November 11, 2018

One mastectomy site said that if you don't have reconstruction, you must be fitted with and constantly wear prosthetics, or else you'll have horrible back problems because your body is designed to carry the weight. What kind of bullshit is that. There is also fake boob sleep wear. Further bullshit. I imagine the likelihood of waking up with a fake boob stuck to your neck is high.

November 11, 2018

We met with the plastic surgeon on Friday, just to hear about various reconstruction options. Interestingly, the plastic surgeon was probably the most supportive of the "do nothing" option of anyone I've talked to so far. The next easiest thing is implants, where an expander is placed at the time of the mastectomy, tucked behind some chest muscles. For the couple months following the procedure, you go in and have saline injected into the expander, up until you get to the size you want. Then there's a surgery to replace the expander with permanent implants.

The other option is a "flap" procedure, of which there are many, where tissue is harvested from another part of the body and used to form "breast mounds." I like to think of these as "flesh heaps." The easiest way to do this is to cut slabs from either your belly fat or your back fat and swing them into place, keeping bloodflow intact. But it's not just fat, since veins travel along muscle, you're also re-locating muscle.

And then, if nothing takes to being re-homed, and/or you get a raging infection, you can get work as an extra in the Walking Dead as a dangling flesh heap zombie needing no special effects makeup.

Too grossed out to follow my dreams of a boob job with a bonus tummy tuck, the plastic surgeon leaned in close and said one thing he HAS done, is used liposuctioned fat to plump up the area around implants, and remove any hard edge. I could get liposuction on my belly as part of the reconstruction. However, he doesn't harvest all the belly fat, so there's a reserve left if he ever needs to go in and get more.

All of this sounds like a lot of fucking around to get new flesh heaps. I'm opting out. If it turns out I've made a terrible mistake, any of it can be done at a later date.

November 9, 2018

“Do you love it?”

I’ve mentioned that I’ve hired someone to help organize our house. When Heather comes for an organizing session, she starts pulling crap out of a closet, holding up one piece at a time, asking, “Do you love it?”

It was hard at first. What does “love” mean, anyway? Can it be used in a future, unknown project? Is it unusually precious because I got it for an insanely good price? Was I wearing it during a notable event? Did I buy it somewhere exotic? Of course, almost every single piece has a back story, which Heather is excited to hear. Actually, no. That’s a lie. She’s interested in sorting, thinning, and organizing, not learning about the Egyptian neighbors in my first apartment in St. Paul where I lived with Jane Berg Pennington in 1990, the neighbors who gave me that little stone bust Heather is holding.

I’m learning to be more critical, and now Heather doesn’t even have to walk me though all the questions leading me in the direction of sending something out the door. I haven’t regretted losing anything. At all.

I got the results of the second biopsy today. Turns out the spot the MRI located is more cancer. With this news, I’m planning on having a double mastectomy. No reconstruction. My work with Heather has been really useful. I can imagine her asking, “Do you love them?” of my breasts. I’ve now had two weeks to think about various options and play out scenarios in my mind. I have to say, right now, at this point in my life? No, I don’t love them. I certainly did, at one time. They were fantastic and fun. We had many amazing adventures. But gravity will catch up to even the best bust. My boobalicious glory days are over. I’ve found myself having moments of delight at the thought of a flat chest, never needing to wear a bra again. I don’t love my breasts. Time for them to go.

November 8, 2018


Had the biopsy on the second suspect area in the left breast today. It was done in an MRI machine. I can say with experience now that topping up my Ativan dose to 1.5 mg was a good move, along with choosing 60s Rock as the station on the headphones. I did rock of the 70s and 80s last time; no good. I also might have stolen some medical marijuana salve from someone who might live with me, but those rumors can't be confirmed.

The whole situation of needing to stay absolutely still on my stomach on a lumpy table for over an hour with my arms stretched above my head like Superman, sliding in and out of the cylindrical coffin that is the MRI machine, one breast dangling down through a portal where it was clamped and pierced with a needle that drew out samples that looked like little maggots (of course I wanted to see what they got)...well, it was kind of a lot, and I was glad for the drugs.

In addition to the drugs, I had my conjoined twin water bottle, some lip balm, and my emotional support lozenges. I couldn't take my water or any extra lip balm into the scan, but the beauty thing about emotional support lozenges is that they're allowed for most procedures. They're also strong, and they block out the scent of any alleged pot cream.

