he's happy to help with my treatment.

My blood results are apparently good. Everyone is pleased.

I go home and Miles greets me with a giant smile and says "hiyeeee." He bounces up and down with excitement saying "mama mama mama." It's the best thing ever. Not a bad day.