Hope & Strength Win

Week 12 A.D.

You know what I miss? Bending over. Dressing myself. Washing myself. Sitting up without a “boost”. Doing my own my hair. Sleeping in my bed. Walking further than a few houses. Being able to “go”—yes, I mean #2.

But you know what I won’t miss? Cancer.

This shitty part is only temporary. And that’s what brings a smile to my face right now.

I don’t know if the hardest part of my cancer journey is over. I don’t know if the hardest is yet to come. I just know that what I thought was unimaginable and one of the worst things that could happen to me, has in fact happened—getting cancer…and yet here I am. Still. Living my life. It looks a little different in this moment, but I’m still here. I’m relieved to be post-surgery. I’m grateful that all of that anxiety and fear I had, now has some reprieve. That may have actually been the worst part for me so far, the stressful and anxious part leading up to surgery.

Before signing out for work on my last day, I told folks, “See you on the other side of this.” And I’m there. On the other side of surgery at least. And I’m so goddamn grateful to be.

As word spread about my cancer, people would tell me that I am strong, that I’ll beat this. “Be strong. You are strong. You’re stronger than you think. You’ll be stronger because of this. Etc., etc.”

I heard every single one of you. But I also kind of shrugged it off. Like, that’s what you’re supposed to say to help me not freak out or to help me get through this because I know it comes from a place of sincerity and love. Or maybe you don’t know what to say but knew you wanted to encourage me. But you know what? You were fucking right! All of you. My anxiety tried to pull me down, but it lost.

I never used to believe I was strong. Actually it’s always been the opposite. I have felt mostly powerless and weak as hell through my life. Life has dealt me some interesting cards in my time. I think we all get an interesting hand at least at some point. But I have learned to deal with my shitty cards when they were dealt. Have I been angry at them? Sure. Has it felt unfair? You bet! But what other option do I have? I’m not gonna fold. I’m too stubborn for that. I think I’ve hustled through the shitty hands in life and have found ways to get by. I’ve searched and found positivity, gratitude, and some hope. I guess I figure, at some point, I have to get to the good cards in the deck, right? And when I do, I can rest, relax and enjoy the reprieve.

And that’s where I have begun to realize that those times I hustled and searched and found the silver linings—that’s where I’ve gained strength. Through fighting and resisting to fold.

If there’s nothing else I’ve taken away from my 43 years of life, it’s that when there’s a shitty storm, there will eventually be a calm. Even if only for a bit. This is the virtue of patience and hope. And it’s just as powerful as the fight.

Between growing up poor, trying to understand my mom’s various illnesses as a kid, growing up an only and never feeling like I fit in, going through my husband’s life changing diagnosis and surgery, losing both parents and my nephew tragically within six years of each other, navigating the education system for neurodivergent kids, managing my own anxiety and panic disorder (and probably undiagnosed neurodivergence), and supporting my husband through a 7+ year long disability discrimination legal battle, and now breast cancer, there has always been good that happens in between. I am no victim. But I’m also not Superwoman. I live, I struggle, I persevere, and I do get stronger.

The “in between” these crazy ass life events—what helps to calm the anxiety and build my patience and hope—has been my family. Always.

As a kid and even as an adult with my own family I have created, it’s their love that brings me peace to know things will be ok. As long as we have each other, I will always have hope. My strength has always been because of my family. I live for them. I fight for them. I persevere for them. I will be damned resilient, for them.

And so, yes, I’ve made it abundantly clear that the weeks leading up to breast cancer surgery have been hard for me. The hardest. Impossible, in fact, for me to believe I had any strength to get to, let alone through this first part of treatment. It was hard to see beyond the hell I knew I was about to face—fighting cancer head on. Literally removing it from my body by removing whole parts of my body. I didn’t feel strong at all. I felt powerless and weak as hell. Again.

But. Now I’m on the other side. I’m still unsure of what’s next. But I’m beginning to grasp the strength that I’ve gained in beating this part. And I hold hope that I’ll hang on to more courage, moving forward, than I had when I started this journey.

