Still waiting…

WARNING – This post may be uncharacteristically whiny and cranky.  It is boring, and lacks any pictures or “fun stuff.”  Maybe its the heat.  Maybe its the start of menopause, or maybe, just MAYBE it’s the WAITING!

So, last year when we were first diagnosed with the Cowden’s Syndrome, the geneticist suggested my daughter and I each be followed regularly by an oncologist who would act as a ‘case manager’ of sorts.  Seemed logical.  We got Meghan set up with a doctor in NYC.  She actually has experience treating “patients like us.”  We thought we were golden.  She ordered the initial scans for Meghan (and even for me) of the brain.  She ordered Meghan’s thyroid sonogram, and her biopsy last November. 

Well, that biopsy was a traumatic train wreck to say the least.  To make it worse, when we spoke to the oncologist about it she was defensive of the doctor she had sent us to.  We moved the biopsy slides to another hospital and she was obviously annoyed.  She is still Meghan’s oncologist of record, but we haven’t seen her in months.

I tried an oncologist here at home.  He listened, the first visit, and the second.  On the second visit he suggested I look into having the remainder of my thyroid removed prophylactically.  He gave me the name of a surgeon and told me to go ASAP.  So, when I called to make an appointment with the surgeon and he wouldn’t see me, I called my oncologist back.  He would not get on the phone with me, and would not call the doctor on my behalf.  I was livid, but found myself an endocrine surgeon who (at least for now) advised against removing the rest of my thyroid.

When I called my oncologist back in late January to schedule my breast MRI.  I was told it was too early.  I reminded them that February marked 6 months since my last, and in fact it was right on time.  They refused to authorize the MRI until late March.  Well, we know how that turned out.  When they called me with the authorization number I laughed at the irony of the whole thing, and told them I didn’t need another appointment.

So, there was the mastectomy in March.  Great surgeons, great catch, great job.

There was the hysterectomy in May.  Again, great surgeon.  Job well done.

The surgeon in May recommended an oncologist in her practice for me.  I called to make an appointment.  I was told to fax my paperwork.  I asked if they could just look in my chart.  It is all shared between the doctors.  No, please fax it.  Ok – 39 pages later – and a huge fight with my fax machine… I got it. 

They called today to tell me the oncologist thinks I should see a geneticist instead.  Gee isn’t that ingenious?  That is how I got diagnosed to begin with.   Dope.  They will look into it and call me back.

I am starting to feel like PTEN mutation is some sort of plague.  What is WRONG with these people?

Which brings me back to my girl.  In February the surgeon(who people travel the world to see) for her AVM said that her next surgery would need to be at Boston Children’s Hospital.  They were not sure exactly when, but July was floated as a possibility.  So we went last Thursday, the 28th of June for her MRI.  After a grueling 2 hours, we left with a CD in hand, and the promise that the results would be at the NY surgeon’s office Monday.

I took the copy of the disk I had, put a cover letter on it, and sent it to the Boston surgeon we met in April, promising him a report would soon follow.

Monday I called the NY surgeon for the results.  I was told the disk hadn’t arrived.  They would call me.  I called again this morning.  I reminded the receptionist that I really was anxious about the results.  It’s on his desk she told me.  She also told me he leaves today for vacation till Monday.  I asked her to be sure someone calls me today.  I carried my cell phone ALL day. 

It’s 10:04.  I guess I will be waiting till Monday.  Really?  I know it could be worse.  It could always be worse, but enough with the lack of compassion, the inability, and lack of desire to follow through.  Enough with being scared of treating us because you don’t quite understand what we have.  Enough WAITING!

The Perks of Breast Cancer and Implants!

 Come on, there had to be some benefits.

It’s going up to about 97 degrees today.  And while I still can’t swim, thanks to some LINGERING hysterectomy healing… I had an “AHA!” moment as I got dressed today.

There are these adorable spaghetti strapped camisole tops.  You know them, the ones that have the shelf bra that couldn’t hold a damn thing, so you keep wearing a bra under it, and then you wear another top over it to hide the straps, ending up hotter than you were to begin with?  I see girls and women with them all the time.  I have about 6 in my closet.  All colors.

Today as I got dressed the thought occurred to me to try it without a bra.  Just to see.

