The Dutchman's assistant provided my next four appointment dates, this week.
First, a sign that my time with The Dutchman is nearly done: a date with a medical oncologist to talk about Tamoxifen (or an aromatase inhibitor) on April 6.
Second, another attempt at an MRI on April 11. I've got a prescription in hand for 3 mg of Atavan; we'll see if the extra two make a difference.
Third, a first appointment with a radiation oncologist (aka The Burn) on April 16.
Fourth, a date for my next (not yet "last", just in case) surgery: April 27, with timing to be confirmed soon.
Not much of a social calendar, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Third Time's a Charm
The BFF and I met with The Dutchman, this morning. My pathology report was the only item on the agenda. Well, that and a quick feel, of course.
Three weeks after surgery, both incisions are healing fine -- even with the slight inflamation of one end of the nodal wound (for which the GP gave me oral and topical antibiotics on Monday, both of which are doing the trick).
It turns out I'm two lymph nodes short of a full set, now. The second one they removed showed no cancer cells. The first revealed isolated tumor cells (ITCs) in tiny proportions -- .04 mm (that's 4 one-hundredths of a millimetre) at the largest point. Taken together, that indicates a 5% chance of cancer appearing in the remaining lymph nodes over my lifetime. A low number, and one I'm comfortable with. And so is The Dutchman -- no further work to be done on that score. And no chemo: cue the happy dance! Just Tamoxifen and radiation, down the road.
The additional breast tissue excised in order to clear the margins around the first lesion turned out to have further DCIS (precancerous cells) in its margin. The Matrushka doll of lesions, as it were. The new discovery is a 'skip lesion' -- a fresh area of concern, unrelated to the original site -- but now that it's been discovered, out it comes. So, about a month from now, it's back on the table for round three.
If there was ever a time I've been grateful for big knockers, it's now. Was I less generously endowed, a mastectomy would have been up for serious consideration. But The Dutchman says he can remove the skip lesion and still leave me plenty of boobage, so I'll just be a little more lopsided than I am now. Which is a little more lopsided than I was last month. Which, in turn, is a little more lopsided than I was to start with. I wonder if I'll list to port when all of this is over.
Three weeks after surgery, both incisions are healing fine -- even with the slight inflamation of one end of the nodal wound (for which the GP gave me oral and topical antibiotics on Monday, both of which are doing the trick).
It turns out I'm two lymph nodes short of a full set, now. The second one they removed showed no cancer cells. The first revealed isolated tumor cells (ITCs) in tiny proportions -- .04 mm (that's 4 one-hundredths of a millimetre) at the largest point. Taken together, that indicates a 5% chance of cancer appearing in the remaining lymph nodes over my lifetime. A low number, and one I'm comfortable with. And so is The Dutchman -- no further work to be done on that score. And no chemo: cue the happy dance! Just Tamoxifen and radiation, down the road.
The additional breast tissue excised in order to clear the margins around the first lesion turned out to have further DCIS (precancerous cells) in its margin. The Matrushka doll of lesions, as it were. The new discovery is a 'skip lesion' -- a fresh area of concern, unrelated to the original site -- but now that it's been discovered, out it comes. So, about a month from now, it's back on the table for round three.
If there was ever a time I've been grateful for big knockers, it's now. Was I less generously endowed, a mastectomy would have been up for serious consideration. But The Dutchman says he can remove the skip lesion and still leave me plenty of boobage, so I'll just be a little more lopsided than I am now. Which is a little more lopsided than I was last month. Which, in turn, is a little more lopsided than I was to start with. I wonder if I'll list to port when all of this is over.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
When No News Isn't Good News
I was pretty much psyched up for tomorrow's date with The Dutchman, but I'll hafta recalibrate the excitement meter. The Dutchman's assistant e-mailed to say that there's a delay in pathology, and my report won't be ready for the morning. So, my meeting's been rescheduled; it'll be another week before I learn whether my lymph nodes are clear or cancerous, and what's to be done in either case.
More damned waiting. Next week, it'll be seven months since my screening mammogram.
It's hard not to wonder whether the cause of the delay is related to the difficulty the pathologist had in analyzing the node sample during surgery. But, PMH is a busy place, and it could simply be the volume of cases that's slowing things down. Intellectually, I know there's no reason to jump to the conclusion that the news will be bad, but I'm tiring of the emotional roller coaster and I wanna get off the ride.
