Phantom itching.

What the...???

My left foobie has been crazy itchy all day. Only, when I scratch, I can't feel it. So - it's NOT itchy.

Or is it?

I know. Leave it and it will stop. It's been better this evening, since I'm trying to convince myself that it can't possibly be itching. Ugh.

Got a nice voicemail from my breast surgeon. I know, I have a lot of docs. Yay, cancer! He just wanted to say hi, he hopes we're all well, and he's surprised that they found cancer cells after the last surgery.

SURPRISE!

Bah.

I got in my first Essiac tea shipment. Both daughter and hubby like it! So we'll be drinking this nightly - it kills cancer. Like almost every other fucking thing I consume. So, how did it linger?

Whatever. Nobody else is cashing in on the cancer train. I absolutely forbid it. So, they're drinking the tea, taking the turmeric and other herbs, eating fresh broccoli sprouts... whatever I can do to keep them out of this war zone.

Otherwise, all is well. Except my insane craving for chocolatey frosted brownies. Good thing I don't have any. Though there is chocolate in the fridge - fancy stuff - I will have a glass of water and go to bed. Stupid craving!!!

Anniversary... Stupid Cancer...

Yesterday we celebrated our one year wedding anniversary.  Well, we actually celebrated all weekend, a trip to our suburbian friend's pool on Saturday, BBQ joint on Sunday (hubby was gigging there, but we had some friends hang out and brought a black forest cake... mmmm!) and last night, well, we went to a surprise birthday hang.

The hang was awesome - until after dinner - when I suddenly felt like I was having an anxiety attack and realized I was in a cold sweat, then a hot sweat, and my gorgeous silk dress was starting to develop sweat spots. Oh my god - a full blown hot flash! At a party!

I excused myself and found my way to the bathroom, stripped down to nothing, and tried to cool down. It's like you literally feel like you're going to pass out or throw up, but you know neither is happening. Hubby thought maybe it was because I took my tamoxifen earlier than usual and we were out late - I seem to get hot flashes in my sleep, which is much more pleasant than worrying about mascara everywhere and big-ass sweat stains on a gorgeous dress.

Luckily, my hair was slicked back in a bun, and my mineral makeup seemed to stay put. The sweat stains, well, they remained, though I was able to rinse them out and the dress looks fab again.

But, what a horrible feeling. I think I'll call my oncologist tomorrow and ask if there is some natural stuff I can use. Which means, I need to research before I call, and get permission. I'm sure I'll get a gnarly prescription that I can ignore, just like the anti-depressant one I never filled (which is great by the doc, but she wanted me to be prepared for Tamoxi-rage).

This morning, we had a meeting with Stupid Cancer. We've been loving our extensive collection of tee shirts, and recently I also bought a travel mug, winter hat (hoping that eventually it will get cold again!), and even Cancer Cards. It was great, good people, or as hubby would say, "Our kind of People". I think great things will come from this.

Meanwhile, I'm still a bit on edge about the scar tissue with cancer cells incident. But - I can't do a thing about it. Only what I'm doing now, which is be happy, be careful with my diet and exercise, and be positive. Which is really tough when you are having a hot flash during a party, but somehow I got out alive.

If any Cancer People reading this have any good natural suggestions to beat the heat, so to speak, help a sister out!

Plastic People...

Went to see the plastic surgeon yesterday.

All looks amazeballs. But those pesky cancer cells that they found in my scar tissue... well, there's not much we can do about it. I just have to keep on being on top of my nutrition, my state of mind, my tamoxithin... I mean, they're not going to skin me and re-graft my butt onto my boob.

I hope.

Meanwhile, in a month or two, I should be good to trapeze again. And get a real massage. And perhaps I'll let hubby crack my back (he is my chiropractor, and I've been really missing out on back cracking since last October. He can do my neck, but that's it!)

In other news, all 5 bras have arrived and I absolutely can NOT go back to wearing an ill fitting bra. What the heck was I thinking all these years, not getting measured???

Today we're going to a friend's fancy house, where they have a big ass pool. Yeah. I get to wear one of my new bikini's. If it's raining, I don't give a flying f*ck. I'm so pleased that I get to wear a swimsuit this year - remember, my original surgery was supposed to be in August... no way could that foobie wear a swimsuit of any configuration. Whew. Of course, it's rain, rain, rain in the forecast, but we're going, and if it rains, we'll have a great hang with friends.