Well I’ll be damned.  There is a benefit to fake size A boobs.  I can hop, skip and jump.  They don’t move.  No bra required.  No nipples makes for even less worry.

I will be much less sweaty than my friends today. 

See – even cancer can have a bright side! 

Smile 12 a
Smile 12 a (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Bathing suits and other insecurities…

Some days I forget.  I really do.  Some days the thought that I had my boobs cut off and replaced with these round silicone implants doesn’t even cross my mind.  Then, there are other days.

This morning I took a shower.  Not a rare occurence, but maybe it was rare that I wasn’t late.  That I had time to really look at things.  So I looked in the mirror.  First, at the small hysterectomy scars that are healing quite nicely.  (While I still have ISSUES with whatever is provoking the NEVER – ENDING bleeding inside, the outside scars look great.)

Then, I looked up.  Staring me right in the face were these perfectly round circles where my boobs used to be. 

Breast implant: saline solution filled breast ...

 There is a scar across each one.  No nipple on ether.  There is also the most bizarre indentation under my arm on both sides.  I looked at it for  a while.  Then I realized it was my ribs.  It just looks weird.  And wrong.  There should be some kind of tissue there hiding my ribs.  I am sure of it.

I took a few deep breaths.  I reminded myself that I would have the luxury of drying my large head of curly hair – because the cancer that was hiding in the left boob was gone.  For good.  No treatments.  No worry.  Just have to get used to the new landscape.

I put on my bra.  One of the new ones with the A cup.  I tightened the straps.  I wiggled this way and that.  Still there were these huge gaps.   Even the bra people don’t figure on what you are supposed to do to cover ribs where they shouldn’t be.

I did manage to get it together, and get out the door to work.  I am sure no one noticed any of my insecurities as I went about my day, but they were there.  Nagging me.

Since I am somewhat of a masochist, I decided today would be the day to try on the bathing suits.  There were 6 in all in my drawer.  Four of them literally fell off of me.  One was full of “extra fabric” as my husband put it, and the other one – well that one wasn’t so bad at all.  A relief I guess that when I get the OK from the hysterectomy surgeon, at least I have a suit to put on.

I went tonight to the mastectomy section of an online retailer to buy myself a real suit.  I was so confused.  Unsure of my own size, and which will cover enough, I settled on a (way too expensive for my taste) tankini.  It should arrive in a few days.  Maybe it will even fit.

Summer is coming, fast and furious.  Whether I like it or not, the new body is making its debut. 

Look out world – with a slightly flatter belly, and some perky new boobs – here comes the new me. 

At least I don’t have to worry about my nipples sticking out at all the wrong times!

I am getting more ready – one day at a time!

Collateral Damage

Collateral Damage (film)
Collateral Damage (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Collateral damage occurs when something incidental to the intended target is damaged during an attack. (Wikipedia)

 

I don’t think it’s far-fetched to equate Cowden’s Syndrome to a war.

Our bodies are under attack.  This PTEN (tumor suppressor gene) is broken, and we are being bombarded with cellular overgrowth in the form of all sorts of tumors – benign and malignant. 

We spend our days, (and some of our nights) strategizing on how to prevent, fight, or get rid of these tumors.

It can be an all-consuming job.

When we have to have the tumors removed there is the recovery time, which can seem endless.  The battle scars, which forever change the landscape of our bodies also take some getting used to.

There is the financial drain, from lost wages, and the endless battles of medical bills are a war onto themselves.

There is also the  battle of trying to feel well all the time, while convincing people that this is a legitimate illness, and you really are sick.

This is a war my daughter and I are fighting together.  Each on our own road, but we are battling the same enemy.

Like in every war it is inevitable that there is collateral damage.

Haughton play park 20070602
Haughton play park 20070602 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  Today was the 3rd grade play at my daughter’s school.  It was also “Family Fun Day,”  where the parents and children in the entire 3rd grade head to a local park and spend 3 hours chatting, playing and sharing a picnic lunch.

It was about 82 and sunny here today.  The weather hasn’t been this perfect in weeks.

And I, I was at work.  My daughter was at “Family Fun Day” with some very caring mothers of the friends she has in her class.

How is this all connected?  Very easy.

