December 5, 2018

Today has been challenging. I swing wildly from thinking it’s now been over a week, I should be feeling better than I do, and being incredulous that I’m still even alive after a combined 22-inch incision was made across my chest and over 10 and half pounds of flesh removed. One of the things I’ve most been looking forward to is never wearing a bra again. But to reach that prize, it seems I must pass through the valley of crushing wound healing and nerve screaming – a burning bra of thorns. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. Bob finally said, “Look, imagine what it would be like if you were going through this knowing that coming up next is months of chemo and radiation making you very sick, and even with all that, your prognosis would be uncertain. Instead, this, now, could be the worst of it. Keep that in perspective, and try to deal with it.”

Bob is so inspirational. Whatever.

We had planned to go up to the cabin today, and spend the next week recovering and working in an idyllic rural setting. That plan was hatched when I thought my recovery would look like calling in sick for work (“cough, cough”) and lazing away the days watching gameshows and doing crossword puzzles.

My life hangs in the balance here, folks. It is simply not prudent to relocate the recovery lair to the hinterlands. Look, remember yesterday when I accidentally yanked one of my armpit drains out? I didn’t mention that when I realized it was out, I instinctively grabbed it with my germy hand that the dog just licked, and shoved it a ways back in. There’s undoubtedly a 5-alarm untreatable infection festering in my chest.

When the left drain was removed entirely in the doctor’s office, my surgeon tried to get the suction to engage on the right drain, but instead it made a low honking sound as air rushed in the hole in the left side my chest and filled the turkey baster bulb on the right, proving there is a big gaping void between one armpit and the other. That just doesn’t seem right. Also, I asked my surgeon about the swelling that was spilling up over the waistband of my pants, and he said that had nothing to do with my mastectomy, proving he doesn’t have a very good grasp of anatomy. I should have done more research on this joker.

Now that I’m 50, I officially care deeply about poop, specifically, whether I’m doing it. I normally have star digestion, but that’s all out the window now, with narcotics on board. I was able, by the way, to get a refill on my Norco. My quack surgeon initially sent me home with ten – TEN – tabs of Norco. I’ve been given more for an ingrown toenail, for god’s sake. I was starting to think that since my Meal Train was full, I needed to launch Narc Train, where people could sign up to bring me their leftover narcotics. But I got a ten-tab refill. Party time!

Just off the phone with my mother. She said, “Well, I’m really hoping they’ll let you go home when your pain is more under control.” What? Did she mean go “home,” to the cabin? “Home from where?” I asked. “The hospital,” she responded. Wait, what is happening right now? Where am I? I don’t think I’m at the hospital. But maybe I do have a bad infection. I panicked a bit and said, “Mom, I’m at home! I’m not at the hospital!” (I’m pretty sure.) “Oh, that’s right,” she said, and then asked if I’d talked to my sister and that’s how I knew they were going to Perkins. “I don’t know anything about Perkins,” I said. “Is it like when you all went to Applebee’s on my birthday and didn’t tell me?” “Yes,” Mom said, “Only it’s Perkins.”

It’s past “Narcotics O’clock,” here. Maybe also there.

December 4, 2018

We are one week in. I seem to have an inordinate number of bra ads on my Facebook feed. All progresses more or less to plan, and the diversions from normal haven’t been catastrophic. Over the weekend I had a panic attack, probably caused from narcotics on an empty stomach plus extreme chest trauma. I hate throwing up. The idea of it makes me panicky. My mom pukes like a cat, without even missing a beat, while I consider calling an ambulance if I feel slightly nauseous. I got lightheaded, and my arms and legs were tingly. I kept trying to get up to go downstairs, but the minute I’d sit up I’d get woozy and need to immediately lie back down. Bob came up to check on my progress and was alarmed to find me making a move toward the bathroom, but then dropping and crawling, collapsing on the gloriously cool tile floor. He kept asking if I was dying. I obviously was, but didn’t want him to get too alarmed as I was sprawled on the bathroom floor, working on breathing exercises and hoping for the sweet, sweet relief of death. We all hung out there for a long time, me on the bathroom floor, Bob and Abbie the dog on the floor in the hall.

