5 1/2 Weeks

I remember that I'm not allowed to eat this morning. I have my planning session at The Center for Radiation Therapy and this time it's for real. I change into a gown and wait. Less then 5 minutes later, Jose, my favorite blood technician from Tower (no, I cannot believe that I've had enough blood draws to have a favorite technician) comes to the The Center to set up my i.v. I had told Marilyn that I am a terrible patient, hate needles and still get nauseous after 1 year of weekly blood tests. That's the 1 negative of post-cancer life without a port. Even though my left arm is usually off limits for blood draws, Jose skillfully inserts the needle into my left arm. Dr. Botnick needs to locate the lymph nodes in my chest area so that he can include them in the field of radiation. We love Jose and the i.v. is quick and relatively painless. I'm led into a large room with a massive machine. A technician whose name I can't remember introduces himself and asks me to join him at the computer in the corner. He pulls up consent forms that I'm to sign. They go through the myriad of side effects that radiation may cause. Exhaustion, nausea, localized pain, lymphedema, and many others that I try to block out. Everyone swears I need this and it outweighs all the bad shit that it could cause (including other cancers down the road).

I lie down in the machine and the technician explains what he's about to do. He's going to flush my i.v. with a radioactive material that will highlight my lymph nodes. He lifts my arm up and guides my hand to hold onto a small bar above my head. It seems to be taking forever. My fingers start to tingle and I know that soon my whole hand and arm will be numb. The technician starts fiddling with the needle and taping layers of tape over it. I don't know what on earth he could be doing but it's ridiculously painful. He tells me that due to the position of my arm, the catheter is pinched and the contrast dye can't get through. He calls in Dr. Botnick's nurse (who we love by the way). She keeps repeating that it's a great i.v. but for the position of my arm. But since it's not working in the needed position I don't think it's so great. There's more pushing and shoving and taping and untaping. Ouch and ouch and ouch! The problem is finally resolved when Marilyn pushes the needle deeper into my arm and tapes it down with yet more tape. I'm bruised for a week. Plus, now that I'm no longer the hairless wonder, getting the tape off my arm is gnarly. But finally the planning begins.

Dr. Botnick enters the room and places some sort of tape around my breast (he explained the purpose but I can't remember it now although I think it was to make a mold that I'll lie in each visit) and I take the opportunity to ask him about ultrasounds and their effectiveness in detecting breast cancer. A week ago, a friend of mine told me that her obgyn does an ultrasound of her breasts at each visit. At her last visit, her doctor detected a very small lump and insisted that she see a breast specialist immediately. My friend started asking me questions assuming that Dr. Funk did an ultra sound of my breasts at my bi-yearly visits. Suddenly I'm livid. I saw Dr. Funk for years before I found my own tumor. She only performed a manual exam even though there was an ultrasound machine in the examination room. I promptly emailed Dr. Funk writing "I'm assuming you have a good reason for not doing ultrasounds of your high risk patients. I'd like to know what it is." I still haven't received a response. But I have been asking doctors about the standard of care regarding ultrasounds. Dr. Botnick explains that it is not the standard of care here. It is in other countries, but not here. There's still some debate about its effectiveness in detection. But he says that I should have had an MRI. Now that I've been asking around, I've learned that many doctors are able to get their high risk patients' insurance companies to pay for MRIs. "You absolutely should have had one," Dr. Botnick says. There's no point in pointing fingers now, but I just don't understand why with my family history, Dr. Funk only performed manual examinations on me.

After the endless taping, the machine I'm lying in starts slowly moving around my body. My arm feels like it's about to fall off. After several more minutes, the technician tells me that he needs to mark me and then I'm done. The "marking" is a tattoo, 3 actually, that the technicians will use to ensure I'm properly placed in the machine during my radiation sessions. He takes out a small pen and draws 3 dots on my chest. 1 on each side of my left breast and 1 on the top. I feel 3 small pricks, 1 over each dot, and then I'm free to go home.

As I'm lying in bed that night, I tell Boris about my day. I'm playing with my hair as I'm talking. It's coming in thick and as far as I can tell, straight. Maybe there's a god after all? Boris tells me how great he thinks I look with short hair. "You're hair was beautiful before and I loved it, but you look so cute with short hair," he says. "Maybe you should keep it." It's so nice of him but there's no fucking way I'm keeping my hair this short. He smiles when I tell him about my tattoos and asks to see them. I can't even find 2 of them they're so tiny. "Cancer's given me a whole new wife," he jokes. "New hair, big fake boobs, tatts. Awesome." Hilarious.

I'm really scared for my first round of radiation. I don't know what it's going to do to my skin. I'm fair skinned and avoid the sun whenever possible and am nervous that my skin will react badly to what's essentially a crazy sunburn. Plus, I've been told radiation is exhausting and I honestly can't imagine being more tired than I already am and have been. I change into my gown and sit down in the waiting room. While I wait, Marilyn talks to me about the possible side effects and what I can do to ward them off. She tells me to use natural products like Dove soap. Huh? I tell her that Dove soap isn't natural at all and that the products I use are actually natural (i.e., don't have chemicals, parabens, fragrance etc.). I ask her what I'm supposed to avoid because I'm not going to start using unhealthy products now (I don't know why since I already had cancer). I'm to avoid anything with metals in them, particularly deodorant (which isn't a problem for me since I already use a natural deodorant - no I don't smell) and she gives me a "special" lotion to use often throughout the day and night. I don't know what I'm expecting, but it's just calendula cream (which I already own).

And then a young woman introduces herself as Iris and leads me to the treatment room. I lay down in another massive machine. I'm told to raise my arm above my head and hold on to a metal bar. The bed is covered with a sheet and Iris and another young woman tug the sheet back and forth for about 20 minutes. They're lining up my tattoos with 2 lasers. One is coming out of the wall and another from the ceiling. Their thin beams slice through my body. My arm is going numb again. And the technicians have to take x-rays that the doctor has to approve before treatment begins. And another doctor comes in to look at my skin and make sure it's okay for treatment (weird since I haven't started yet). He waltzes into the room saying "Hi, I'm Dr. Rose please don't move," in one breath. I don't. He says I look great and waltzes out of the room. I'm ready for treatment. A giant arm on the side of the machine starts moving. At the end of the arm is a huge metal disk covered in glass. Inside the disk are what looks like metal teeth (which I later learned are called levers) that open and close as the arm slowly rotates around my body. Each time the teeth open, a loud siren, similar to an MRI machine, sounds. The whole process takes about 5 minutes. By the end my arm feels like lead it's so heavy and numb. Iris comes into the room and thankfully tells me I can lower my arm. I get up, get dressed and go home. I slather my breast and armpit with lotion and apply it every hour. I swear my lymphedema is worse after 1 treatment. Boris thinks I'm crazy (although I'm not sure that has anything to do with cancer).

After the initial session, the others are incredibly quick (thank goodness since I go 5 days a week for the next 5 1/2 weeks). I'm back home within 30 minutes of leaving my house. The bulk of each session is spent lining up my tattoos with the lasers. After my third session, I go to change back into my clothes in the dressing room and I hear a woman crying to Marilyn. She can't believe she's sick. And then I hear her say that while her husband is very supportive, he's been complaining that she doesn't want to have sex. "I'm usually a very sexual woman," she sobs. "But I feel so terrible." I want to open the door and suggest that she tell her husband to fuck off, but I don't. I remember telling Boris that he could get a girlfriend when I was diagnosed (but I also told him that when Miles was born and he woke me up one night for nookie and I explained that he could get a girlfriend but could not, ever, ever, wake me up in the middle of the night). But I also know he never would and would never complain to me about his needs when I'm not feeling well. I feel sad for her.