If I were not me, fighting Cowden’s Syndrome, and all its ramifications, and taking care of a girl who is also fighting it… maybe I could have been there.

Instead, I missed 4 days of work for her AVM surgery, 24 days for my double mastectomy, 12 days for my hysterectomy, and when there are only 183 school days in the year, you can see the percentages aren’t good.

I got permission to go in an hour late.  I got in to see the dress rehearsal of the show.  I stole 10 minutes on my lunch to drive by the park.  And I spent the whole day thinking how nice it would have been to just take a personal day and hang with my kid.

She is such a good girl.  “Don’t worry Mommy, I understand.  I am so glad you are feeling better, and I know you need to get back to work.  Maybe next year we will all have less surgeries, and then you can come?”

Collateral damage – my girl having to grow up so damned fast.

I really do hate this disease.

Silicone sweats!

Silicone sweats.

AND I have to find a bathing suit.

That was what I realized yesterday.

In the midst of Memorial Day celebrations, and honoring our veterans, I was somewhat consumed by the those thoughts.  I have to admit.

Silicone sweats.

AND I have to find a bathing suit.

I know the mercury was at about 90 degrees in New York.  We opened the pool so my daughter could swim.  Usually I would be right there with her, but that is a no-no on my hysterectomy recovery list.

My bathing beauty taking a swim in the Disney hotel pool. She LOVES to swim.

She is plenty tall enough to swim alone.  So I watched her from the deck, and I sweated.  It wasn’t my normal sweat either.  The sweat was actually pooling through the skin around my silicone implants. I don’t think it was a hot flash.  “The new girls” were the only thing hot.  But boy oh boy do I need a few more bras to get through the summer!

I could check the internet for some mastectomy recovery site.  I could ask if that is normal, but there really is no need.  Normal or not – in this body silicone sweats.  Plus, by that time I was too consumed with my other reality.

I NEED A BATHING SUIT!

Now, I haven’t gotten the all clear to swim yet, but even if it is another week or two, it will come.  Then what?  My old suits are now from about 15 pounds ago, and my boobs are a full size smaller than they were last May!

When I refused the tissue expanders as we were laying out my mastectomy in March, I knew I would end up with smaller boobs.  I wasn’t even worried about going from a b/c cup to an a/b.  It seemed to match my recent weight loss.  But I never expected the impact this would have on my shirts!  I have had to replace almost every top in my closet for some reason or another.  I bought great bras (although with the sweat factor, clearly not enough) but they couldn’t help the shirts.  My T shirts had to be sized down, and many of my “fancier” shirts had to be removed.  It was a pain, but I finally got a working spring closet that I can live with – for now.

Of course a bathing suit is a whole other situation.  My implants are rounder, perkier, and smaller than my other boobs.  They are also a bit uneven, (courtesy of the 7 biopsies I had on the right prior to the surgery.)  You can see my ribs under my arms – there isn’t any breast tissue there any more.  I used to just buy my suits in Costco.  Yep, Speedo right off the rack.  There was no way I was putting this body into anything fancy.  But now what do I do?

Mom will have some advice on this one.  Her mastectomy was 15 years ago, but with no permanent implants, she has to find bathing suits to hold her prosthesis.  And, she always looks well put together.

Silicone sweats, so I definitely need a bathing suit before we get too far into summer.  And this hysterectomy recovery CAN’T go on forever!

I think I’ll call Mom!

You Don’t LOOK Sick

“You don’t look sick!”

If I had a dollar for every time someone directed that comment at my daughter or I, I would be retired – a wealthy woman.

We don’t “look” sick.  As a matter of fact we look alike.  A lot alike. It’s probably due to the fact that I, having the ‘honor’ of being the first in my family known to have the PTEN mutation that causes Cowden’s Syndrome.  To look at us, you would see a vibrant mother and daughter duo – 8 and 38.

We have a lot in common.

When I push her through Disney World in her modified wheel chair each summer, I get the stares that say “spoiled.”  When I pushed her through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer walk last fall so we could support my mom, a survivor, someone actually said “Why don’t you get the ten year old out of the stroller?”  Actually she is 8, and she would much rather walk.