So that was fun. Today was my post-op appointment with my surgeon, and the first time I’ve left the house in a week. As I was getting dressed, I put on my special post-mastectomy zip up camisole, with internal pockets for the drain bottles. It bunches weird at the top, and as I pulled it down to adjust, I accidentally caught hold of the drain tube in my armpit and ripped it significantly out of my body. Once it’s out, there’s no poking it back in. It’s possible that the remaining drain will eliminate fluid from both sides. Now we’re watching for swelling. If I start taking on fluid, I’ll need to go in and have it drained with a needle. Other than pulling a drain tube out three weeks early, my surgeon said everything looks good.

Fantastic. I’m tired of it. In my recovery lair (aka guest bedroom) today, the TV remote fell on the floor. I considered picking it up, but decided I’d probably have to go to the bathroom eventually and I could get it then. I haven’t had the energy for one of my favorite holiday traditions; the schadenfreude of finding typos in the end-of-year fundraising letter sent by the place I used to work. I don’t smell good; the body has just been bathed in pieces, and not well. I watch my chest as I breathe, confirming that even though it feels extremely tight, I’m still able to easily inflate my lungs. I continue with my physical therapy exercises: miming comb my hair, comb my hair, comb my hair, comb my hair, followed by a couple rounds of the Itsy Bitsy Spider to keep my mobility up.

December 1, 2018

What it feels like to have a double mastectomy, day 5. Two steps forward, one step back. If you'd like to try it, start by getting into a fender bender that causes your chest to bang into the steering wheel. Could also try falling on ice, or whacking your sternum with a bat. No broken bones, just bruising. Then make yourself a tube top out of Duct tape, on your bare skin. Wrap it around and around, making sure to go pretty far up into your armpits. Also, it should be just a bit too tight, like an uncomfortable hug. Now go about your business.

The pinching, pulling, tightness, aching won't be unbearable, but you will be anxious to make it stop. Feeling like I've got the flu today -- achy, running a very low grade temp. Diligently monitoring my temperature and the wounds to make sure I'm not getting an infection. Spa services by Bob have been great today, including another shampoo in the kitchen sink. He just brought me a fresh ice pack and a damp washcloth for my forehead. I like a damp washcloth on my forehead even when I'm feeling fine.

Friday, November 30

I’m over it. Every time I move, something pulls in my chest. I still wouldn’t describe it as pain as much as an annoyance. And quite uncomfortable. I watched an infomercial without the sound on for at least an hour today. I didn’t want to start something actually good, because I was sure I was on the verge of feeling like getting up and doing something. I must have missed my window. The infomercial was selling a copper pan that wasn’t actually copper, and it made me angry. All of their demo recipes used way too much cheese. It didn’t make sense.

I’m leaking a little from my left armpit drain hole. I talked to the nurse, and she didn’t sound concerned. I was extremely unhappy to realize that even though the tube is sewn in, there’s a bit of play where I can pull the tube out slightly or push it back in, likely contaminating my inner armpit with flesh-eating germs.

I have my drain bulbs attached to an elastic belt, like a holster. After learning the hard way that it’s entirely possible to roll on a bulb during the night, causing it to empty into a really gross puddle on the bed, I now keep the bulbs attached more toward the middle rather than my sides. The fluid accumulating in the bulbs started as a cherry Kool-Aid color, and has now lightened up to pink lemonade. Each side drains about a half-cup per day. I measure it and keep a running list of how much is coming out.

Earlier today I was lounging in my recovery lair, aka the guest bedroom with a TV, with a snuggly cat. It took me a while to notice that the kitty was vigorously gnawing on one of the drain tubes. Jesus.

November 29, 2018

It was a banner day today. I sort of bathed; Bob washed my hair in the kitchen sink, and I took a half-shower -- can't get the surgery area wet. I swabbed my lumpy armpits with witch hazel and called it good.

I took the bandages off. There was just some gauze covering the steri-strips (tape) holding the incision together. Then there was Saran Wrap on top of the gauze. (Not really Saran Wrap.) It all looks about how you’d expect.

Still no pain. When I reach for something, I might get a small "ping" along the incision. If I poke at the area, it feels oddly squishy, and in some places feels like they put in a layer of sculpting sand. The tissue responds in an odd way. I'm probably not supposed to poke it. When I move and bigger sections shift, or pieces unmoor from my pectorals (you don’t want the skin to adhere to the muscle), it’s an entirely alien feeling.