I go home to find Miles on the potty pulling on his penis. "You have to point your penis in to the potty," I tell him (since he's peed on me way too many times). But he tells me that he's trying to put his penis in his belly button, and suddenly I'm not sad anymore. I laugh and laugh and am so thankful for him. But as I'm snuggling with Miles before bed he says "mommy is sad." "I'm not sad, monkey," I tell him. "Do I look sad?" "Mommy's eyes are sad," he says. And he goes on "mommy's new boobies sad." I tell him that my new boobies are very happy as am I. "You feeling better mommy?" he asks. "Yes, monkey," I assure him. "Mommy is feeling better." But I'm sad again because my poor child is constantly wondering whether I'm sad or feeling okay and every time I get dressed he asks "you going to the doctor mommy?" And now when he asks to see my "boobies" he says "mommy have new boobies?" And then he'll touch them and say "take these off" or "can I take these off?" and I have to explain that the doctor had to take my old boobies off because they had cancer but my "new boobies" get to stay. And sometimes when he plays he'll tell me that his truck isn't feeling well and he's taking it to the doctor so it can feel better. One of my friends tells me that her daughter asks if she's going to work every time she gets dressed and it's really no different but I'm not so sure. And he recently asked Boris where his nipples were and wanted to know where mine were. Eek.

The next afternoon I go to see Dr. McAndrew after radiation. I wait 2.5 hours and am livid. Apparently the patient before me had a double mastectomy after months of chemo and the pathology report showed numerous tumors. I can't imagine how horrifying that must be and I remember being the patient who Dr. Mcandrew spoke to for hours so part of me understands, but waiting on the other side of the door sucks. I just want to go home to my kids. During my check up, Dr. McAndrew tells me how fantastic I look and now that I'm not pregnant or swollen with chemo agents, she "can't believe how tiny" I am. It almost makes up for the 2.5 hour wait. I tell her about the woman I met at Dr. Slate's office who was misdiagnosed with triple negative breast cancer and is now dying of carcinoid cancer which has ravaged her body. She assures me that I should feel confident that my scans were all clear. She explains that scans detect triple negative cancer very well while carcinoid cancer is much more difficult to detect. She also assures me that I don't have carcinoid cancer. Of course there's no way to know if there's a microscopic rogue cancer cell floating around in my body, but if there was something growing, the scans would detect it. I run home after almost 3 hours to be with the boys. We play for 5 minutes before it's time for their dinner and bed.

Before I know it, I'm done with my second week of radiation. I am exhausted. Crazy, crazy exhausted. My skin starts to hurt, especially under the armpit. It makes wearing clothes uncomfortable and so I spend all of my time at home in loose t-shirts. And I'm very pink. I swear that my left breast already looks different. I make Boris look at it 78394 times a day. He swears they look the same. I also swear that I'm having difficulty breathing and so I tell Dr. Botnick when I see him at my next appointment. He has no idea why that is but it's not from radiation. He suggests perhaps it's because Los Angeles is on fire. Perhaps.

Despite my daily appointments, I feel like my life is getting back to normal. My new almost-post-cancer treatment life. When I was initially diagnosed, the only thing I worried about was cancer. And dying. But lately I feel the everyday stresses and worries creeping back into my life -- little things that I used to worry about but swore I wouldn't post-cancer, like bad naps and getting Miles into my dream preschool. One day I get a call from Dr. Botnick's office as I'm about to pull into the parking lot. The machine is broken and I'd have to wait at least 30 minutes before getting treatment. I ask them to call me 10 minutes before I should come in and drive back home. Baron woke up after a 20 minute "nap," and I want to get home. Plus Miles has been jumping out of his crib and I'm not sure he's slept at all. When I get home, I see Miles heading over the side of crib yelling "I'm awake. I need a book! I'm coming out!" I try explaining to him for the millionth time why it's unsafe for him to climb out of his crib but he doesn't believe me since he skillfully lowers himself to the ground. I try explaining to him for the billionth time why it's important for him to rest his body. He responds, "I'm not sleeping. I'm awake." No nap. I'm stressed. The boys are kindof a disaster all afternoon and I feel my impatience and frustration rising. To make matters worse, Dr. Botnick's office calls to tell me the machine still isn't working and they're not going to be able to treat me. I'll have to add on an extra session. Fuck.

Boris and I lay in bed that night and I tell him about my day. In the middle of my story about Miles hurling himself out of his crib, Boris turns to me and says "I forgot that you used to have arm hair. I think it's darker than it was." I smile and thank him for keeping things in perspective. Who cares about naps when I don't have cancer and my hair is growing back? I haven't had body hair in so long that I forget what to do with it now. And I forget that it's even there. One weekend while swimming with the boys and friends, I notice that my leg hair is back. Exciting. But it has got to go, so the next day before heading to the beach for a birthday party (otherwise the beach and I do not get along) I grab Boris' razor and quickly shave. Apparently I also forgot how to shave because I have razor burn for a week.

The next morning I take Miles to his 2 year checkup with his pediatrician. The past few appointments have been really challenging because he is so distraught at the office that the doctor can barely look at him. Before we go, I explain everything the doctor will do, just like I always do. I tell him that nothing she does will hurt except that he will get a shot at the end, which will hurt but only for a minute. He is a superstar at the appointment. He lets the doctor examine him and says "it's time for a shot?" He wails as he's pricked and the nurse asks him if he wants a lollipop. "I need it," he says. And the tears stop. That afternoon I see him heading over the side of his crib. I give him the "crib jumping isn't safe resting your body is important" explanation but he starts screaming. Baron is asleep and I can't bear the thought of 2 sleepless boys so I decide to take Miles with me to radiation even though I know I should let him scream and enforce rest time. He thinks it's the best place ever because everyone tells him how cute he is and Marilyn gives him a piece of candy (with my permission, of course - and no he doesn't come into the actual radiation room with me). He sucks on a jolly rancher for the next 45 minutes saying "what's Miles tasting?" over and over again.

And so begins the daily fight of Miles wanting to come to the doctor with me. Every time I tell him I have to go the doctor he wants to come. And have candy. I tell him that candy isn't nutritious because it has so much sugar in it, so we don't eat it very often. On several occasions I put Miles down for his nap (which he thankfully started taking again) and he asks if I'm going to the doctor. I try to ignore the question and tell him that I will be home when he wakes up. He repeats his question until I answer it. My answer was totally non-responsive so I'd object, too. One morning my mom comes to take Miles to her house for 30 minutes while I go to radiation. Miles starts crying that he wants to come to the doctor with me so I take him. He asks for a candy the second we walk through the door. I change into my gown and sit down with him in the waiting room. There's another young woman sitting across from me with her young son. He's 4. He and Miles chat while his mom and I discuss our cancer and treatment and how crazy the last year of our lives have been. As Miles is licking his candy he turns to his new friend and says "it's not tritious (aka nutritious). Too much sugar." After treatment I go to see Dr. Botnick. Miles comes with me. Dr. Botnick opens my gown to see how my skin is holding up. "Your new boobies feeling better mommy?" Miles asks. Dr. Botnick starts laughing. He asks if I hurt under my arm since the skin is so raw. It hurts like hell. But my skin otherwise looks good. I ask him if my left breast looks different than the right. I want another opinion besides Boris. He shakes his head no and rolls his eyes. Then he points to Miles and reminds me what my end goal is. To live. "You're gorgeous. I'm not just saying that. Gorgeous and charismatic and you can fix your breasts if you don't like them. But they're not different." I love him.

As my last week begins, my skin gets more red and I get more exhausted. So exhausted that I often fall asleep on the table during my 5 minutes of treatment. I'm okay if I'm in motion, but given the opportunity to lay down, I'm out. And it takes a lot to get me out of bed in the morning. I want to get up, I just can't. My skin gets so red that Dr. Botnick has to see me before treatment to make sure I can proceed. It feels like my skin is on fire. I learn that the symptoms might get worse for a few weeks after treatment ends (just my luck). But I have 2 treatments left. That's it. Then I'm done. Done. Done! Over a year of treatment and it's finally almost over. Really, really over. There's nothing else left except staying healthy and cancer free.

Miles comes with me to both of my appointments on my last day. He gets candy and draws with Marilyn while I'm treated. As we drive to my last treatment, Boris texts me writing "is it official?" I get dressed after my last treatment (fucking finally!!) and leave the dressing room. Marilyn hands me a certificate of completion which is hilarious and cheesy and very sweet. Miles and I hug and kiss and sing Yellow Submarine (his favorite new song) and go home to see Baron. At a red light I take out my phone and write to Boris "it's official."

