The Year of Living Cancerously

I reunited with The Dutchman, this morning, to receive the results of last week's mammogram.  (Good thing the man doesn't have to take my pulse when I'm with him:  still so hot!)  It's a year ago tomorrow that I had the mammogram that kicked off this little adventure.  My results from last week:  all clear.

I'm scheduled for an MRI in April, so we can keep tabs on the left side, but there's nothing to worry about.  I'll see The Pill on September 7, so he can provide me with a fresh supply of Tamoxifen.  And The Burn wants me to pop by in March for a look see, but otherwise, my social calendar won't involve much Princess Margaret anymore.

I came, I saw, I kicked its ass.

Pancakes

Mammogram day, so pancakes for breakfast.

Among the less obvious benefits of being generously endowed is that mammograms don't hurt -- they're barely even uncomfortable.  But, I was a little apprehensive about how my right breast would feel during the squishitude.  Three surgeries might have made it a little... um... sensitive.  In the end, it made no difference at all.  Four images -- two on each side -- and I was out the door.

Next stop, a reunion with The Dutchman to learn the results.  Six more sleeps...

I'm Over It

My plan to win the lottery didn't turn out quite the way I'd hoped on Friday.  I won, but a free ticket, rather than a major cash prize.  So, I went back to work on Monday.

I was welcomed back by 450+ emails in my inbox, and a few colleagues in the hallways.  Unfortunately, my boss couldn't find the time to stop by and say hello.  Eight hours back, and it's like I've never been gone.

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho...

It's back to work I go, on Monday. Ugh. Sayonara siestas; hello kitty withdrawal.

The top three reasons why having cancer beats going to work are:

• you don't have to wear a suit to have cancer
• no one tells you how they would have cancer
• no one jockeys to replace you, when you have cancer

I fully expect to struggle with returning to a regular routine, after being without one for a couple of months. Alarm clocks and bedtimes and torpor, oh my!

There are two more lottery draws before the new work week begins, and I'll spend this afternoon at the track, so there's still hope of avoidance. Baby needs a new retirement plan.

Brallelujah!

The underwires and the uplift have returned;  it's a beautiful thing.

A Month at Liberty

How odd:  I have 30 days ahead of me with no medical appointments.  That hasn't been true in a year.

The Burn is impressed with how quickly I am healing.  Frankly, I'm a little shocked by it.  So much for two weeks getting worse before I start to get better;  there's only a slightly-more-than-toonie sized patch of broken skin left on the tata in question.  By the end of the month, I should be back to smooth skin all over.  Granted, I'm not yet back to my usual fair tone, but that'll come.

With a date with The Dutchman in a month, and another with The Pusher in September, The Burn doesn't want to see me again until March next year.  How on earth will I keep myself entertained without someone with a white coat around to supervise?  Guess it's time to find out.

Wasn't That a Party?

It felt odd to get up, this morning, and not organize myself for a trip to PMH.  Not so odd that I couldn't reconcile myself to a 10AM nap, however.  Since I've never been able to stay up with the big people, I figured I'd better be as rested as possible for tonight's festivities.  So, I added another wee lie-down in the afternoon, for good measure.

The rest was much needed and well worth it.  More than 40 of the ass-kickingest people on the planet braved the heat, the lack of air conditioning (who knew?!) and the low-rent venue to wave goodbye to cancer treatment with me.  There were drinks and cupcakes and booby prizes and samples from the golden food group, but best of all there was much laughter and many, many hugs.

Except for one brief moment with a much-missed gal pal who called mid-evening, I managed to keep it together 'til I got home.  Then I opened the cards and read the personal notes penned on the t-shirt, and removed most of my mascara without using my hands.  I really am a lucky, lucky girl.