In the hospital, my nipples were itching something fierce. At that point, everything, nipples and all, were, I imagine, in a bucket sitting on Tim the pathologist’s desk. Because I’m sure that’s how it works – the pathologists get buckets of flesh delivered to their desks for them to dissect and examine. Boobs in a bucket. Probably.

Overall, I’m spending less time wondering if my breasts got accidentally kicked under the bed, because I quickly remember they’re in a bucket in Tim’s office.

I had Bob run down the events leading up to the operation. I remember getting to the hospital, and the flurry of pre-surgery prep. But sometime around when they gave me Versed to relax, I've got no memory. I'm pretty sure I didn't say goodbye to my breasts. But why would I? The relationship had become toxic, almost abusive. I don’t need to coddle my assassin.

Everything was monitored in the hospital, including how much I peed. There is a something called a urinary hat, which looks like a plastic top hat turned upside down, that rests on the rim of the toilet, collecting pee. I have bizarre pride in the fact that I filled that hat every time. Filled. To the brim. And as my body was flushing the blue dye used to find my sentinel lymph nodes, the blue mixed with yellow and made a truly beautiful shade of green. I filled that hat absolutely full of green pee many times. The nurses were shocked at my capacity. I’ve got the biggest tank this side of the Rio Grande. Yes, I do!

I also won the lung expansion contest. It’s strangely difficult to remember to fully inflate and deflate your lungs when you’re in the hospital with all sorts of things going on. This can lead to pneumonia. I was given a breath measurer thing. You take a huge breath, exhale it completely, and then basically suck on the measurer as the bar moves up and up. The farther up you make it go, the better. I won. Against everyone my nurse had ever seen do it, so probably millions of people. She said I did the best. And gave me a new aromatherapy sticker.

November 28, 2018

Still alive! Everything went well, as Bob has reported. I had about a teaspoon of blood loss. I asked my surgeon if that's typical, and he said it is, "if you do it right." I love arrogant surgeons!

They gave me a scopolamine patch, so I've had no problems with nausea. In the hospital, I went for the full spa experience, including aromatherapy before and after surgery, and the heated shampoo cap and head massage in my room.

There is no pain. I would definitely describe discomfort. I feel like I was hung up by my armpits, then bench pressed many reps, sometimes dropping the bar on my chest. My sternum feels bruised, and sort of sticks out like a chicken's. The nerves were cut basically from armpit to armpit, so the sensation is weird.

I have my lovely drain bottle appendages with me always. They're sewn into my armpits, so I have no choice. They work like turkey basters; there's a little spout where they can be emptied, then you squish the bottle and plug the spout, creating suction.

It's surreal having nothing there. Breasts are just gone. It's fine, though; I haven't found it terribly upsetting, just odd. Turns out that they weighed just over five pounds each.

Good news: the lymph node biopsy came back clear. I'm at Stage 1a or 1b. That's like hardly any cancer at all. Sounds like there was a third suspect area in the left breast, so it's good to be rid of it. The right breast was totally fine. I guess I could have kept it, but then what? Hi, I'm Kate, and this is my one enormous breast? Having only one sort of negates any positive breast attributes.

Thank you all SO MUCH for your support and positive thoughts! I'm mostly comfortably lounging with a wonderfully fuzzy blanket (thank you, Elise!), watched over by my bodyguard Abbie the dog.

November 25, 2018


Okay! Surgery is tomorrow, and I'm ready! Feeling calm-ish. Going to try to sleep early, as we're to report to Methodist at 5:40 am for 7:40 surgery.

I was told not to use any hair products so I'm not flammable during surgery. Man, that would suck. "Everything was going well, until I started on fire."

My sister Molly will be joining Bob in the waiting room. Bob will be posting updates on Facebook. Oh, and I had to put that domain name to use: www.cancerouskate.com. There's nothing there that hasn't already been posted on Facebook, but some non-Facebook friends wanted to know what was going on.

Bye bye boobs. Thanks for all the memories!

November 25, 2018

Nice to be back in Minneapolis, getting organized for the next week of surgery and recovery. A couple people have been in touch, saying they'll be thinking about me tomorrow, which makes me scream "It's not tomorrow!!!"

But tomorrow it will be tomorrow.