My brother comes over with a box from Tiffany's. I'm excited. I open the box to find a silver key chain etched with "fuck cancer" on it. It's so fitting I just love it. Seth tells me that the engraver initially protested because they "don't engrave curse words," but made an exception after hearing my story.

My end goal is to live. I want to watch my amazing boys grow up. They get more amazing by the second. Baron is sitting up and crawling and babbling. We all love talking with him as he carries on conversations that make him and us chuckle and laugh. And after months of narrating everything Miles does to Baron, Miles now does the narrating. He spends all day long telling Baron what he's doing and everything he sees. It's a constant stream of "look Boonie, Miles is dancing. Boonie, that's a door. Boonie, that's a tree. See the leaves? See that Boonie? I'm playing with my trucks, Boonie. Boonie, you're near the edge. The floor is far away." It's what pulled me through the last year and will make me fight for each day of the rest of my life.

I Forgot My Anniversary

Miles turned 2 today. I still see his tiny face that I held in my hands for the first time 2 years ago every time I look at him. He's my first love. My baby. The baby who made me want to have a zillion more babies. Me. The girl who had held like 2 babies in her whole life because their wobbly heads scared me. The girl who thought babies were messy and dirty (and they are!) and didn't want any until I met Boris. Me. The girl who hired a nanny well before Miles was born because I thought I'd go back to work immediately. And then I met Miles. And suddenly, I didn't care about the mess and the dirt (okay, so I did but still worshiped him) and didn't want my nanny to come anywhere near him. I wanted to be with him all the time and would cry if I was away from him for more than 2 hours (swear, ask Boris). In college, I remember reading an interview with Madonna in which she was asked what her greatest accomplishment was. Her response was her children. At the time I found that so annoying. This amazing artist and businesswoman was more proud of her children? For some reason I always think about that when I think of my kids and how they are really all that matters and what I am most proud of, grateful for and in love with.

2 sounds so young. Miles is still a baby. And yet he's such a big boy. He has his own thoughts and feelings and can express them all so amazingly. He now routinely tells me "I don't like that," what he "needs," that "Miles is sad," or "frustrated," or "hungry." We had a great morning together. He's so much fun and even snuggled with me without me asking. After lunch, Miles laid down in his crib (with his new red sunglasses on) and I left for radiation. In the changing room I put on my gown like I do every day but today I realize that it's been an entire year since my cancer diagnosis. One whole year. Boris and I had planned a big first birthday bash for Miles last year that we canceled because I had heard the words "it's cancer," just days before.

I forgot my anniversary. I've been in treatment and cancer free (as far as we know) for 1 year. At least that's how my doctors look at it. 2 more years to go before my chances of a recurrence plummet.

What a year it's been. Undoubtedly the worst of my whole life. And the best. I've suffered like I never could have imagined. I've faced death -- something that most people my age have never done and hopefully never will. And I gave birth to a miracle. A beautiful, healthy, ridiculously happy miracle who makes my heart swell each time he smiles at me. Miles makes me laugh a zillion times a day. I have my best friend and love of my life by my side and know that our marriage will survive anything. I can wear anything without a bra.

Fill 'Er Up

I don't even sit down in the waiting room before the nurse calls my name. I'm led to one of the examination rooms where Dr. Slate and Toni are waiting for me. I lay down on the table and lift up my shirt. Dr. Slate is pleased with how I'm healing. He explains the expansion process before he begins. Each expander has a port which Dr. Slate will locate and insert a large needle. Then he'll fill the expander with up to 50 cc of saline water each visit until I'm at my desired size (which is still as small as humanly possible). I don't like needles, period, and I especially don't like large needles and I especially especially don't like large needles that are going to be inserted into my boobs. And I don't like pain and have had more than my fair share of late. And forever really. Dr. Slate swears it won't hurt, but I'm wary given that numerous doctors have told me numerous times that numerous painful procedures aren't painful.

Toni takes my hand as Dr. Slate places magnets on each breast to locate the expander. Then Dr. Slate tells me I'm going to feel a sting and some pressure (and we all know what "pressure" means) as he gives me a shot of topical anesthesia. I squeeze Toni's hand as I feel the needle pierce my skin. It stings but isn't too bad. Thankfully I don't feel the larger needle being inserted but do feel my chest slowly tighten. "That's 40 cc's," says Dr. Slate. He asks me if I hurt. I have no idea since pain is relative and it's nothing compared to everything else I've been through. "I don't think so," I respond. "It's uncomfortable, but tolerable." "I think we'll leave it here to see how you do," he says. Toni places 2 tiny band-aids on me where the needles were and instructs me to take them off as soon as I get home. "They'll discolor your skin if you don't," she warns. Goodness.

I get up slowly. As I'm walking towards my bag, Dr. Slate asks me how Miles and Baron are doing and how I'm doing not picking them up. "They're amazing," I tell him. And I can't lie to my doctor so I tell him that I've been picking Baron up here and there and am totally fine. "It only hurts a little," I tell him. I assume that if I tear a muscle it will hurt like hell so I'll know. Not so. Dr. Slate tells me that it doesn't matter how many times I've picked up my children because it only takes 1 time to tear something. He goes on to say that I won't know I've torn anything. I'll just notice that I look lopsided and that the expander has moved. Sigh. I go to sling my giant bag over my shoulder and Dr. Slate raises an eyebrow. "That's an awfully large bag you're carrying," he says. "Is it too heavy?" I ask. He picks it up and starts laughing. "Yes, I would say so," he says. "You're always pushing the boundaries, aren't you?" Me? No. I walk out the door and he instructs me to behave.

The second expansion is a repeat of the first. I'm uncomfortable, but functioning well and not in serious pain (at least most of the time). I still can't sleep on my side and still feeling jarring, searing pain every once in a while, but that's the way it's going to be for the next several months. I inform Dr. Slate that on Thursday it will be 6 weeks post-surgery and I'm picking Miles up. "You've already picked him up, haven't you?" he asks. Um...yes. But it was an accident. A repeated accident. This time it's for real. I'm going to pick him up and run around the block with him. Then I'm going to take him in and out of his crib and car seat 100 times and go to the park with him by myself and I can't wait. "It's best to wait another 2 weeks when your muscles are completely healed," he warns "but I know I can't stop you." So true. Initially when we spoke he said 6 weeks and 6 weeks it will be.

Thursday morning when Miles wakes up I run into his room and scoop him out of his crib. "Mommy's holding Miles!," he yells. Then he goes on to exclaim "Mommy's feeling better!" It's so cute I could cry. The rest of the day he insists that I do all the heavy lifting. Our nanny tried to pick him up to put him in his highchair and he resisted screaming "Mommy do it." Since he often tells me to leave the room I'm thrilled to be top dog for once. Even if I hurt just a bit. I haven't put him or Baron down for their naps in weeks and I spend all day putting 1 of them to bed (their schedules are such at the moment that 1 wakes up and the other goes to bed). Even though the sleeping schedule means I rarely leave the house, I get a lot of 1 on 1 time with both boys, which is heaven. It's so nice rocking and snuggling Baron. He's pretty happy about it, too. When we're quietly walking around his room listening to music, I sing to him and he gazes up at me in awe and smiles (stark contrast to Miles who now says "don't sing, mommy."). Then he'll throw his little head back, open his mouth and pull my face to his. I kiss his bee stung lips a zillion times. Since my surgery I've spent so much time with him. Baron and I spend hours smiling, singing and cooing at each other. He's just so happy. He's rolling and trying to crawl. I often happily tell Miles that Baron's working on moving. "See how he gets his tushy in the air?" I ask Miles. And then the next time Baron caterpillars around I'll hear Miles say "Baron's tushy is crawling."

I need 3 more expansions but only have 2 weeks before I need to start radiation. Dr. Slate suggests that I come in twice a week and he'll just put less saline in so I'm not in terrible pain. So every 3 days I'm filled up a bit more. Each time I look more and more like Pamela Anderson. Not in clothes, thankfully, but naked the ladies are giant. Giant! Dr. Slate swears they're not and they're much smaller than my natural breasts but they point up towards the sky and it'skindof scary to look at them when I'm lying down. Amazingly, Dr. Slate can't believe I think they look fake. I must admit, however, that I love being braless (I'm not sure why it makes me think getting dressed is now much faster) and have been wearing shirts that I would have never worn before (like thin racer back tank tops sans bra) which I also love. I can't wait to buy a new wardrobe when I lose the rest of my Baron weight.