More damned waiting. Next week, it'll be seven months since my screening mammogram.
It's hard not to wonder whether the cause of the delay is related to the difficulty the pathologist had in analyzing the node sample during surgery. But, PMH is a busy place, and it could simply be the volume of cases that's slowing things down. Intellectually, I know there's no reason to jump to the conclusion that the news will be bad, but I'm tiring of the emotional roller coaster and I wanna get off the ride.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
(Steri-)Strip Poker
As I dried myself, this morning, post-shower, the overlapping string of steri-strips fell away from the incision over my lymph nodes. I pulled the few remaining sticky ends from my skin and looked a little hesitantly into the mirror. Not too bad.
The incision is a couple of inches long, and conveniently located right where a bra's edge rubs against the skin below, and just forward of, the crease of my armpit. The incision is slightly raised -- oddly, not sunken as the scar on the breast was, last go-round -- so the potential for irritation seems high. I can recover the wound, though I'd prefer to go au naturel, if I can.
With the steri-strips off one incision, I'm keen to relinquish the uniboob fostered by the underwire-free sports bra I've worn 24/7 since Thursday, and reclaim my cleavage. Time to break out the fire engine red number and take the girls for a spin!
The incision is a couple of inches long, and conveniently located right where a bra's edge rubs against the skin below, and just forward of, the crease of my armpit. The incision is slightly raised -- oddly, not sunken as the scar on the breast was, last go-round -- so the potential for irritation seems high. I can recover the wound, though I'd prefer to go au naturel, if I can.
With the steri-strips off one incision, I'm keen to relinquish the uniboob fostered by the underwire-free sports bra I've worn 24/7 since Thursday, and reclaim my cleavage. Time to break out the fire engine red number and take the girls for a spin!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Lymph Limbo
Back on my feet after a couple of days sleeping off the after-effects of anaesthesia, I'm still processing the post-surgical news. Or lack thereof.
The Dutchman and the BFF pow-wowed while I was resurfacing in recovery on Thursday. I seem to be a tough nut to crack in more than the obvious ways. Remember the third biopsy? The one they did 'cause they were looking for invasive cancer, but which didn't provide the evidence that turned out to be there, once I was on the table? Well, it turns out my node sample proved just as inconclusive. I seem to have a knack for the equivocal.
The Dutchman plays by the book -- yet again, my kinda guy -- so, when the pathologist reported that the sample was uncertain on first examination, he opted not to remove the nodes. Don't take 'em if you can't be sure, he figured. So, I left OR without a definitive verdict -- clean or cancer -- on the lymph nodes. Which means it'll be the 18th before I'll know for sure what they found. Or didn't.
And if there's cancer in the nodes -- you guessed it -- I'll be back for round three with The Dutchman. So, twelve more days before I know whether the Gold Floor is behind me. Hope for the best; brace for the worst.
I'll practice saying "shit", just in case.
The Dutchman and the BFF pow-wowed while I was resurfacing in recovery on Thursday. I seem to be a tough nut to crack in more than the obvious ways. Remember the third biopsy? The one they did 'cause they were looking for invasive cancer, but which didn't provide the evidence that turned out to be there, once I was on the table? Well, it turns out my node sample proved just as inconclusive. I seem to have a knack for the equivocal.
The Dutchman plays by the book -- yet again, my kinda guy -- so, when the pathologist reported that the sample was uncertain on first examination, he opted not to remove the nodes. Don't take 'em if you can't be sure, he figured. So, I left OR without a definitive verdict -- clean or cancer -- on the lymph nodes. Which means it'll be the 18th before I'll know for sure what they found. Or didn't.
And if there's cancer in the nodes -- you guessed it -- I'll be back for round three with The Dutchman. So, twelve more days before I know whether the Gold Floor is behind me. Hope for the best; brace for the worst.
I'll practice saying "shit", just in case.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Three Close Shaves in 24 Hours
Checking in at Princess Margaret's Short Stay Unit is not like the Fairmont Gold experience. Bypass the rabble in the lobby, and head straight for the penthouse. Whip out your membership card, and the concierge confirms your reservation. Luxuriate in the well-appointed club lounge until your private room becomes available. If it wasn't for the lack of honour bar and the abundance of linoleum, you wouldn't know the difference!