Last night I forgot to bring my headphones up for my pre-sleep listening of my mindful meditation recording, so Bob got to listen, too. It's a soothing woman guiding deep breathing and visualizing a comfortable, safe place...and eventually I'm instructed to picture the operating room, and calmly observe a capable team performing the surgery, which goes exactly as it should.

Bob heard something different, but delivered in the same, slow, soothing voice. "Imagine yourself...in tremendous pain, pain many times worse than any pain you've ever experienced..." It was super helpful that he shared that.

November 24, 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 21, 2018

I turned 50 today. I’ve been getting used to the idea for a few months, watching my classmates “turn” (like vampires). It still seems unreal. Improbable. I feel like I’m 50 as much as I feel like I have cancer. Next you’ll tell me Donald Trump was elected President. It’s all so far-fetched. It’s ridiculous, really. I was stressed out about what I would do for my 50th, and even late this afternoon my family was pushing me to make a decision. Ultimately, I decided to do nothing. Or I made no effort to make a plan, and look, now there’s only five minutes left, so I’ve effectively run out the clock.

We’ll get through Thanksgiving tomorrow and then there will be nothing competing for my attention and I’ll be able to focus entirely on Monday’s surgery. Yay. A friend recommended a pre-surgery guided meditation, which I immediately downloaded and have run through once already.

How does one say goodbye to their breasts? I’m actually really happy that the surgery is so close to my 50th birthday. It’s a demarcation, not the line between young and old, exactly, but I’m definitely stepping into another phase. An opportunity, maybe.

I’ve been mentally distancing myself from my breasts since I got the diagnosis. Focusing on their faults, all the ways they irritate me. Bob has been wary of how quickly I arrived at the decision to do a double mastectomy. I’m a hoarder. I’ve mentioned we’ve been working with an organizer to help de-hoard our house. Bob finally said to me, “There’s a glass paperweight you got for $4 at an estate sale, and you can’t let that go, but you’re willing to just lop off your breasts?” But I’ve worked it out. They’re past their prime, and won’t improve with age. Going through old photos does remind me that I’ve been blessed with a nice rack. I have no complaints. Any melancholy I’m feeling now is about aging, even though I wouldn’t go back. It just all goes so fast. Even at this advanced age, I still don’t have all the answers, I’m winging my way through life, and the only thing that really changed is that I’ve stopped caring about what other people think. We don’t get older and wiser, we get older and “don’t give a fuck”-er. I can’t waste energy on caring, when I need to spend that time finding things I’ve lost and looking up stuff I can’t think of the name of right now.

And I would say that with age, my body hurts all the time, but since my diagnosis I’ve stopped eating gluten and really tried to limit dairy and sugar. A couple weeks into it, I realized that I didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a truck by the end of the evening. Instead of lurching around like Frankenstein when I get off the couch, I’m leaping like a gazelle. Various rashes have cleared up. (I note that losing my breasts might not harm my sex appeal as much as “various rashes.”) This is fantastic news, of course, but it’s also bullshit. Bullshit that I can’t eat what I want and expect to remain pain and rash free.

So I’m wallowing in it a little today. I’m entirely fine, really, but crabby about many realities. It’s time to turn that around, though, as it’s now Thanksgiving! And I am thankful for my fantastic life, cancer and rashes and all. Every single day I appreciate my handsome and supportive husband, and his sense of humor that keeps me from smothering him while he sleeps. I look forward to whiling away our days, congratulating each other on various pieces of genius cabin design. My family is amazing, and I know my mom really did want to do something to celebrate my birthday today, even if she said she “didn’t think it’d make sense for us all to go out to eat, because we’re having a big meal tomorrow.” (I did point out that people typically eat every day.)

But the fact that I get to know all of you weirdos is truly my life’s delight. I love and appreciate you all. Thanks for being there, and thanks for inviting me to stuff that I never attend. I feel you all with me, even as I sit alone, watching the fire.

I’m 50. Fuck.

November 19, 2018

A friend who is a breast cancer survivor passed on advice she was given, which was to imagine I’m on a conveyor belt, and simply let it carry me through it all. I keep going back to this, as just today I’m feeling more like I’m in a free fall and I can’t remember what pushed me.

A month ago, no cancer. A week from now, no boobs. Just today, the “Wait, what now?” caught up with me and there seem to be big holes in the information explaining how I got here. Has Bob been paying attention? Can we review the tapes?