Before my last expansion I go to see Dr. Botnick. He wants to start planning and wants to make sure the expanders aren't too big and won't interfere with radiation. Marilyn, Dr. Botnick's nurse, calls me to tell me that I can't eat the morning of my appointment as I'm going to have a contrast dye scan. I confirm 100 times that I won't be radioactive and barred from picking up my kids. I wake up in the morning and out of habit make (and drink) my morning shake (whey protein, beets, kale, blueberries - sounds gross but is delish and I even get Miles to drink it). I proceed to eat oatmeal about 4 minutes before pulling into the parking lot of Dr. Botnick's office. Marilyn calls me from the waiting room and asks "did you fast?" Whoops. "Good thing," she says because Dr. Botnick decided not to do the scan today. Phew. As I'm being led to an examination room, I see Dr. Botnick walking down the hallway. I smile. He opens his arms for a giant hug like we're long lost best friends. I heart him. We hug, he tossles my hair and tells me I look great. I say something self-denigrating and he responds "I won't lay in to you today. But knock it off." I delve into the myriad of reasons I don't want radiation like lymphedema , future lung cancer or sarcomas, and uneven breasts (for $25,000 the ladies should be fucking perfect). "You'll be fine. You're young, you'll exercise." I show him my left arm and insist that it's larger than my right (Boris and I measured and although it's undetectable to the human eye (except mine) it really is). But he just repeats "you'll be fine." Sigh. He says I can complete the last expansion and that I should come in for scans and planning at the end of the week.

I sit in the waiting room to see Dr. Slate for the last time for 6 weeks. Me and my iPhone are minding our own business when a woman who appeared to be in her late 40s sits down across from me. I barely look up but she starts rummaging through her bag and talking about I have no idea what. I smile but don't respond (I try to mind my own business when sitting in the cancer center because people rarely have good things to say). She continues to talk and mumble and finally asks me point blank what kind of cancer I have. I tell her I do not have cancer (right!?) but had (past tense) breast cancer and she asks if I'm taking Tamoxifen. I explain that I had a triple negative tumor so I'm not. "That's what they told me I had," she says. "But they were wrong." She continues "I had a rare form of cancer called carcinoid cancer. It's spread throughout my body and I'm waiting to die." I am stunned and silent but finally ask her if she had scans after her diagnosis. "Scans don't work," she snaps. "I had PET/CT scans,MRI's and they told me I looked great and was cancer free." Holy fucking shit. I don't know if she's trying to be mean or scare the bejeezus out of me or if I need to drive straight to Dr. McAndrew's and ask if this is true. Maybe I have carcinoid cancer ravaging my body? Thankfully before I can burst in to tears or hysteria, I'm called in by the nurse. "Good luck," I lamely say.

I tell Dr. Slate about the misdiagnosed woman I met and how she's going to die. "Well that won't be you," he says. It can't be. Death is really not an option for me. If this shit comes back I'm going to be seriously pissed off. And somehow even though I know it's a real possibility, I don't really think it is. It's kindof like when I took the bar. I knew that 50% of the examinees failed and that I had a very real chance of failing, but I never really thought I'd be part of that 50% (and I wasn't). Granted I never really thought I'd get cancer in the first place, but death...no way. Dr. Slate fills up my expanders with the last 50cc's of saline, solidifying my Pamela Andersonness. I'm now at 510 cc's which is apparently a large C cup. Given that I was a large D (over 700cc's ) I should be happy, but they look so big it's crazy. "Not in clothes," Dr. Slate says. True. And then I'm done. Dr. Slate hugs me and tells me to call him if I have any concerns during radiation.

I have the weekend to get used to my new, giant, perfectly matched, perky boobs before I get to see what radiation does to them.

Take It Easy

My reunion with the boys at home is amazing for me, but not as I had romanticized. Miles does run up to me and give me giant hug (carefully!) but then only wants to talk about "mommy's new bed moves!" I had a hospital bed delivered so that I could get up and down by myself without crying and it totally upstaged my coming home. Baron remembers me and still likes me which makes me so happy. I sit down with Miles while he has lunch and then give Baron a bottle. I think that maybe not picking the boys up won't be nearly as torturous as I expected. Even though I think I'm doing nothing, the rest of the day Boris keeps telling me to stop doing things, take it easy and sit down. I don't know how to take it easy so it's really, really tough. My mom comes over to help with dinner and baths. I kiss Baron goodnight and my mom disappears in to his room with him. I follow Boris and Miles around as Miles gets his bath and milk and feel pretty useless. Although I'm so happy to just be near Miles, I wish I could snuggle him in his chair and put him to bed. Baron has been sleeping 5-7 hours each night (woo hoo!) so Boris and I are hoping for a good night's sleep. We should have known better. We hear crying around 2:00a.m. It's Miles. Boris gets up and I hear them talking. As soon as it gets quiet, Baron wakes up. Poor Boris! He gets both boys back to bed in a short time and returns to the bedroom. In the morning I tell him how sorry I am that he was up with both boys. He tells me that Miles was just excited that I was home. When he went into his Miles' room, Miles kept repeating that "mommy's here. Mommy's home. Mommy has ouchie. Mommy's new bed moves." But before I can be selfishly happy that my child woke up to talk about my return, Boris informs me that Miles also wanted to discuss the ponies he played with that day at my cousin's house. Oh well.

The following day goes much better than I anticipated. I am in agony, but am able to move around better than anyone expected. I spend my day as usual playing with the boys; it's just an altered, less physical play. Miles and I read books together (without him cuddled up to me or sitting in my lap like usual), play with his trucks and I even let him watch television for the first time ever to keep him still and in bed with me. Thankfully, he's not so interested in the television and after 10 minutes of Sesame Street, he climbs off the bed and runs down the hall. He's way more interested in watching diggers on the computer. He's opened up a new and fascinating world of entertainment for me. For example, this is his favorite video which he calls "noisy trucks" - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXhhXXsxSfE&feature=related. When he goes to the park I sit with Baron on the floor and play with him and even give him another bottle. He's super social and smiley and we chat and laugh and sing. Boris (who took the whole week off) and one of my nannies (I currently employ a staff. It's very fancy.) keep trying to make me sit down and won't let me touch a thing. I appreciate it but it's so hard to do nothing and while I worship having my house scrubbed 24 hours a day and my meals prepared for me, I feel so strange not even getting my own water. I nap (which never happens) and feel good other than the intense pain in my chest and hand.

I try to explain the pain to Boris. The best way I can describe it is to imagine having jagged plastic cups carving into your flesh. Or the tightest, most uncomfortable corset imaginable around your chest that you desperately want to take off only you can't. Ever. Or like you want to unzip your chest. It hurts to breathe deeply because it expands my chest. I tried rolling my shoulders back to stretch (no, I don't know why I did that) and almost died. Sometimes I'll move too quickly and will feel a searing pain in my chest. So I never know when I'm going to feel something horrifically painful or not. Good times.

That night as I'm following Boris and Miles out of the bath into Miles' room, Miles sees one of my drains. He gasps, points and yells "water! Mommy has water." I explain it's water from mommy's ouchie and will go away soon. He asks to see "mommy's new boobies," and I oblige. He doesn't seem bothered at all. He just smiles. My "new boobies," which Dr. Slate says are about a B cup look ridiculous on me. I look like a body builder with pecks. I now understand why Dr. Slate repeatedly told me I couldn't have small boobs. I'm just not made for them. But as crazy as I look, I can already tell that my new tatas are going to be really good. Really good. I have a perfect cleavage which is fake, but nice all at the same time. Even in all of my pain, I'm enjoying being braless as strange as it feels.