You can’t see the AVM in her knee.  The one that has cost her 4 surgeries with an expert people travel the world to see.  You can’t know by looking at her that in February he told us he could not “fix” it.  That he was placing us under the care of another surgeon hours away.  You can’t by looking at her, see the constant swelling.  You can not see the pain.

That is because she is ALWAYS smiling.  She can work a room, and make everyone feel welcome and important.  She is a star student, reading almost 2 years above grade level.  She is friendly, and funny. (She had to get something from her DAD.)  She is confident enough to dance, and participate in storytelling contests.  (Not sure exactly WHO that comes from.)

She takes medicine for pain, medicine for anxiety, medicine for viruses that plague her, medicine for allergies, medicine for her stomach – to ease digestion.  She takes countless diet and nutritional supplements.  She follows a Gluten Free, Casein Free, Soy Free diet without a minute’s hesitation.  She is polite, and extremely well behaved.

I am so proud of her.  Last week when she was having one scan after another they called her a “model patient.”  Now I must confess when she was a baby and I was wondering what she would be good at, being a model patient wasn’t on my list of aspirations.  But since she is good at so many things, the fact that she handles her appointments in stride makes me proud, and confident that she will have the ability to stay out in front of this wretched disease.

“You don’t look sick.”

But yet, we are.  She had surgery in February for that pesky AVM.  I had a diagnosis of breast cancer in March, and a complete hysterectomy in May.  Next month we will take her to have the precancerous thyroid nodules reevaluated, and to have another scan on the knee to pin down when the next surgery will be.  Not if, but when.

With all of these ‘invisible” illnesses come worry.  It is not uncommon for me to talk to my 8 year old about if she will need a mastectomy, even before her own breasts have developed.  She asks me if she will need a hysterectomy.  A wild question, when the concept of what she will be when she grows up hasn’t even been ironed out.  But she is astute.  She knows she will likely walk my road.  She watches.  She thinks.  She asks.

So no, she doesn’t look sick.  Neither of us do, but some days reality is tougher to face than others.  Some days that happy face is a little harder to find.

So, when she woke up today after PT Thursday, kickboxing, and swimming lessons on Friday, she was sore.  Really sore. The celebrex wasn’t helping.  She couldn’t bend her knee.  I rubbed and stretched.  She was annoyed.

She is allowed to be annoyed, here in this house.  She is allowed to be discouraged and disgusted.  I have been all of those things this week, and I know its important to let them out.  I am recovering from my second surgery in less than three months.  I am tired.  I am annoyed, and aside from a few treasured folks who keep checking in, I am really really lonely.  This surgery seems to have pushed a lot of my support network over the edge.  They are a bit tired I guess.  It’s hard to be there for someone when your own life still keeps going, I know.  Especially when they don’t look sick.

So, today she had a turn.  She was discouraged about the prospect of more surgery, and disgusted that the knee seems to remain swollen.  She mourned her dream of running track.  She cried about the permanence of this disease.  She told me she wished she could get sick with something “normal” like a broken arm.  You know, something that can be “fixed.”  She sobbed out her frustration with doctors, surgeries, cancer, and the worries connected with each.  She wants to be more like her friends.   More carefree.

My heart ached as I held her.  She is a tough cookie, but we are all entitled to lose it.  I cried because I felt sad about giving this to her.  I held her tightly and told her how much I love her.  We went through a few tissues, and some long talks.  Lots of things I can tell her I understand, and then some things I can’t.  I told her she can cry.  She can be mad.  She can worry.  She just can NEVER let it win.  She can NEVER let it define who she is.  I will always be sorry she had to inherit this, but I will NEVER be sorry I have her.  She is my heart and soul.  She is my sunshine.  She saved my life.

“You don’t look sick.”

She brushed it off after a few minutes.  Back to the Ipad, and back to taking care of me.  No one outside of my husband and I will ever see her like that.  Her carefully guarded emotions will only let loose where she feels safe.  No one else will ever know her anguish, her pain, her heartache, her worry.  No one, not even our closest family members would ever guess.

I think about all those people, and their quizzical stares.  I know I can’t be too angry.  They don’t know any better.

“You don’t look sick.”

She and I are a lot alike, in so many ways.  And I wouldn’t change a thing.  We are going to be just fine.