Oh yeah. Cancer. Right right right. Two spots of cancer in my breast. The cancer is different in each spot, which seems weird and ominous, but I am apparently the only one concerned about it. I feel a bit like our cat Balto, who doesn’t get to go outside at the cabin, but just made a break for it when I took the dog out. He walked purposefully away from me, but a couple steps off the deck he realized that he didn’t really know what comes next – he was surprised to find that “outside” is cold and dark, because all he knows is what he’s researched on the Internet and stuff friends have told him.

I talked to my surgeon on Friday, just to go over the plan. He said the surgery should take about four hours, vs. the standard two, as my cups over floweth. I will wake up without breasts, but with a drain tube sewn into each armpit, leading to a plastic bottle on each side that can be stored in the internal pockets of the special $79 zip-up tank tops that insurance covers.

Speaking of insurance, did I mention that a month ago, it looked like I wasn’t going to hit my out-of-pocket maximum for the year, for the first time in over a decade? Hahahaha.

November 16, 2018

Some might say I should spend more time getting ready for surgery and recovery, and less time sifting through old photos for "50 Years of Kate's Boobs: A Retrospective."

The next project will be chronicling "Everyone Who Has Seen Kate's Boobs, An Annotated List." But I might not be able to chase that all down before surgery happens. I was, after all, in a naked play that sold out multiple shows.

November 15, 2018

These last few days I’ve been walking a thin line on the time/space continuum, dipping in and out of a parallel universe where I don’t have cancer. Mostly I’m in the place with the cancer, where I wouldn’t be the first to make a “Bye-Bye Boobies” Pinterest board. My head is overflowing with details to be handled in the countdown to B-Day, November 26. I’m in a fog where memories are dreams or actually happened and it takes some concentration to decide which. I will be holding something in my hand, and a moment later, it’s gone. Poof, vaporized. Probably slipped into another dimension. Or I bet I’ll open the refrigerator and find everything I’ve lost. I explained all this to Bob who said some parts maybe don’t sound completely crazy, and that we need to work on getting me to sleep through the night, which might help keep me safely off the precipice.

November 14, 2018

Why I have cancer.

1. All that Diet Coke.
2. All those Marlboro Lights (really though, probably that era of the Benson and Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light Menthols)
3. I said "I've survived a brain aneurysm hemorrhage, so I get a 'Get Out of Cancer Free' card," and jinxed it.
4. I didn't make the switch to natural deodorant soon enough.
5. A white woman put a hex on me.*

*According to an illiterate Dominican woman reading tarot in Caracas, this was the reason I was unlucky in love. She prescribed a specific regimen of magic stinky body wash, candles and prayer, and I was engaged to Bob by the close of the year. The white woman may be angry I thwarted that hex, and had to re-hex, or it could be a different white woman. I have no current plans to go back to Caracas to find out.

November 14, 2018

I have a fun impulse to always assume the worst-case scenario. When our outdoor cat is outside, every time the doorbell rings I'm sure it's someone coming to say they accidentally ran him over. If someone doesn't answer when I phone, they're obviously dead. Yesterday was my annual trip to the Mayo to have my brain scanned, and check in on the aneurysm hanging out in there. I haven't had any symptoms of anything amiss, but I didn't the first time I had a bleed, either. I had the angiogram, and we went for lunch. During lunch, I got the call with the date for the mastectomy: Monday, November 26. That's soon. Jesus. We were two hours ahead of schedule for the consult with the neurologist -- I thought I might get in and out early, but then even my scheduled time came and went. I imagined all of the Mayo neurologists and neurosurgeons gathered around my images, stunned at the sheer quantity of new aneurysms that had formed. This is the only logical reason I wasn't being seen. My name was finally called, and Bob and I were walked down an amazingly brown hallway and sat in a windowless room, where we continued to wait. While my care team phoned other national experts to see if they had ever seen anything so horrific. And also for my doctor to think about how she'd tell me that there was nothing to be done, that I would die soon, and quickly. Maybe even today, it could happen, she would say. In times of stress, my lizard brain emits audible static. The buzzing got louder and more intense the longer I sat, thinking, "Well, this is it." Right before I blacked out, my doctor walked into the room and said, "No change! Everything looks fine. How are things going generally?" and with great relief, I said "I have cancer!"