The next few days are spent the same way. Other than Miles wanting to see my new boobies a lot and talking constantly about my ouchie and new bed, things feel almost normal. Well, except for the not really being able to take care of my kids or be alone with them. At all. One night as I'm sitting with Baron and Boris is feeding Miles dinner, I notice I've missed a call on my cell phone. Then I notice it's from Tower and listen to the message immediately. It's Dr. McAndrew. She wants me to know that the results from my pathology report are in. And they're clear. All clear. No cancer. Anywhere! I cry. Boris and I hug. And cry some more. What a relief. At least for now. As Boris and I are putting Miles to bed, Miles strokes my face and says "make mommy feel better. Mommy sad." I tell him that he makes me so happy and that I'm only sad when I'm not with him and Baron. I can't tell him that I'm happy that I'm not going to die. At least for now. It's the cutest most tender thing ever. And then poof, the moment's gone and he asks "papa see mommy's boobs?" The good news goes relatively uncelebrated since I hurt and can't go anywhere anyway and really just need sleep. But that's kindof how things go now.

Our first weekend without our staff sucks. Big time. Poor Boris is exhausted as the boys decide to wake up every few hours. He runs from one room to the next calming everyone down and attempting to ensure sleep for all. On Saturday while Boris is putting Baron down for his nap, I stay outside with Miles and some friends. One of them has a gorgeous 3 year old who tries to help Miles down off a small ledge and ends up yanking him down on to hard stone. Miles starts shrieking and although I'm a few days out of surgery I instinctively pick him up and carry him inside. It is insanely painful but what's a mom to do? Seriously. Let him scream? It's bad enough that he asks to "go to park with mommy" every morning and I have to tell him no. So we snuggle inside and I clean the scratches on his little body. After that, Miles tells me several times a day that "mommy is clean." Initially I had no idea what he was talking about but then realized that each time he hurts himself I tell him we're going to clean his ouchie so it gets better. Now I'm the one with ouchies and I think he's trying to make sure I've cleaned them so they get better. I just want to pick him up and tell him I'm fine.

By the beginning of week 2 post-surgery I'm totally over not being able to pick up my boys. I know that in my hopeful grand scheme of things, 2 months isn't a long time (that's assuming I don't die prematurely) but at the moment it is torture. Torture! I think it's killing me. But so is my chest. I think the pain is worse, but it's been so bad it's hard to tell. I go to see Dr. Slate because the pain is so severe I'm sure something is wrong. Sadly there's not. Dr. Slate and his amazing nurse, Toni, ask me how much pain medication I'm taking. I had been trying not to take too much because they are so constipating, but they both tell me to get over it, drink some prune juice and take more medication. "Two pills a day isn't enough," Toni says. "You just had major, major surgery."

On the upside, they take my remaining 2 drains out. Besides not looking like I'm wearing a holster, I get to take my first real shower in 2 weeks. It feels amazing. Pre-surgery Miles and I would shower together so I'm finally able to shower with him again. We sit on the floor of the shower and chat and snuggle. He points to my ouchies and repeatedly asks "you okay mommy?" "I'm okay, Miles," I respond. "I'll get better every day." He also points up and says "what's this mommy?" "That's mommy's vagina," I tell him. "Eat it?" he asks? I'm constantly telling him and Baron that they're delicious and I'll nibble various body parts and I'll tell Miles that I want to eat him or gobble him up. Oy. Vey.

Miles goes to sleep for the first time in almost 2 weeks without protest and tears. As usual, I don't sleep as well. I'm still in too much pain. I can only lie on my back even though I desperately want to roll over onto my side. It's incredibly uncomfortable to lie in the same position all night long. Plus, I have a splint on my right arm and hand for carpal tunnels and a nighttime compression garment on my left since my lymphedema is acting up. The compression garment is thicker than an oven mitt and runs from my knuckles to my armpit. It's hotter than hell and I'm still having hot flashes every 10 minutes. It's ridiculous. I also haven't exercised in months which doesn't help and one of the numerous, fabulous side effects of chemo is that it makes me feel like I'm 93. My bones and joints are creaky and achy. So me and sleeping don't go so well of late. Or more accurately since last August.

The next morning I go to my last appointment with Dr. Slate before my expansion begins. The ladies look good. No fluid buildup and he's pleased with how I'm healing. Pleased enough to tell me that he'll start the expansion process next week. I tell him that I've "accidentally" picked Miles up twice and that Baron is so little and cute that I "accidentally" pick him up all the time. I want to hold him all the time. Toni looks at me like I'm crazy and shakes her head no. Dr. Slate explains, for the umpteenth time that my muscles are in a weakened state and that if I continue to lift heavy objects, like children, I could tear them and have to start all over again. Ugh. I know I'm trying to do too much but I honestly can't help it. I try to explain, for the umpteenth time, that it's impossible not to lift my kids at all. He tells me that he can't stop me or force me to follow his medical advice. But of course I don't want to hurt myself or worse, have to start this process over again. So I try to take it easy. Easier at least.

While I was in the hospital, Boris gave me a beautiful card that I couldn't read because I was blitzed out of my mind on opiates to which I had an allergic reaction and then needed Benadryl. Once home, I find his card and read it again. Boris writes "I can't begin to imagine how much pain you will simply brush aside in the coming few weeks as you labor to play with and bench press our children." How well he knows me. He also writes "I know this last stretch of pain and hardship comes after a long, hard road, but I can see the top from here." Me too.

Turn Mommy Off

It's the day before surgery. Again. Dr. Slate calls and I tell him I hope he's not telling me surgery is canceled. He's not. He's just calling to check in and see how I'm doing. I ask him if Dr. Phillips is totally recovered. He tells me that he did 3 surgeries with Dr. Phillips yesterday and he seemed okay. "He seemed okay is not a ringing endorsement," I say. "I want to hear that he's amazing and in the best shape ever." "Of course," says Dr. Slate, "I just meant he was already okay yesterday and those surgeries were just practice for yours." I sure hope so. Everyone keeps asking me how I'm feeling and how I'm holding up with this sad tone in their voice and it's driving me crazy. I wish I didn't have to talk to anyone but my boys (i.e. Miles, Baron, and Boris).

I'm incredibly sad all day but spend the day as usual with the boys. They're going to spend the night at my parents' house since I have to be at the hospital at 5:30 in the morning. I have several discussions with Miles throughout the day about my upcoming surgery. As I'm putting him to bed and after viewing my boobies for the last time, he lays in my arms and recounts the end of his day: "Sasha push Miles. Miles sad. Miles cry. Mommy hug Miles. Sasha Sad. Mommy go hospital. Mommy have ouchie. Ouchie go away." Then it's silent for several minutes. I think he's lost in deep thought or processing really complex information. He goes on to say "Green digger. Bulldozer dig deep hole." And he continues to repeat those thoughts over and over again for a long time. We bounce from Sasha pushing him to my ouchie to the bulldozer. I kiss him a zillion times, put him into his crib and tell him I'll see him in a few days. Thankfully it's dark in the room so he can't see me crying. When I come downstairs I am ecstatic that Baron is still awake even though he should have been sleeping almost an hour ago. I get to feed him one last time. I hold him and kiss his tiny face and tell him I'll see him in a few days and that I hope he's sleeping through the night when I get back. I can think positively, right?

Boris and I have our last supper for a few weeks at our favorite sushi restaurant. We come home to an empty and quiet house and take a few pictures of the ladies before they're gone. And then we pass out from stress and fear and exhaustion. I haven't set an alarm in 2 years and nearly fall out of bed when the buzzer goes off. I'm up immediately. I brush my teeth like a madwoman because I remember Boris telling me that my breath was offensive after my lumpectomy and jump in the shower. I can't eat, don't need anything other than some pajamas as I'll be in bed for the next few days so I throw on clothes and wait for Boris.

We arrive at Cedars and register. I cross out the section of the contract allowing residents and students to "learn" on me during surgery and then am lead into the pre-op room. I meet the "anesthesiologist" who is still a resident and cross-examine him about his training and experience. He passes and skillfully inserts my i.v. causing me little pain. The real anesthesiologist comes in to meet me and asks me several questions about my history with anesthesia and whether I'm allergic to any drugs. None that I know of. Boris joins me a few minutes before Dr. Slate enters the room. He's carrying a small briefcase which he opens and empties with great care. He's a perfectionist and you can see it in everything he does. He pulls the covers around my bed and hooks them shut with clothespins to ensure total privacy. I repeatedly tell him that I don't really care who sees my boobs, but he cares and doesn't want me to be uncomfortable. He measures me and starts drawing all over my chest. He makes thick, navy markings from my neck down to my belly button, under my breasts, across the nipples. I keep looking down to watch and he keeps asking me to look straight ahead. "Your breasts hang differently when your head is down," he tells me. "You are the calmest person I've seen before this procedure," he remarks. Dr. Phillips comes in and he and Dr. Slate discuss the road map on my chest. And then they're ready and tell me they'll see me in surgery. Boris kisses me goodbye many, many times and tells me it's going to be okay. I cry as the nurse wheels me away. The anesthesiologist tells me he's going to give me something to help me relax but the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room.

