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.  

I ain't scurred

With the help of a lovely group of friends, I have renamed my murderous right boob.  Instead of Righty, as I have been (un)lovingly calling it all this time, my right boob is now named Sideshow Boob.

My boob wants to kill me, like Sideshow Bob wants to kill Bart Simpson.  I hope my boob is as inept at murder as Sideshow Bob is (was?  I haven't watched Simpsons in years....).   That being said, I'm not too worried about what the hospital is going to tell me tomorrow.  First of all, I can't control what may or may not happen to me.  If I have cancer again, then there is nothing that I can do to stop it or reverse it.  

Second, I'm confident in my treatment.  My doctors threw everything but the sink at me.  My radiation oncologist, aka Duke Nuke'Em, did two different boosts on Sideshow Boob.  While I think the Allegheny General Hospital sucks at their record keeping and other issues, I don't think that I received sub-par care.  I doubt that a new primary or reoccurence would happen so soon after treatment.  

Still, I'm working from home tomorrow.  If I get bad news, then I don't want to break down at work.  Nobody wants to be that girl.  Ew.

Welp

My six-month mammogram didn't go well at all.  Both Lefty and Righty showed something suspicious, so naturally, I freaked out.  I hadn't had a freak out like that since first being diagnosed.  Once again, Righty is being the jerk among my breasts by having the calcification pop up.  Today, I had to have an ultra-guided biopsy on Lefty and a stereotactic core biopsy on Righty.

My surgeon said the presence of calcification deposits means I have a 1 in 4 chance of having cancer again.  I know some of you are thinking, "That also means that you have a 75 percent chance of not having a new breast cancer?"  Well, the odds have already screwed me over.  I don't have the faith in the odds anymore.  I had a less than 15 percent chance of getting breast cancer, but around a 5 percent chance of getting it at my age.  I had a less than 3 or 2 percent chance of going into anaphylaxis, but yet that happened, too.

So I don't take comfort in odds.  I take comfort in facts, and the signs that my body gives me.  

I will make this declaration: if the biopsy results come back malignant, NO MORE LARA'S BOOBS.  WE ARE DONE.   I will not tolerate another attempt on my life.  I love my life a hell of a lot more than my boobs. There will be no saving the tatas for me.  Fuck the tatas.  Save me - that's all that matters.