We talked nipples and areolas yesterday. I asked if I could get my tattooed areola before the nipple. YES! I have to make my appointment for about 2 months from now. And who knows, maybe I won't want a nipple. Really, when I look in the mirror, I'm missing the symmetry of color. If that's back, maybe I won't care to have anything sticking out. I just need to make sure that I'm adequately covered so that I don't have one light on. Easy. But, we'll see. Maybe in 6 months or a year I'll think differently.

But this means that I may get my tattooed areola in September or October!

Hormones, heat, and Godiva liquor

Well, it seems as if my period did start. TMI? Obviously, you're reading a blog about someone who had a fucking breast removed. A little uterine lining ain't NOTHING compared to that!

It started yesterday as a joke, and I figured it would go away as it had, but now it's acting like I'm not on tamoxihormonalscrewpills. Which is an ironic relief. I am happy that my body is acting it's age! We'll see how long it lasts, but those hormones... wow! STARVING!!! I was ok until tonight. We roasted fresh beets with sea salt, prepared the greens with black beans and zero calorie noodles (yes, the soy free ones!), and I felt like I hadn't eaten in a month when I finished. Had a piece of Ezekiel bread with almond butter and jam. Nothing. A bowl of cereal, AKA Kryptonite. Nothing. I just had a little Godiva liquor, and while I'm still empty feeling, at least it was chocolatey and creamy. If I can hold off the rest of the night, I will be proud of myself and amazed at my amazeballs willpower.

Ah, hormones.

It's hot as hell, but I kind of enjoy it in small spurts. The heat travels straight to my bones, which makes my aching joints happy. Much like the Japanese in their practically boiling bathtubs. It's all healing.

Tomorrow, meeting again with the plastic surgeon.

I got 3 out of 5 new bras. Holy Moses! It's nice to have proper fitting undergarments. Plus, I can't lie - the shit looks GOOD.  I just need a pesky nipple. Oh, and for those rogue cells to vacate the premises immediately. Just told hubs that I'm definitely holding off on the making of a nipple until we know that I'm cool. Though - I am going to ask tomorrow if we can't at least tattoo the areola so that I don't look like a total alien. Forget the sticky-outy part for now.

I also want to know the following things. How soon can I:

Trapeze
Martial Art
Run
Get a proper massage

Perhaps not the average questions of a cancer patient after reconstruction, but damn, I need to hop on a trapeze and fly. This shit has been way too annoying. I need to freaking FLY.

And, interestingly, my former massage therapist - AKA - pummeling genius, has moved back to the area and will be working weekends downtown. He was amazing. An artist. Nobody ever got what I really needed except for him - his elbows like finely sharpened jackhammers. His thumbs like meat tenderizers. And his ability to find everything wrong with my scoliotic body and address it, magical.

So, I don't care that he's expensive. Because one massage from him is like 10 massages from these lame ass take-out walk in massage joints. But, I actually need real approval from my doc, since he goes in like crazy (I mean, hops on table and uses all of his body weight to dig out the childhood trauma that is buried deep within my back and neck). So this foobie has to be able to withstand his awesomeness.

I think it's time for more Godiva. It's not as good as Schmailey's, but I need chocolate. Because, despite my lack of mammary tissue, I am a woman. If you saw my new bras, you'd know. This shit is girly cute.

Oncolological Visit and Blood Suck

Early morning blood suck. These ladies are a HOOT at the Cancer Center. I mean, I guess if you're stuck with sticking cancer victims with needles all day, you either need a great sense of humor, or a lot of drugs in you.

Luckily, I had a comedian. We've worked together previously on draining my body of blood. She's good... doesn't hurt, or maybe I'm just so used to it by now. No. She's good.  We got to talking about stuff, about medical jewelry (I have a cheap bracelet for now but am shopping for a fancy one and she showed me her necklace... said she never takes it off other than for MRI's). So I'm thinking, I should get a fantabulous necklace to never take off except for MRI's. They're expensive but - if anything should happen- I want it to be on, and I want to know that it's not going to break, or turn my neck green, or look stupid. Yeah. Even if I'm unconscious. I need to be cute.

I considered joking with hubby about getting me one for our anniversary (Monday - what the hell should I get him???) but that's so unromantic. "Happy First Anniversary! To celebrate the fact that you were diagnosed with cancer a month after our wedding, I got you a Limb Alert Medical Necklace!!!"  Yeah. Sexy...