I hurt. A lot. And I'm so itchy I could cry. I'm groggy but remember the nurses driving me crazy trying to take my blood pressure and my temperature. I can't help but think who the fuck cares about my temperature? Please just let me be. Boris tells me they're just trying to help. He goes home to put the boys to bed and my Dad comes to take his place as I'm being tortured by yet another nurse. This one keeps trying to do something to do my leg. It's taking forever and when she's done she pulls the sheets over my foot. But the sheets are all tangled up and it feels terrible and I can't get her to understand what the problem is. I keep asking her to pull all the blankets over my foot and explain that she only pulled the top sheet over, not the bottom sheets. She can't figure it out and I'm so annoyed. I ask my Dad to scratch my face since I can't move my arms and am almost crying as I tell him to make the nurse fix the fucking sheets. After way too many tries, she gets it. A group of nurses wheel me from the recovery room to my room.

I want to die as the nurses transfer me from one bed to the other. It's so unimaginably painful. And they're still harassing me about blood pressure and lord knows what else. I just want someone to scratch every inch of my body I'm so itchy and want to be left alone. My Dad scratches my face for an hour. Dr. Slate comes to see me and wants to know why no one else has realized I'm having an allergic reaction to the Dilaudid that's supposed to be easing my pain. "You're flushed and it's not normal to be this itchy. The nurses should have noticed this while you were in recovery," he says. He instructs the nurse to switch me to Morphine instead. And I'm given Benadryl. Thank god. What would I do without him? I complain that I'm surrounded by annoying and retarded people (my Dad excluded, of course) and am so glad he noticed what no one else did. Unfortunately, the insane itchiness lasts all night. I wake Boris up multiple times to have him scratch my face or head or leg or seriously anything he can get to. I'm too weak to lift my glass of water so I have to wake him for that, too.

I barely sleep. The nurses are in and out monitoring my temperature and blood pressure. Apparently I'm running a fever. Rather than give me a Tylenol, the nurse puts an ice pack on my head. I'm serious. It keeps falling down my face or off my head completely and I can't fix it. I have to keep calling her in to the room. "Does this actually do anything?" I ask. "It's really annoying." She swears it does and finally puts it under my head. At 6:00a.m. I realize that not only am I suffering from itchiness, but my right hand is totally numb. I tell the nurse but she doesn't seem to care. She also won't give me another Benadryl because it hasn't been a full 6 hours since my last pill. Are you fucking kidding me? I ask her if it's the same Benadryl I can buy at any drug store. It is. I ask Boris to go buy me some so I can put myself out of this misery. In the meantime, I ask her if she's told Dr. Slate that I am so itchy I'm moving my body in ways that surely can't be good for me so soon after surgery to try to relieve myself. She says "I've told him that you are really itchy." "That is not what I asked you," I snap. "I asked you if you told him that I am moving my body in ways I shouldn't because I am so itchy and have no way to feel better." She says no and says she'll tell him. "I don't believe you," I say. "I want you to call him from my room so that I can hear your conversation with him," I tell her. She agrees to have Dr. Slate call me. I speak to Dr. Slate on the phone an hour later. He tells me that unfortunately, there aren't other strong pain medications that I'm likely to respond better to. My options are to be in less pain but itch like hell, or be in more pain and itch less. I opt for the latter and am taken off the Morphine drip and put on oral pain medication. As fabulous as Percocet is, it's not really equipped to alleviate the extreme pain I'm in. He also instructs the nurse to give me more Benadryl immediately. I don't want to rip my skin off anymore, so I guess that's good. One of Dr. Phillips' residents comes to see me and I tell her about the numbness in my right hand. She says it's nothing and there's nothing that can be done. "So I just suffer in agony and get no sleep?" I ask her. Apparently.

When Dr. Slate comes to see me for the second time of the day (we heart him so much) he tells me there is no way I'm going home tomorrow. Every time I saw him prior to surgery I informed him that I was going home from the hospital in 2 days. He would always respond "I am not going to restrain you, but let's just see how you feel." I know he's right and don't argue. Crap.

As I'm telling my Dad that I've been taken off Morphine thanks to Dr. Slate since no one else around here is competent, he asks me if I remember what happened with the nurses as they were moving me in to my new bed. I don't. Do you remember asking one nurse "what part of don't touch me don't you understand? and telling another 'get away from me?'" Sounds familiar. I think one of the nurses kept touching my boob and she was killing me. "What else was I supposed to do?" I ask my Dad. "Nothing," he says. "I just think it's amazing that you were ordering everyone around and fighting for yourself even in a drug induced stupor that you can't even remember. If I ever need taking care of, I hope I have you on my side." But of course.

2 hours later I hurt less and itch less so things are looking up. Except that my hand is still completely numb and the "pins and needles" in my fingers are excruciating. I complain to anyone who will listen. My nurse thinks it's because I have been in the same position for so long and helps me stand up and sit in a chair for the first time. The tightness in my chest is so unbelievable I can't breathe. I can't believe it hurts this much to get out of bed and sit still in a chair. But it does. My right hand however feels much better. I sit in the chair for 30 minutes which I think is a miracle but the nurse doesn't find so impressive. She wants me to sit there a while longer so that someone can change my sheets but I tell her I might die if I don't lay down 10 minutes ago. I lie down and Dr. McAndrew comes to see how I'm doing. I tell her about the itching and the numbness in my hand, but that it seems to be much better. She leaves and of course my hand goes numb again. This time for hours. I get up and move around but nothing helps. I even take a walk around the floor which the nurse does find impressive. I tell my nurse a zillion times that something is wrong and that I fear my hand might fall off. Boris swears it won't. I can't sleep it hurts so badly. Finally the nurse calls a doctor. Excuse me, a resident (for fuck's sake!!!) who is as equally useless as every other resident who has come to see me. He looks at my arm and hand and touches it. He runs his finger over the bandage where my port was and asks what it is. "It's where they removed my port," I tell him. "What is this?" he repeats. OMFG. Shoot me. "Like I said 3 seconds ago, it's where they removed my port. Is something about that sentence confusing to you?" Jesus. He tells me that the numbness is nothing, that there's nothing that can be done and that it will go away in time.

I wake up after what feels like 10 minutes of sleep to my next door neighbor hacking up a lung. Boris gives me sponge bath and I feel much better. It's been well over 12 hours since my hand went numb again. Dr. Phillips' understudies come to see me and again tell me it's nothing and that there's nothing that can be done to help. A few hours later a woman comes in and introduces herself. She's from whatever department the port installation/removal is in. She starts to ask me some questions about my port. I just look at Boris in awe. He tells her that my port was removed. "Oh. Was there something wrong with it?" she asks. I am dying. "I didn't need it anymore," I say in total disbelief. "Hmm. Well when was it taken out?" she asks. "I cannot talk to her," I tell Boris. Boris tells her it was removed during surgery and this woman actually says "this surgery?" Boris nods and she gives some lame excuse about how she had to check and blah blah blah but um, my chart is on the fucking door and my surgery notes clearly state "bi-lateral mastectomy with port removal from right arm," not to mention everything at Cedars is on a centralized computer. Maybe she can't read? I tell Boris that I think the doctors affiliated with Cedars are amazing but you're totally fucked if you actually have to stay here. I seriously have never been surrounded by such stupid people, asked such stupid questions, period, let alone by people who are supposed to be taking care of me. And this is a good hospital. I seriously can't even imagine what it must be like elsewhere. I just know I wish I was at St. John's. Sad since I much prefer a mazuzah on my door to Jesus hanging over my head, but whatever.