Ok, enough heavy introspection for now. You may be wondering where how I am healing post-surgery?

Well…I got 2 drainage tubes out on Monday!! Hallelujah and praise baby Jesus! These four tubes on my lower ribs have been the hell of my recovery. My compression bras have rubbed on them constantly. They make it hard to move and breathe sometimes, and where the tubes go up inside of the breast is surely what’s also making my underarms sore to move.

The plastic surgery nurse practitioner cut to the chase and started the appointment saying, “Let’s get some tubes out and bandages off!”

Yes, please.

She wasted no time peeling off the clear, tape-like bandage covering my breasts. It definitely hurt when she removed the bandages over the tubes. Everything else was like getting a body wax.

“Damn, I must be a hairier monster than I thought!” I squealed, as she giggled, assuring me I was in fact not a hairy monster.”

“I am Hispanic, I can be pretty hairy!” I joked, to cover up my discomfort.

“Wow, your incisions are almost completely healed. It’s only been a week, that’s awesome! Do you want to see with the mirror?” she asked gently.

“Suuure,” I quietly hesitated. I did want to see. But I also wasn’t in the mood to cry if seeing my new, post-mastectomy breasts without the bandages would be overwhelming. But I took the hand held mirror in my hands, looked, and nodded.

“Ok. They look good.” I said. Not lying, but responding almost like a reflex because I didn’t know what else to say in that moment while I was processing seeing my new body.

There they were. Long scars going across the full, round, yet flattened breasts. They’re almost the same size as my natural breasts, but the shape is very different—not a natural shape. There’s no projection where a nipple would be, it’s just kind of oddly flat. The scars honestly weren’t as bad as I expected them to be. I know they’re not 100% healed, but the plastic surgeon did a really good job smoothing out the skin. Stitches are not at all visible. It’s like the stitching was all internal. I imagined having thick, black stitches jetting out from swollen, red and lumpy scars. But that’s not at all the case. Not even a little. For what they are, reconstructed breasts, I am so grateful for the work my surgical team has done. They’re not scary to look at. Strange. But I’m not scared of my body.

On to the drainage tubes—I’m not going to lie, the first stitch she removed on the right rib hurt like an SOB. In fact, I hurled my signature, “Holy fucking shit!” at her. I followed it with an apology, of course. I’m not a monster. She laughed a bit. Zach suggested that she may recall or have heard about my cursing in the surgery recovery room. She was either lying or being polite when she said she hadn’t heard.

“Ok, inhale deep and exhale like you’re blowing out a candle,” she instructed.

The tube was out! It felt weird, but not painful like the damn stitch. She applied a new waterproof bandage over the remaining tube on the right.

“All done here!” she exclaimed.

“Ok, now I can unclench my butt cheeks,” I said. The nurse laughed. “No seriously, I was very tightly clenched and gripping onto this seat,” I admitted.

“Ok, onto the left side.” she warned.

“Fucking shit! Yeah, that stitch sucked too,” I shrieked.

“Inhale again and blow out the candle,” she reminded me.

“Pheeew!” I said with that exhale.

“Ok, I’m going to clean this one up a bit as there’s some fluid around the area,” she said.

“Oka—FFFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK! Heeeee whoooooo!” I began to Lamaze breathe through the alcohol wipe she used to clean up the drainage tube area on my left side. It continued to burn as she applied a new, clean bandage over the remaining tube coming out of my left rib.

“Not fun at all. But I made it. Again, sorry for cursing.” I said as I sat up and took a deep breath.

“Trust me, I’ve heard it all. You’re fine. Tubes aren’t fun,” she replied.

“They might be the worst part,” I agreed.

“That’s what everyone says,” she said, sympathetically. “Let’s plan to get these last two out on Friday or Monday. As soon as we can get you in, or earlier if drainage pretty much stops.”

I felt better almost immediately with two less drains. As I walked out of the office that day, I didn’t feel like I looked like a cancer patient as much as I did in my appointment the previous week. I looked at myself in the elevator mirror and saw a different person. I was healing physically…and mentally.