Anyhoo, onto the Oncologist part. She could NOT believe that I lost weight on my Tamoxislim! I told her I call it my diet pill when I take it. And that I have been working crazy hard to keep my weight under control on this crap. She said she wished I could talk to her patients about this, the others on Tamoxifat. They ALL gain weight and are pissed. All but me. I'm pretty stubborn about a few things. My weight, my skin, and my happiness. I should add "Deleting Cancer From My Life" to that list, but I keep hoping that it will happen. Because I'm doing so much shit. Add warm lemon water in the mornings, and I have this Essiac tea on it's way. I can't stomach the baking soda water, it's way too vomitous to do on a regular basis, so I can change my blood chemistry this way.

My joint supplements seem to be helping at the moment. Fingers crossed that it continues, and that by crossing my fingers I don't make it worse!

As we left the Cancer Center, we saw our Radiologist in the street and for some insane reason both broke into a run and started screaming shit about the fact that he didn't burn me enough. Hah. Had a nice chatsky in the street, hubby complimented him on his "new office space" (our meeting under scaffolding) and we parted ways. He did call me later after looking at the pathology report, but when I called him back there was no answer. No news is good news! Um, not really. But, denial ROCKS!

Bra World, and Question Marks where there used to be Periods.

I've never been measured for a bra. Never. I picked a size that was "pedestrian", always on the shelves and seemed to fit well enough, and sounded like a reasonable size for me. From my knowledge of ZERO on bra sizing. Now, my weight has been all over the map. I've been 35-40 lbs. heavier than I am now. But I always wore the same size, no matter what - a 36B.

B must stand for Bumbling Idiot.

Made hubby walk with me into a store that makes my skin crawl, the equivalent to a teeny-bopper disco. Victoria's Secret. What exactly is the secret? I don't know, I can't hear myself think in there, my sense of smell is overpowered by stuff that I only assume Strawberry Shortcake and Friends would smell like if they had just run a marathon after eating 5,000 lbs. of gummy bears. It's no secret that the store sucks ass, however, the women I encountered were lovely.

First, I asked how I would be able to get measured. We found a lovely young lady with a measuring tape around her neck, much like This Guy.  Ok, I'm kidding. She didn't look as comfortable in her own skin, but still, she measured me. Newsflash - I'm not a 36B. I'm not even close. I'm a 32DD. WHAT? I'm not "big". But, from what I've learned in my adventures at the most gag-a-riffic smelling store ever (besides those smelly Body Smelling Stores, with the plumeria this and vanilla that and rose crap - none of which smells like the actual names, but more like Willy Wonka's shit, since he only ate candy!) is that it's the difference between the band (she said I'm "teeny", heh) and the largest part of your cup. We settled on a 32D since the rippling on my mastectomy side needs to be contained. Plus, I feel weird buying a DD. Seriously. I was an E cup while pregnant and nursing. How I thought I went back to a B after, even though I didn't exactly shrink back down, is a mystery. Or a reflection on my budget - who has money for bras? Not me, back then. So I stuffed myself into my 36B's of yesteryear and rode off into my denial. Until now.

I've bagged up my bras for the Goodwill. Certainly, someone must be a 36B who will benefit from my used brazzeiredom? I once tried to make a donation to a woman's shelter - a really nice jogging stroller. They wouldn't take it. A free stroller. Only a few years old. So, it's Goodwill or Salvation Army.

Of course, do you think I bought a bra at VS? No. I had to get the hell out of there. The fitting room chick was lovely as well. I handed her my telltale card, expecting her to laugh at the fact that it has such a large cup notated, but she nodded and said, "Yup. You're definitely a DD or a D". They're the experts. So I explained my lack of nipple, the rippling of the skin and having to keep 'em firmly in place. She suggested a D to try out, brought me 4 styles, and VOILA! I looked like... a woman! The first one I tried on, I honestly got choked up. It was one of the first times since this whole mess started that I thought, maybe I can be beautiful again. Not that cancer makes one ugly, but the ordeal makes you feel as if your womanhood has been completely removed. I'm speaking for myself, but know others share in this sentiment. I didn't even lose my hair, but I lost a breast, I still have burn marks from radiation, I have a big freaking scar over what is not an actual breast, a scar in my armpit where they stole my lymph nodes, ripples in my Foobie whenever I bend over or move, hormone therapy that is making me hot flash and lose my period in my early 40's. Yep. Womanhood has lost points in my brain, but perhaps, with the 5 new bras I've ordered online (perhaps a bit extreme, but they were so cute!!!), I will be able to trick myself into feeling like a complete woman again.