But then that afternoon the heavens part and a beam of light walks through my door. Dr. McAndrew. I tell her that my hand has been numb forever and no one cares. She says the only thing she can think of is that she knows I had a blood pressure cuff on my right wrist for 7 hours during surgery (my right upper arm was off limits due to the port and my left arm is off limits forever) but says that there is medication I can take that might help the pain. Dr. Slate comes in a short while later. He doesn't understand why the nurses didn't call him last night and he's pissed. Me too! He wants me to see a neurologist immediately. He and Dr. McAndrew have a neurologist in my room within the hour. All is well with the world. The neurologist does a series of tests on my fingers, hand and arm and asks me numerous questions. He concludes that I probably had a very mild case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome prior to surgery (hence the numbness in my right hand after chemo). It's quite common with the late stages of pregnancy and can be induced by chemo as well. And then the blood pressure cuff squeezing my wrist off and on for 7 hours worsened everything. Great. Just what I need. Carpal Tunnel. What!? The neurologist says it will go away on its own but he orders a splint for me to wear as much as possible, but always when I sleep. Dr. Slate waits in my room until the splint arrives. He also berates the nurses (in his charming way) and instructs them that I am his private patient and they are to call him and only him should I need anything. The splint doesn't completely fix the "pins and needles" in my hand, but it makes it bearable and I nap for the first time in 2 days. Before the night shift starts, I meet my new nurse. "Just in case I need anything, I want to make sure you know," and I can't finish the sentence because she interrupts me to say that she knows she is to call Dr. Slate if I need anything at all. Phew.

After constantly being told that nothing was wrong when something was or maybe because I was mad for 2 days straight and no one understood why, several people from the "Patient Care" center come to ask what they can do to make my stay better. I'm offered the "deluxe" menu (aka hospital food on glass plates) and parking passes. In addition to being "cared for" by idiots, apparently I waited a long time for a bed. Who knew? The Breast Center also sends a gift basket which is so nice. Even the anesthesiologist comes in to see how my hand is. He reminds me that he had few options for the blood pressure cuff.

I have a computer date with Miles before I have dinner. It's the best. He's so happy to see me he's climbing up on the kitchen island trying to get in to the computer. "I love you, mommy," he yells. I die of happiness. We chat about his day and he repeatedly tells me "mommy in hospital." I feel so much better and happier after seeing him. My mom holds Baron in front of the camera and he has this hilarious look that says "what the hell is going on here?" but I tell him I love him and miss him. I hold court for dinner as several good friends bring Boris and I food and visit. I tell Boris that he should sleep at home so he can get some rest and wake up with the boys. Now that I'm able to scratch my own face and lift a cup of water, I don't need him to suffer on a hospital cot. And so my room empties and I go to sleep. For 2 hours. For some fascinating reason, my nurse wakes me up at midnight to look at my incisions. "I didn't want to disturb you while you had company," she says. My company left 2 hours ago. "So you thought it was better to disturb me while I was sleeping?" I ask her. I tell her to please leave me alone unless she needs to do something that is actually necessary and useful. I can't wait to get the hell out of here. I already told Dr. Slate that I was leaving tomorrow and barring any trauma tonight, he agreed. He said that he'd be in to see me around 11:00a.m.

I sleep for 7 much needed hours straight. I wake up to my neighbor hacking up a lung again. I get up and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Dr. Phillips' minions walk in the room and I think look shocked to find me up. I lie down so they can inspect me and when they ask how I am doing, I inform them that I'm much better thanks to Dr. McAndrew and Dr. Slate. I tell them how angry I am that I suffered needlessly for 2 days and that contrary to everything they told me, there were things that could be done to relieve my pain. They should have called someone who knew what they were doing, I add. They're mostly mute and then leave.

Boris calls me and we have another computer date with Miles. This time he's far less enchanted with me. I keep telling him how much I miss and love him and after a minute of me, he starts saying "see trucks. See noisy trucks. See diggers!" After a few more minutes he yells "turn mommy off! See noisy trucks." I can't compete with YouTube videos of construction vehicles so I tell him I'll see him soon. "Bye mommy!" he shouts. Boris assures me it's a sign of his comfort with the situation and independence but it still makes me want to cry. Boris brings me breakfast, I give him a father's day gift and promise that we'll have a better celebration next year. And then as promised, a few minutes after 11, Dr. Slate enters the room. "You still want to go home?" he asks. Absolutely! He removes 2 of my 4 drains (painlessly thank goodness) and says I just have to wait for a wheelchair. The nurses must have wanted me out as soon as humanly possible because the wheelchair is outside of my room before Dr. Slate leaves. It was about the only prompt and on-the-ball thing they did my whole stay.

In less than 10 minutes I'll get to see my boys and I cannot wait!

The Dog Ate my Homework

It's the day before my surgery. I'm planning on having a relaxing day with my boys. Boris and I haven't decided whether we'll go out to dinner and I haven't decided whether I want to take pictures of my breasts before they're gone. I have the day to decide. I spend the morning at the park with Miles as usual and come home to play and snuggle with Baron. Katie 1 comes over for lunch. She makes me feel so much better about my surgery. She tells me what it was like for her, what I should expect and shows me her boobs, again. They're still so good that I just feel better knowing that's what I'll look like, too.

Halfway through our lunch my phone rings. It's Dr. Slate. "I need to talk you about your surgery tomorrow," he says. This seems weird since we've already taken care of everything, but okay. "I just got out of surgery and was told that Dr. Phillips is in the hospital with food poisoning. I don't think he can perform your surgery tomorrow," he says. I am in shock and am speechless, which is a pretty major for me. I look at Katie 1 and then say "are you kidding?" He's not. "So what does this mean?" I ask. Dr. Slate says that they will have to reschedule my surgery until next Thursday. It's the first day they could squeeze me into their schedules. Or I could get a "fill in" surgeon which is obviously not an option. Holy shit. "Is that okay?" Dr. Slate asks. Of course it's not okay. I've been emotionally preparing myself for the past 3 weeks for surgery tomorrow and now it's postponed for an entire week. But what choice do I have? And it's really quite fitting for me and everything else that's occurred. Because whose surgery gets canceled because their surgeon landed himself in the hospital with food poisoning? Only me.

I guess it could be worse. I could have been the patient in surgery with him when he got sick and had to leave.

So now I have another week with my boys. And another week to agonize over my upcoming surgery. Shoot me.

Two Big Ones

I have three weeks of freedom. Post-chemo, pre-surgery. I want to spend every minute I can with all three of my boys. I keep my appointments down to the necessities. No acupuncture, no lymphedema treatments, just surgeons and pedicures. Miles and I live at the park. The second we come home I spend time with Baron and I switch off between the 2 until they go to bed. Then Boris gets home and we spend our evenings together. We celebrate our 3rd wedding anniversary and try to joke about what an eventful 3 years it's been. 3 years, 2 babies and cancer. Boris tells me that even though this year has been unbelievably challenging, he's so happy to be sharing his life with me and will be by my side when times are better, too.

I have my last 2 appointments with Dr. Phillips and Dr. Slate. Dr. Phillips explains the surgery again and answers my remaining few questions. He tells me that he needs to push my surgery date back by 3 days because he needs to perform surgery on someone with esophageal cancer. No problem. What's 3 days? Before I leave, his patient coordinator comes in to meet me and go over the administrative aspects of the procedure. While she's talking she casually mentions that "since Dr. Phillips isn't a provider," and I have no idea what she says next because I'm in shock over the beginning of her sentence. "What are you talking about?" I ask. "Didn't you know that he's not a provider? Kristi Funk usually tells people when she refers him," she says. No I didn't know and am in a bit of shock. "I need to know what the costs are that I'll be responsible for," I tell her. I also tell her that I'm still waiting for information regarding the blood bank and the tests I need to have to be able to use Seth's blood should I need it. She assures me she'll get me the information immediately. I'm panicked. Dr. Slate is going to cost me a fortune (I'd say an arm and a leg, but really it's 2 boobs) and I can't imagine that Dr. Phillips is a bargain. But what am I going to do? Switch surgeons? Again? I like Dr. Phillips the best and think he's the best surgeon so I'm kindof stuck regardless of what the cost is. But still.

