After The Barbaric Chamber

Welcome to my gripe session. I'm not going to mince words because this is just too dreadful and with Halloween looming, I want you to enjoy all the gory details of what I have had to go thru. I figure "The Breast Cancer Adventure" is just about as scary and stupid as any modern horror film out there. And boy howdy, we're just getting started.

I have always been truly befuddled that our history is full of amazingly creative ways to torture, maim and kill, but up until recent times, we still were "bleeding" with leeches and basically trying to avoid the "vapours" when it came to actually saving lives. I still believe that we're just getting started, nobody should be friggin mutilated when removing cancer. And then deliberately killing off every healthy cell to make sure the cancer is indeed gone? I'm having a really hard time getting my head around this. As I sit here, 1 week and 3 days post mastectomy/reconstruction, I have to say that this just sucks.

I really resent the Hollywood types who have gone thru what I have and just "brush over" this part..."I had a mastectomy and reconstruction and now everything is just peachy". OH BULLSHIT. Did they have no pain? Were they lucky enough to have no bloody scars? "compromised" skin? Did they hate waking up every morning because their whole chest and arm muscles feel like they've been on the torture rack? Of course not. They're too busy blowing sunshine up our asses. The whole cancer culture is "Look on the bright side...you're still here". Yeah, BUT. You can take all that positive attitude crap and shove it you know where.

So the deal is I have a patch of "compromised skin" on my right boob. (read bloody, unhealed, gross) and both surgeons are concerned about it. So concerned that I have been condemned to the hyperbaric chamber on a daily 90 minute session. For the first 10 mins they raise the pressure and I have to constantly swallow and do other stuff so my ears don't blow out. Then for most of the time I just watch TV("Scream 3", stupid, very stupid) while having 100% pure oxygen circulating around me, rendering me completely flammable. The last 10 minutes I "decompress" by doing the opposite, again so my ears don't blow out. All the while I'm in a clear plexiglass coffin. Thank goodness I'm not claustrophobic. Noted side effect: Even more tired and lazy than I was before. I feel like my life is being saved just so I can be completely useless.  Just wait till we start chemo...joys.

Writing this just took everything outta me. Back to bed.

Trying to Get Over Myself

My daughter hates that I put out all my personal stuff out into the forever interwebs for everybody to know. She believes that human events should be private and dealt with in quiet, just family or maybe with just yourself. Because she's oh so strong that way. She can keep her head up in all kinds of tough situations. My daughter would make a great British person. She has a terrific stiff upper lip. My daughter was also lucky enough not to inherit all the chronic crap I did, such as depression, diabetes, breast cancer, the whole "wheel o disease". I think she would be surprised to know that I am not famous for anything. This blog has a few loyal followers, but not a worldwide audience by any stretch of the imagination. Nor will it ever. Therefore there should be no reason for shame on her part. I'm not spilling any of HER secrets. (Not that I really know any to begin with) But allow me to apologise in advance to you, daughter, if anything I write here offends your delicate sensibilities, or is cringeworthy. This is my catharsis. This is the way I deal with the light and the heavy. And yes, I am kinda heavy these days.

Dealing with my impending mastectomy has been generally easy, until today. I woke up after having some really gnarly dreams. Up to now I've allowed myself only two times per day to feel sorry for myself and I really only used one if any. I've tried to entertain myself in comedy, cooking (came out disgusting, don't ask) giving TLC to our cat who's recovering from fatty liver disease, and NOT SMOKING. And even being a non-smoker wasn't shitty until today, 12 days after having my last cig. So WTF?? Not that I would go out and buy a pack. I don't get replacement tits if I do, so it's really a big no-no. But why today to feel like an emotional train wreck? I don't get it.

When I was doing nails I learnt a really good lesson. If I had a problem, I would go to work and no matter what, I'd have a client that day who had a way worse one. Maybe that's the issue here. I'm holed up in my house and have no one to compare my misery to. And I have to face this crap without the usual crutch I hid behind for so many years.

I like to call this the "Breast Cancer Theme Park". I go to the "Cancer Pavilion" for all my cancery needs, including the "Chemo Experience" and the "Oncologist Patience Ride". There is also "Diagnostic Village" where I go to "Scan land". Included in admission of course is "Serious Surgery Way" where the Drs are efficient but lack any sense of humor that I can detect.

Let's get this straight. I'm not brave. I'm scared shitless. And I'm still angry. I could talk to a million other breast cancer survivors and still feel totally alone. I feel invaded. I'm not a surgery fan. I never liked the idea of fake boobs on anyone. Now I HAVE to get them. SHIT. AND fucking chemo too. Blech.

I guess I'm not a big fan of radical change. Strange coming from a self proclaimed "progressive".

OK I feel a little better.