I don't know if my period has stopped completely or is just being a little bitch, but technically it should have arrived Sunday. Wicked cramps Friday, followed by... nothing. I can't lie, it would be nice to not deal with it, except that I know that's wrong for my body at my age. And cancer is wrong enough.

ps. Even though I have 5 pretty bras in the mail... FUCK YOU, CANCER.

Rain.. rain...

So, a funny story to start out this evening's entry.

A couple of months ago, hubby, daughter and I were walking in the rain. Passed a group of children, all singing "Rain, rain, go away. Come again some other day" over and over and over. My daughter asked hubby what they were doing. His answer : "Devil worshipping".

Now, I know that some readers will be offended.  I, however, completely cracked up, as did my daughter.

The kids voices were something out of a Stephen King movie. All creepily singsongy, as if they were a small army of zombie grade schoolers looking for brains to eat. Only, they can't eat brains in the rain.

Whew. It's been raining a lot, and I review that moment in my head. A lot.

How are my boobs, you ask? Well, I haven't spoken to any docs since the death-call.  What's the point? I'm not reaching out, I know it's bad news. I have an appointment with my oncologist on Tuesday, along with lab work. Lab Work. It sounds like a part time job, or a sweet internship to further my career. Nope. It's a fucking needle, poking my one good arm, looking for some sweet, cancerous blood to tell me that I am a step closer to dying. At least they have good coffee at the Cancer Center. You'd think they could throw a little Bailey's or Schmailey's in the cup for good measure. I mean, I AM dying with cancer running around in my body, no matter how they mutilate, burn and poison me. I could use a shot of something before having a talk with the Oncologist about my impending doom.

Don't think I haven't asked for it.

... Rain, rain, go away...

for real. Though we don't have to water our garden this year. Pretty convenient. I'm hoping to have a moment of sun so we can see if there are any more amazing tomatoes to pluck.

We ordered from Fresh Direct for the first time in a long time. Over a year. They had a sale on lobsters, and who the heck could pass that up? Regardless of their lame-ass past, we ordered. 6-8. What time did they show up? 8:45. I called and they issued a credit. I asked the lady how the hell I would keep my live lobsters for tomorrow, because it was too damned late to cook them tonight. She offered me the credit (and I had already looked up how to keep them in awesome lobster-dom overnight).  Then I unpack the boxes to find a green instead of red cabbage. Yeah, I got a credit on that too, but for real - can't they get their shit straight? I guess we'll be ordering from them once more since we have this credit now... but boy, they just can't get their shit straight.

Oh well. I'm bloated... Tamoxibloat. I assume. Either I'm getting my period, or my uterus is protesting the blocked estrogen, or my uterus is about to fall out of my body because it doesn't want to get cancer, either, and would rather rot on it's own, outside of me. Any way you slice it, well, I think it's mad at something. I wonder if I'll keep getting my period. It's been somewhat of a joke of late, though I'd rather have it than not at my age. It sounds luxurious to not get it, until you realize that you are not that fucking old to not get your period. Pretty soon I'll be shaking a cane at the kids in the street, telling them to pull up their pants and ask where their parents are. And to get off my lawn. Even though I'm a city dweller. Because that's what the stereotype of old people do. Old people that no longer menstruate.

My app (yes, I have an app for my cycle) says I'm just about due. Oooh, the suspense is killing me... no, wait. That's just the cancer.

Well, Shit.

Spoke to my surgeon today. Apparently in the scar tissue they removed during reconstruction, they found DCIS. I've already been radiated so we can't do that again. What the hell??? I'm going to speak to my other surgeon and radiologist soon, but methinks we will just monitor, unless they feel it necessary to remove all the skin. But then, where do we harvest for reconstruction?

Perhaps this is an excuse to eat fried chicken on a nightly basis so I can build up enough belly.

I am starting to understand how my mom felt, being diagnosed over and over. When do you just say "fuck it" and wait for it to kill you? Perhaps not now, but if this shit continues...