When shopping for an emotional support lozenge, I highly recommend Olbas Maximum Strength Sugar Free Cough Drop Lozenges. Yes, sugar free! They are wonderfully smooth, with pleasant mouthfeel. They are very strong! The menthol opens up your breathing passages, so you can be easily reminded that you can, indeed, still breathe, even if claustrophobic and stuffed into a cylindrical magnetic coffin. No need to worry about getting a tickle in your throat, setting off a coughing attack that would mean the test would need to start over. The tingling in your nose, mouth and throat makes it easier to stay mindful during your meditative breathing practices as you distract yourself from the massive needle driving into your breast, and whether whatever they find will ultimately kill you.

Black currant flavor! Highly recommended.

November 3, 2018

Last night I was just so tired, and feeling a bit overwhelmed. We were watching TV.

Kate: I need to talk to you about something.
Bob, pausing TV show: What is it?
Kate, sadly: I just don't think I'm going to make it.
Bob: You can't imagine life without ice cream.
Kate: You know me too well.

I had decided to avoid sugar, dairy and gluten (all proven problem foods for me) and had fairly successfully done so in the week since I got the cancer diagnosis. Well, I was using up the sweetened almond milk, because food waste is worse than cancer. I had some butter pecan ice cream last night, and it was fantastic. I need to keep my will to live, after all.

November 2, 2018

The news/non-news: Had the MRI last night, which showed a possible second area of activity in the same breast. Did an ultrasound today to see if that was able to shed more light on this; nope. This means I'll have the new area biopsied on Thursday next week. It could be something or it could be nothing, which is delaying making a plan for next steps. My choices will include: 1. Outpatient excision (lumpectomy) of the first area (if biopsy shows second area is nothing), followed by daily radiation for 5 1/2 weeks. 2. Outpatient excision (lumpectomy) of two areas, if biopsy shows the second area is something, followed by daily radiation for 5 1/2 weeks. 3. Double mastectomy, in hospital 1, maybe 2, nights, no radiation.

I've always thought that if I ever needed a mastectomy, I wouldn't bother with reconstruction -- mostly because that seemed to be the source of most discomfort for women who had it done. The surgeon convinced me that it would look pretty weird -- not just flat, but maybe a bit concave, and that since I'm "only" in my 40s (not for long!), he'd recommend doing it. Do I care? I don't know. He didn't really recommend doing a single mastectomy, mostly because we'd still have to stay on monitoring the other, and that it would look really weird. When you've got breasts as big as these (cracks knuckles), you can't just re-make a match. And it would be a significant uni-boob.

I kind of like the idea of picking out some smaller breasts, installed a bit higher and compact enough to never need to wear a bra. That's the fantasy right now. Bob says not to get my hopes up.

November 1, 2018

A letter to my Lesser breast.

You can’t be blamed for all of it. My body was assembled by a trainee who accidentally pulled all of my left-side parts from the “seconds” bin. From the brain aneurysm in the left side of my head to the crumbled sesamoid bone in the ball of my left foot, it’s all faulty. Installed at weird angles, crooked, gimpy and defective. And at this point, it’s held together with super glue and duct tape.

Lesser breast, with your inverted nipple, didn’t have the good looks of the well-formed Better breast. Sure, the two of you together, as a set, were impressive, flashable. Enough to get me and some friends back stage at a Suburbs concert in High School. Enough to not draw ridicule when I happily agreed to participate in a friend’s play about nudity a few years ago. Over one thousand people saw my breasts (and all the other pieces) in a family-friendly show about body image. Very few breasts get stage time like that. You were lucky.

Over the years, you must have sensed you weren’t the favored breast, but now actively trying to kill me seems extreme revenge. There are other ways you could have asked for attention. Frankly, this is why I never had kids. They all turn on you, in the end. You just can’t control what they’ll do. Like become a serial killer. Or a Republican.

I think we’ve turned a corner on your usefulness. Once perky, now you’re just heavy, take up a lot of space and trap sweat. I’m boycotting the proper undergarments needed to prop you up to the plane of your former glory. They’re devices of torture, digging in, smushing, poking, chafing and itching. My base emotion is “light homicidal” and the discomfort of a proper bra could result in the unfortunate death of someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t want those around me to be in danger, so I wear fake bras almost exclusively now. Coobies. That’s the name. Coobies. For your boobies. They offer very little support, but they’re also very comfortable, so I love them.

What I’m trying to say, Lesser breast, is that if we find out tomorrow that you have to leave me, I won’t miss you. I suspect that I will only have to have a hunk of you carved out, so you will live the rest of our life looking like a squashed loaf of bread. Whatever. I don’t care. So be it. Seriously, though, if you pull this shit again, or give Better breast any ideas, you’re gone.