I don't hear back from the patient coordinator. The following day I call her again. She tells me that she's left messages for Valerie who has the information regarding the cost of the surgery. She offers me Valerie's email and I take it. But the next morning when I still haven't heard from anyone I realize that I am fucking livid and that it is not my responsibility to track down basic information that I should have been given months ago. So I send an email to the patient coordinator and Valerie and "bcc" Dr. Phillips. The tone of the email is, let's say, harsh. To summarize I tell her that I am livid, that it's unacceptable to have learned that Dr. Phillips isn't a provider 3 weeks prior to surgery, that it is her and her responsibility alone to have provided me with that information (not another doctor's), that it is unacceptable that I still don't have that information and that while double mastectomies and blood transfusions may be no big deal to her and her office, it is to me, that I have 2 children under 2 and can't simply race off to Cedars whenever she feels like sending me information regarding the blood bank and that while I am confident that Dr. Phillips is the best surgeon, I am seriously concerned about his staff and moving forward. And guess what? I have all the information I need within the hour. Sort of. Valerie tells me that Blue Shield is a bit different (which is weird since they are just as fucked up as any other insurance company) and that since Dr. Phillips isn't covered, neither is the hospital. I assure her that that cannot be correct and suggest that she speak to a supervisor at Blue Shield. "If that's the case I can't use Dr. Phillips. The hospital is the expensive part. But a hospital that is covered doesn't become un-covered because a doctor providing care there isn't a provider," I tell her. She calls back to tell me I'm correct. Amazing.

Now that the drama of surgery has been settled, I move on to the next drama. I wake up in the morning with what looks like a bug bite on my left breast. Since I recently saw a video on inflammatory breast cancer during which multiple women thought they had bug bites on their breasts only to find out it was inflammatory breast cancer and died shortly thereafter, I call Dr. McAndrew panicked. I leave her a message informing her that I might have inflammatory breast cancer and have to see her right away. Her nurse returns my call and informs me that I do not have inflammatory breast cancer, but that I should come in that afternoon just to alleviate my concerns. Thankfully, she was correct but I had to wait over an hour for Dr. McAndrew to see me for 2 minutes to get confirmation. But that's my new life. Life post-cancer. Any bug bite, headache, joint pain, breathing problem is now in my head some form of cancer that might kill me. I also tell Dr. McAndrew that I've been having horrible neuropathy in my right hand. It's completely numb almost every morning for close to 30 minutes at a time. I didn't have any problems with my hands during chemo and am nervous something is wrong (but of course). Plus, I'm still swollen and thought I wouldn't be by now. She sadly tells me that side effects from chemo can last for months and that often, new side effects occur after chemo is finished (for example half of my left eyebrow fell out after I finished treatment). Rude.

I rush home just in time to give Baron his bath and Miles his dinner. Baron and I are in love which I think is a miracle given how little I feel like I see him. He gazes at me with the most beautiful stare and laughs like I'm the funniest person on earth. He has the most magnificent smile that says "oh my god! It's you! I'm so happy to see you!" every time I see him even if I've only been away for 45 seconds. I get to spend a few minutes rocking him to sleep before it's time for me to put Miles to bed. I wonder when I'll ever be able to put both of them to bed and not give Baron to someone else.

In the past month, Miles has become obsessed with my boobs. Obsessed. They're now part of his bedtime routine. The irony. Each night after he has his milk and we read a zillion books I tell Miles that it's time for us to snuggle and then he'll go into his bed. He sits on my lap facing me and lays his head on my shoulder. He used to stay that way until he was ready for his bed. But not so much anymore. Now he sits up and says "find mommy's boobies. Open it (pointing to my shirt)." I lift my shirt and Miles yells "I found them!" But tonight as I lift up my shirt Miles says "two big ones!" I can't stop laughing it's so funny. He laughs too. I say "yes, mommy has two big boobies." "Miles has big boobies?" he asks while looking at his chest. "No monkey," I tell him. "Just mommy."

The next morning me and my 2 big ones go to see Dr. Slate for the last time before my surgery. I decide I'll go to the blood bank for my requisite blood typing/screening afterwards. Dr. Slate is 45 minutes late and I'm pissed. I could have had my blood drawn instead of idly waiting. Not to mention I'm missing time with the boys which makes me die. When I finally see him he asks if I'm okay and I tell him I'm really angry that I've been waiting so long and that I wish someone would have told me so that I could have made better use of my time. Dr. Slate is so apologetic and tells me he'll make sure I don't have to wait to get my blood drawn. He answers my last few questions about the procedure like when can I exercise and drive and remind him, again, that I want small boobs. When we're done talking, he escorts me to the blood bank as promised. "Are you okay if I tell a white lie to speed things up?" he asks. To get me what I want? Absolutely.

We enter the blood bank and there are at least 10 people sitting in the waiting room. Dr. Slate breezes into the back room and starts talking to one of the technicians. "I have to get her back to chemo immediately," he says. Thank goodness for my scarf! Although the clerk at the front desk is reluctant to let me jump to the front of the line, the technician tells me to come on in and leads me to a chair. Dr. Slate comes with me. I start my yoga breathing as the technician wraps the tourniquet around my arm. It always makes we want to throw up. But before I know it I'm done. As we're walking through the waiting room, Dr. Slate loudly says "okay, we'll come back," just to not piss anyone waiting off. He tells me that as his patient, his responsibility is to take care of me no matter what the issue is. I heart him.

And then I have my last appointment before surgery: lab work and an EKG at Tower. I want to cry when the nurse tells me she'll have to draw blood from my vein instead of my port. Why have a port? Plus, I just had blood drawn from my vein yesterday and wish I had known what they needed. I could have handled everything at the same time. I almost pass out. Again. I am the worst patient ever. The irony. The EKG thankfully is fast. Not because it hurts, but because the nurse is so dumb I think I'll die if I have to be near her any longer. At one point she asks me if I have kids. Really? I was only in here giantly pregnant and was the only person who was in here giantly pregnant, but whatever. She laughs and says "oh right. There are just so many patients here, you know?" I'm silent. Then when she opens my gown to attach the EKG nodes to my chest she says "oh now I can see that you have kids. But it's not too bad." OMG. Who says that? Especially because I am half her size 3.5 months after giving birth. But again...whatever. The EKG makes me think about Mattie since she's supposed to have one every 6 months and hasn't had one all year. And then I think about Norman and how much I miss him and how awful the end of his life was.

I decide that it's finally time to start talking to Miles about my surgery so that he'll know what to expect and in light of his recent obsession with my boobs, he needs to know that they're going to look different soon. I never had to talk to him about being sick because other than losing my hair, he didn't know I was. I never acted sick around him or let chemo interfere with my activities with him. And so while he and I are snuggling in his chair before bed and while he's asking to "see mommy's boobies," I tell him that mommy has a problem in her boobies called cancer and the doctors are going to take mommy's boobies away to make mommy better. "Mommy will have new boobies," I say. "Mommy will go to the hospital for 2 or 3 night night sleeps and when I come home I will have an ouchie where my boobies are. We will have to be gentle with mommy's body. But then the ouchie will go away." Miles is quiet for several minutes. Then he starts stroking my belly. "Take mommy's belly away?" he asks. "That would be nice, but no. Just mommy's boobies." He's quiet for a few more minutes, then smiles and shouts "new boobies!!" He kisses me on the lips and lays his head on my chest and just lies there for a long time. Then he jumps off my lap and runs over to his book case. "Another book," he says. "Read more books." I tell him he can pick out 1 book for us to read before bed. "2 books," he says. "1," I respond. "2 books. 2," he says. "1 book, monkey." And Miles picks out Shel Silverstein's "A Light in the Attic" and brings it to me. I think he's a genius. Or maybe I just think he's like me. If he can only have 1 book it's going to be the thickest, longest, biggest book he owns.

In the morning when he wakes up, Boris brings him into our bed where I'm snuggling with Baron. Miles turns to Boris and says "mommy in hospital. New boobies." Boris looks at me. "That's what Miles took away from our cancer conversation last night," I tell him. Leave it to my genius son to sum it all up in 5 words.