This morning's check-in time was a very civilized 10:00. Unheralded for the BFF, we arrived early -- likely an indication of how keen I was to get on with it. Or how little shampoo I require after my pre-surgery haircut saw me leave the salon, last night, looking like a baby seal. Between that and the freshly shaved 'pits, I feel virtually bald from the waist up!
Right on time, the BFF and I were escorted across the bridge to Mount Sinai and the nuclear medicine department. Yes, nuclear medicine as in those yellow tricorn signs reminiscent of The Simpson's. Homer's younger, smarter sister ushered me into the business end of the facility, where I came face to face with a scanner that looked way too much like an MRI for my liking. But, on closer investigation, it featured a shorter tube and an open side, and turned out not to be in any way scary.
My notes from Booby School reminded me that the injection of the tracer for the sentinel node scan would sting, but I lucked out, bigtime. It turns out that the upside of having lost sensation in my right breast is that I didn't even feel the two(! -- I swear they never talked about two!) injections next to my nipple. Thirty minutes on the scanning bed -- no, not the tanning bed; I'm still as pale as ever -- and the tracer had done its work and highlighted my sentinel node as a pale white dot on the green computer screen. With an X to mark the spot, we headed back to the PMH penthouse to await my date with The Dutchman.
On returning to the Gold Lounge, we were escorted to the Presidential Suite -- er, Room 206 -- a private room featuring a lake view, an ensuite, a wet bar and a handy call button for my butler. No room service menu was in evidence, however, and I still haven't found the spa; I must remember to complete a comment card when I'm next in the building.
Again on time, my ride appeared to take me to surgery, pimped out with toasty warm blankets and institutional green linens. It was oddly relaxing to discover that the same Grim Sleeper was on duty, though the rest of my surgical entourage -- or are they The Dutchman's? -- were all new to me. It wouldn't be my surgery without a little Sharpie action, so when the man himself showed up, it was time for the big reveal.
This morning's check-in time was a very civilized 10:00. Unheralded for the BFF, we arrived early -- likely an indication of how keen I was to get on with it. Or how little shampoo I require after my pre-surgery haircut saw me leave the salon, last night, looking like a baby seal. Between that and the freshly shaved 'pits, I feel virtually bald from the waist up!
Right on time, the BFF and I were escorted across the bridge to Mount Sinai and the nuclear medicine department. Yes, nuclear medicine as in those yellow tricorn signs reminiscent of The Simpson's. Homer's younger, smarter sister ushered me into the business end of the facility, where I came face to face with a scanner that looked way too much like an MRI for my liking. But, on closer investigation, it featured a shorter tube and an open side, and turned out not to be in any way scary.
My notes from Booby School reminded me that the injection of the tracer for the sentinel node scan would sting, but I lucked out, bigtime. It turns out that the upside of having lost sensation in my right breast is that I didn't even feel the two(! -- I swear they never talked about two!) injections next to my nipple. Thirty minutes on the scanning bed -- no, not the tanning bed; I'm still as pale as ever -- and the tracer had done its work and highlighted my sentinel node as a pale white dot on the green computer screen. With an X to mark the spot, we headed back to the PMH penthouse to await my date with The Dutchman.
On returning to the Gold Lounge, we were escorted to the Presidential Suite -- er, Room 206 -- a private room featuring a lake view, an ensuite, a wet bar and a handy call button for my butler. No room service menu was in evidence, however, and I still haven't found the spa; I must remember to complete a comment card when I'm next in the building.
Again on time, my ride appeared to take me to surgery, pimped out with toasty warm blankets and institutional green linens. It was oddly relaxing to discover that the same Grim Sleeper was on duty, though the rest of my surgical entourage -- or are they The Dutchman's? -- were all new to me. It wouldn't be my surgery without a little Sharpie action, so when the man himself showed up, it was time for the big reveal.
The rest of the afternoon ticked away without my knowledge; two hours later, I was back in recovery, but this time with no mambo heartbeat. It wasn't long before I headed back upstairs to reunite with the BFF... without a drain, and with all but a thin slice of my lymph nodes intact.
A little apple juice, a few laps around the Gold Floor and some time in the ensuite, and it's off home. Just another day in Cancerland.
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