But there’s never time to fully rest with three kids. Emma’s fifteenth birthday was Tuesday and I had been trying to organize what I could for her big day. Amazon delivered decorations. I sent Jillian out to pick up the balloons, plates and napkins and asked my in-laws to grab her flowers. Now I just needed the birthday girl to decide on her breakfast of choice, dessert and dinner.

Monday night, after almost everyone went to bed, Zach went to work decorating. In all fairness, Jillian helped a little before falling asleep on the couch herself. He even cooked Emma’s breakfast burritos to be ready for when she woke up.

On Tuesday, I was still feeling better. I offered her to leave the house and go out to eat, if that’s what the birthday girl wanted. I didn’t want my stupid cancer and surgery to ruin her birthday traditions, again. It was only three years ago that she celebrated her birthday in Iowa, the day before my nephew’s funeral. It was also fourteen years ago, days before her first birthday that her dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Emma’s birthday hasn’t had the best track record so I do what I can to protect it for her.

But, luckily, she wanted low key family-style Chipotle. I wasn’t mad at that. I didn’t have to change into baggy clothes that would hide my bulky drains. Plus, come evening, my two drains were actually starting to bug me again. Zach thought maybe my feeling good that day had me over-doing it a bit. He was probably right. I need to remember I’m just barely a week out of major surgery. It just felt so good to feel good.

He helped me shower that night and my body was done for. It was my first shower without breast bandages, which made me nervous, but it was fine. The water didn’t hurt or burn. I was still super careful not to scrub, but to have soapy water just run over my breasts, ribs and arm pits. My ribs were killing me by this point though. It hurt to inhale. It hurt to exhale. It hurt to wash. It hurt to dry. I was about in tears when I got out of the shower as Zach lotioned my body. I was cold and my body shivered.

But because I was already so tense from pain, I began to uncontrollably shiver. Now, post-surgery, when my pectoral muscles shivered, they tensed up and tightened due to the recent trauma. It was painful. Like charlie horses on my chest—really damned painful charlie horses. I tried to relax my chest muscles best I could by taking deep breaths between my jaw shuttering uncontrollably.

Zach dressed me in warm pajamas as quickly as he could, as I worked on relaxing my muscles. He grabbed Jillian to braid my hair as he went to grab my evening dose of pain meds and muscle relaxers. I got into a comfortable position in my recliner, stretching out the painful area in the ribs, and eventually dozed off.

Wednesday I woke up to a call from the Lymphologist. I had been curious about all of that since Monday’s appointment at the plastic surgeon’s office. The NP had told me that I have a permanent restriction on my right arm from now on. WTF? What did that mean? Why?

The Lymphologist was super nice and explained that because I had four lymph nodes removed from my right arm, I’ll always be at risk of developing lymphedema. Which is swelling due to an abundance of lymphatic fluids with no where to go. Basically, from now on, I have to try to reduce risk of trauma to my right arm in order to prevent a potential flare up of lymphatic fluid. This means no shots there, no blood draws, no blood pressure taken there, no I.V.s there. And any injuries to my right arm will need to be monitored. I’ll also have my lymphatic fluids measured every time I visit my breast surgeon so that they can monitor any potential risk. It sounds like a lot, but she explained that my risk of lymphedema is less than 1% because they only took four of the like 20+ lymph nodes in my arm. I like those odds.

Wednesday and Thursday were great rest days for me. Which I needed. I’ve been glued to the Olympics almost 24-7 downstairs in the living room. It makes me feel less like a patient sitting in the living room than being cooped up in my bedroom. But you all, I still get overwhelmed with the love and support I’m receiving. I’m surrounded by beautiful floral arrangements, balloons, and yummy treats. I’ve been down to accept the Meal Train dinner deliveries, which have all been delicious. But also I’ve enjoyed seeing everyone. I love my family, but I’ve seen only them for days. I have loved being able to chat with all the visitors coming by. Your positivity, your love, your encouragement…you too are filling me with hope and reinforcing my strength.