October 31, 2018

Thoughts and prayers for the non-cancerous spouse. When I hung up the phone, turned to Bob and said, “It’s cancer,” he moved to hug me. And I said, “You’re clammy, get away.”

He seems to be doing better now, after the news has sunk in and we’re clear on the next steps. Those first couple days were not good. The only significant loss he’s experienced has been the death of the two cats he moved from New York. But this is more serious: he has grown accustomed to having me tell him what to do every minute of every day. He has entirely lost the ability to survive in the wild.

The only time I’ve cried in the past week was at the thought of leaving Bob. I’ve been close enough to death to know that it’s not so bad for the person doing the dying (I was going to say, “It’s not the end of the world,” but it definitively is). But I still don’t want to go. We have a pretty fun time, and I’m not ready for that to stop. And the idea that Bob would have no one to scream “What the fuck, where are you going? You remember we have to stop at the drug store, right?” when he takes a left instead of a right out of our driveway, is unbearable.

Guess I’ll have to stick around.

October 30, 2018

The first person outside my family I told about the cancer was a salesman at the Mazda dealership in Burnsville. He just seemed so sincere and earnest when he asked what we'd been doing that day. Later I said I thought we could commit to a 5-year term on a loan, but wouldn't want to go longer. He hasn't called to follow up. Weird.

We test drove a couple cars as the salesman sat in the back. Bob was testing handing and driving a little recklessly. I maybe shouldn't have said "Fuck it all!" while Bob swerved at high speeds.

October 30, 2018

Kate: Can you buy a domain name for me?

Bob: Sure.

Kate: cancerouskate.com

Bob: are you aware that katecancer.com and cancerkate.com are both available

Bob: ?

Bob: as btw is tittiecancer.com

Kate: I don't think I should go for tittiecancer.com

Kate: cancerouskate sounds sort of badass

Bob: Your call, you're the one who has cancer.

Kate: cancerkate sounds like I'm a sales rep for cancer

Bob: the problem with cancerouskate is that it reads like cankerouskate, which is not as badass.

Bob: and you're sure no tittiecancer.com?

Kate: cantankerouskate

Bob: that would have the added benefit of being true.

I found out last Thursday that I have breast cancer. I had a routine mammogram, and got the call to come back for further screening. This has happened a couple times before, as I have dense breast tissue. No big deal. There was one thing that was different this time: they wanted me for further screening and a possible biopsy.

At Region's Hospital for the followup, I was surprised when the biopsy was recommended, and even more surprised when I got the call with the results.

I blacked out for a few hours after that. (I actually had a couple work calls, which were a great distraction.) Then I sent a note to my high school buddy, pathologist Tim Myers. Tim is at Methodist Hospital, and he invited me to get treatment there. I wondered if I could get some sort of signing bonus. As Methodist is (sort of) the same system as Regions (Health Partners), Tim could see my test results and reassured me that the affected area is very small, it seems to have been caught early, and the prognosis is likely good. I decided to move treatment from Regions to Methodist. Methodist is closer than Regions, gives me a reason to drive right by Trader Joe's, and has Tim.

I name dropped Tim's name with the receptionist at the Park Nicollet (Health Partners)* Jane Brattain Breast Center, who connected me to the nurse navigator "who has been there the longest, and knows the most." I don't think we've ever met, but my nurse navigator Jeanne Harkness happens to be my friend and former boss Jim Harkness's sister.

My primary care doc, Dr. Sarah Mazig, called right away after receiving the results of my biopsy, basically to see whether I was freaking out and try to reassure me that while it's never GOOD news to find out you've got cancer, this is really small, early, good prognosis, etc., etc.

I have invasive ductal carcinoma, left breast, close to my armpit. I'm ER+/PR+, HER2 negative. (This is all good news.) Tim kept using the phrase "pre-cancerous cells," so I asked if I actually just have pre cancer. It's not real cancer at all, but PRE cancer. No. Tim said no. It's cancer. And I'm not a unique flower: this is the most common kind of breast cancer.

I have an appointment for an MRI Thursday afternoon, and will meet with nurse navigator Jeanne Harkness Friday, followed by a meeting with Methodist surgeon Dr. Keith Heaton. It is likely that I will have some sort of surgery within a couple weeks of that appointment, and don't know what happens after that. There are still many questions, but I'm feeling good about next steps.

*It's kind of confusing, but Health Partners/Regions/Park Nicollet/Methodist/Jane Brattain Breast Center are all sort of the same health group.