Staying A Breast with DCIS - Bellevue, WA

You get the call from the pathologist and you hear the words, "The test was positive for cancer in your right breast." You can't breathe. Everything stops. The words echo in your head, but you still can't seem to grasp them. It seems as though you're looking through a lens, as if watching a TV show or movie as it simply can't be happening to you.

I was diagnosed with DCIS or ductal carcinoma in situ. Even though the pathologist tried to smooth the news with "If you're to have cancer, this is the best one to get" didn't seem to soften the impact. Learning that 1 of 6 diagnoses of cancer are breast cancer did little to calm me. Apparently, I had just joined a new group or club I never knew existed.

After consulting with a surgeon and plastic surgeon, I opted for the complete mastectomy. If only my right breast were removed then I would need reconstruction on one, but to match my left, which wasn't any lightweight in the tata hierarchy, I would need a reduction and some reconstruction so they would match. Even with that, the chances of matching were not 100%. Plus the fact that I was warned that my chances of a cancer diagnosis in the left was 5 times greater and I would require an annual MRI and mammogram was just too much maintenance for me. So I decided to have the left removed as well.

When you tell people you have cancer, they grapple for something to say. I could feel the icy awkwardness and decided that a joke, even about something serious, would ease the silence.

"Yep, decided to just get them both removed since trying to reshape the left would be tough," I joked. "I'd have one perky boob pointing towards the horizon and one pointing south. Really, I'd just look confused so it's better if they point in the same direction." My friends would laugh and the situation would ease.

I joked about having bobs like Barbie, perky with no nipples, and entering wet t-shirt contests. "And look how much money I will save on lingerie!"

"Yep, going to find about about a tummy tuck, as I have enough landscaping to turn my stomach into a pair of C-cups. Maybe pull my belly button in line with my new breasts and convert it to a credit card holder or coin purse," I'd laugh. "I'm definitely turning lemons to lemonade."

The fact was, I was scared to death, but I didn't want anyone to know. Having something inside you like cancer, and not being able to fix it, cut it out and make it go away is frustrating and frightening, especially for a career woman who has never let an obstacle stop her. Suddenly you're helpless and making others feel better while your mind continues to swirl with thoughts of surgery, reconstruction, scars, pain...and it's safer to keep it to yourself as sharing just makes others feel more awkward and distant. The last thing I wanted was pity.

Two weeks later I had a mastectomy. I arrived at the hospital at 5:30am Thursday and was released the next day at 11:30am. I was bound and determine to go home even though I felt like I had been hit by a truck. Now I understand what road kill must feel like moments before going to the light. Exhaling hurt. Inhaling hurt more. I couldn't raise my arms to put on my t-shirt. I felt like the Robot on Lost in Space series, only able to rotate my arms from the elbows. Bending over was excruciating, but getting up from the bed was worse as you can't use your arms as leverage -- no pushing or pulling. "Danger Will Robinson, this totally sucks."

When I got home I raised my shirt and took a look at my chest. Yes, the "girls" were gone and all they left was scars, tucks and bumps and some bruising. I also saw my stomach really for the first time. Now I know why God gives women breasts: it's a visual barrier to our stomach. Yikes. I decided that was enough of an adventure for one day.

The four drains, two on each side, hurt and I have to drain them 3 times each day. Not only drain them, but measure the fluid as well. This is not for the squeamish, but you do what you have to do. You cannot take a shower or get yourself wet from the waist north. I wash my hair in the kitchen sink and then take a half "bath" each day.

I have had to sleep on my back like a mummy. If mummy's do rise, I can tell you it's not for revenge, but from back pain from lying flat for longer than an hour. It's tough to get comfortable, but a pillow in the small of your back does help. Getting any real rest is iffy. I stopped taking the Percoset less than a week after the surgery.

After two weeks, I can get out of bed with no pain. My chest feels tight and looks like a patchwork quilt sewn together by crack heads. I have two extenders, which are about a B-cup. The extenders feel strange inside you. You know they are foreign and when you lie down, they don't slosh to the side like your real tatas. They stay put, pointing upward. Always saluting the world.

I'm getting around great. Got two of the drains out this week so I am thrilled. That's two weeks ahead of schedule! It hurts less when I try to get comfortable to sleep. And it's easier getting dressed since I'm not hiding two sets of drains beneath my clothes. I'm bringing Grunge back into vogue.

I know everything will be fine. I have a long road ahead, but it's a better road than what I could've traveled. And, I am paving my road, cancer isn't. I'm cancer-free and looking forward to the next Relay for Life and to do that brisk walk up the survivors lane. I may get a new pair of tennis shoes just for the walk!

If it wasn't for me remembering to finally get a mammogram (which I rarely did) and a great breast imaging clinic, the road could have been much different. I now tell every woman I meet to get a mammogram. Period. I bring my own soapbox.

