The end is nigh

For my boobs, that is.  Not me.  This morning I received a call from my surgeon, which immediately sent my anxiety into a titter.  I thought her nurse would be calling me, so when I heard the surgeon's voice on the other line, I panicked pretty hard.  Oh sweet heaven, I'm dying.  She's telling me I'm dying!

Nope, I'm not dying.  My awesome surgeon wanted to explain the complicated results of the biopsies of Lefty and Sideshow Boob.  Like always, everything is okay with Lefty and Sideshow Boob is the problem one.  Effin Sideshow Boob.  She explained that I have a "hodge podge" of stuff in the right breast (of course!).  When you hear your surgeon say "hodge podge," that doesn't inspire any good feelings.  I knew as soon as she said that where the conversation was heading.

The troublesome aspect of the right breast was the presence of atypical hyperplasia.  What that means is that  the rogue cells in Sideshow Boob aren't done with me yet.  The fact that precancerous or cancer precursors, however you want to say it, are present so soon after treatment does not bode well with me or my anxiety.  

The surgeon said she wants to do a lumpectomy of the tissue, though I mentioned how another lumpectomy would just make Sideshow Boob look like a lumpy pile of supposed breast.  She said that I should consult with a plastic surgeon to discuss my options.  We did touch on a bilateral mastectomy and what my options were regarding that.  She wanted me to really think about it and explore my options before coming to the very final decision of removing both of my breasts.  

I'm leaning toward that decision.  I can't keep waiting for the bomb to drop that cancer has once again invaded my breasts.  I really think a mastectomy is the only way for me to live the rest of my life without the constant fear and anxiety that this mother effer is going to come back bigger, badder and bringing its friends (also known as mets).  My boobs have been with me for 20 years (I developed early, much to my chagrin).  I can live the rest of my life without them if that means my odds of having a long, rest of my life are greater.  

I've said it before and I will say it again, I will not die for my boobs.  No saving the tatas.  Just me.  I want to live.  

This week

A lot is going on in Laraland during this week.  I have my first appointment with the radiation oncologist on Tuesday, a follow-up appointment with a surgeon who specializes in thyroids on Wednesday, and then a consultation with an oncology surgeon who specializes in breasts on Thursday.  On top of all of this, I'm allegedly getting a fence installed on my property.  I say allegedly because the jagoff contractors said they'd be coming three days ago and informed me (after I called THEM) that no, they are coming this coming Tuesday or Wednesday.  If they don't come this week, then I'm unleashing so much rage onto someone.  

I really hope the radiation oncologist, who has yet to be nicknamed obviously, can let me know when I'm going to start radiation.  I want to start treatment yesterday.  I know I should be grateful that I have this time off to rest and recuperate.  I am, but I really want to know the end date.  I think knowing the end date to all this cancer crap would make the waiting game a lot less excruciating.  It seems like a good 20 or 30 percent of my life since being diagnosed has been waiting.  So yes, I am very anxious about Tuesday's appointment because once I know the end date and what the onco thinks I can and cannot handle, then I'm just one step closer to The End.

The consultations with the thyroid surgeon and the breast surgeon are also big ones.  My thyroid has to come out.  When I was getting my mammogram done last year, I was also getting tests done on my thyroid.  I have six nodules on it - five being hot and one being cold.  Or maybe it's vice versa.  Whatever, one of the nodules is suspicious for cancer, so I want this body part to GTFO of my body.  

I'm also seeing a breast surgeon to discuss if I ever come to the point I want to have a double mastectomy.  I never really talked with a specialist about that or my options in general.  I'm a couple of weeks away from turning 31 and I'm wondering what I have to do to make sure I live to see 40.  If it means taking my boobs and living the rest of my life as a No Cup, then so be it.  At least I'd be alive.  I'm optimistic that my aggressive treatment beat the snot out of my cancer but I'm also realistic.  I'm the daughter of a woman who fought a five-year battle with this disease and died a couple weeks shy of her 41st birthday.  I have to do what I can to make sure I live much longer than her.

One Down, One to Go

The BRAC genetic test came back yesterday.  Good news is that I tested negative, and the odds of my brothers carrying this gene are slim to none.  If I, the chick with the breast cancer, don't have the gene, then my brothers wouldn't be carriers.  This news is great because I was worried about my three nieces and their future.  Obviously something was wrong with my mom's DNA and now mine that caused the both of us to get breast cancer at such a young age.  However, the BRAC gene isn't the link.

Now that I know I'm not carrying this mutation, it makes my decision much harder.  If it came back positive, then I was going to without a doubt have a double mastectomy.  I am not so sure now.  I don't want to have major surgery(ies) because I could likely get breast cancer in Lefty or a reoccurrence in Righty.  I was frightened of breast cancer all my adult life and didn't get a mastectomy before.  Mastectomy isn't like getting a thyroid removed and would involve a handful of follow-up surgeries, which is something I don't like unless I have no choice.  I seem to still have a choice now.

My breast cancer is showing all the characteristics of kind of a pussy cancer: Stage 1c, ER+, PR+, Her2-, Grade 2, 2 cm and now BRAC 1 and 2 negative.  Those are some fairly good stats there.  Most women my age who are diagnosed with breast cancer aren't that lucky.  Either road I take, it's not going to be an easy one and I just wish the answer was clear to me.  Like, I'm driving down 79 and come across a billboard that says, "Lara, do the radiation and chemo route," or, "Mastectomies are for winners!"  Something. 

No, it's not that easy apparently.  I have to talk this to the death (pardon the morbid language) to see what are my best odds of living a long time.  If I don't seem like a normal 30 year old after this, it's because I have conversations like these.  Oye. 

Come on, Oncotype.  You're next.