And if by chance, you ever have to deal with a diagnosis that turns your world upside down, you can cry, get depressed and be the ultimate "Debbie Downer." Black clouds can fill your world. Or you can turn lemons to lemonade, take your fear and convert it to humor, and meet your diagnosis head-on, knowing you don't have to jump every obstacle, but simply walk around them.

There is nothing you cannot do if you believe. Take no prisoners. There's a silent army behind you.

After two weeks, I was able to have to drains removed. What a relief. The drains are bulbs attached to long transparent hoses sewn into your skin beneath your armpit. They must be emptied three times a day and the fluid measured and recorded. They are uncomfortable and difficult to hide. The fluid is the color of rosé wine to a white wine. It's nasty and is a continual reminder that you are not 100%.

Two of the four drains were removed and I was ecstatic. Progress was being made. Unfortunately one week later, fluid had collected in my lower right "former breast" and it was determined that it had to be removed. Not only that, but removing some of the tape revealed an area where the tissue was not healing properly. My surgeon decided it should be removed and then we could remove the fluid as well.

I arrived the next day and she performed the procedure, removing the "rotted" skin and sucking out the fluid. She was surprised I had accumulated 20cc's of fluid, but was hopeful that it wouldn't collect again. She stitched me back up. I felt nothing. Although I could see her sew me back together, I felt nothing but a tug and pull. It was like I was watching someone else being sewn back together.

I arrived at my next appointment, feeling pretty good that my healing seemed to be going pretty well. I undressed, put on my gown and waited for the examination. My surgeon poked, pushed and thumped my lumpy former right breast. I could see she wasn't pleased.

"You're collecting fluid again. I can push here and it bulges there. We have to put the drain back in." She handed me a mirror and pushed a lumpy area. It bulged to the upper right. Nice. My chest is like a waterbed.

I was crushed. Defeated. No, it really couldn't be. This was such a set back. I wanted to cry, but didn't dare.

"This will set you back a couple of weeks," she said. "I'm sorry. But we have learned that you make a lot of fluid and we need to be patient."

"What about the left? It's still going ok, right?" I asked.

"Yes. It's healing really well."

Ok, one bright spot. At least I could maintain my bragging rights on the left drain removal. That was a step forward even though the situation on the right was devastating...two steps back and a bit of a pause, a long pause.

I drove home, forcing back tears. I don't cry. I crack jokes. That's how I relieve stress, but this time, I was out of jokes. I found no humor in this situation. I was scheduled to have the drain replaced the next day.

FAST FORWARD

The procedure took about 30 to 40 minutes. I barely felt a thing as my chest is numb. I now have to large bulbs poking out of my right side collecting fluid. The area around the new drain is numb from the procedure, but I know later today it's going to be painful.

It's hard to crack jokes right now. Give me a day and I'll be back. I know there has to be a bright side to this. I just need to dig a little deeper to find it. A lot deeper.

The drains stopped working late Friday, with fluid leaking from my side onto my nightgown as I slept. I woke up damp and knew I had a problem.

Alone in the bathroom, I struggled to get the drains to work again. Opening and closing the bulbs as if the other 50 times I had done it were just trials for the next time it would finally work. Each time I opened and closed the bulb, it would again refill with air. This meant that the drain inside me wasn't sealed and no fluid would collect in the bulb. I started to cry. All I could think was going back into the hospital and having them reinserted.

One drain finally started to work and some fluid collected in the collapsed bulb. But it was the second, the newly reinstalled drain that continued to worry me.

Off and on during the weekend it would work, then stop, then work. I never felt so low. The area around the drains was growing more red and irritated, and every time I added another stick of medical tape, my skin seemed to scream.

I tried pushing the drains more inside me, but the stitches to my skin only went so far. And it continued to hurt like crazy.

By the time my noon appointment arrived on Monday, I was close to tears. I couldn't move freely as the drains caused me pain. The nurse/receptionist could see I was not my typical chipper self. I walked as it I wore a full diaper.

Fortunately, my doctor retaped the drains in place and they did work for awhile. They didn't hurt quite so badly after she readjusted them. As she spoke, I sobbed into a wadded up Kleenex.

I did get the last of the drains removed from my left side. Woo hoo. I think my doctor felt sorry for me and took it out so I had at least one thing to be happy about. The other two drains would stay and most likely be out at my next appointment.

Ok, not so bad. I sniffed, patted my eyes with the clumpy Kleenex and smiled. So just one more week? I don't have to get these reinserted?

She nodded "no."

Awesomeness. Lemons to lemonade. I have seven more days of drains and then good-bye. All of that worry and misery was for nothing....well, maybe not completely a waste. I did get a good cry -- a cry I probably needed to do a month or so ago when I got my diagnosis and didn't.

Well, maybe better late than never. It felt good.