Progress, Semantics, and Optimism with DCIS

Is history doomed to repeat itself?

It appears my blog has taken an unfortunate turn to have a repeating theme that involves Stage 0 cancer for me. As they say, third time's a charm. 

Stage 0 cancer? Let's review the positives:

1. Don't worry, that shit won't kill you. 
2. Don't worry, it is just cancer by name (maybe it needs a new name then?)
3. Don't worry, you are going to live a long and beautiful life (with a statistically higher chance of you eventually succumbing to cancer somewhere in the next 10-50 years).

On the flip side: 

1. Seriously, we have to treat this like cancer. 
2. Seriously, it can definitely get worse. 
3. Seriously, IT COMES BACK
4. Seriously, get ready for a bunch of surgery and possibly radiation. 

Let's be honest - I have spent a lot of time researching Ductal Carcinoma in Situ. A LOT. While I am no doctor, I feel like I could practically write a thesis on this particular diagnosis. More importantly, I have even seen and lived the changes in available research in a short three years. I am very happy to  say that new protocols that have been instituted since my first and second mastectomy have greatly improved even in a short three years. The reduction of opioid use following the surgery made my recovery astronomically faster. The allowance of a giant glass of apple juice in the hours before surgery was also an amazing change that gave me a head clear of headaches and veins that could be found by nurses thanks to just a bit of additional hydration. These were minor changes that made a big difference in the way I felt going in and coming out of the hospital. 

I have participated in multiple studies and honestly, I feel like the number of people who have seen my breasts in the last 3 years number well in the 300s. I am not broaching on stripper status, and no one has offered me money yet, but I have heard people (doctors) say - "Oh yeah, I have seen your pictures." I have a (medical) reputation. And to be clear, these doctors mean my various MRIs, ultrasounds and other scans - not a weird peep show image. 

While I am writing this post almost 4 months after my re-recurrence, I would be remiss to not mention the real battle that should be affiliated with DCIS, and that is the psychological battle. I have already alluded to the attitude towards DCIS in the cancer community and I have struggled with it myself each and every time this damn diagnosis gets applied to my medical history. It is cancer by name; it is cancer by pathology; but it is "good" cancer. How confusing is that? I mean, should I be talking about this more like a knee replacement? Or should I just drop the C word and let people use their imaginations.

"Hey, it turns out I need a breast replacement."
vs.
"Hey, it turns out I have a form of breast cancer."
vs.
"Hey, it turns out I have an early stage breast cancer that can turn into way worse stage cancer (at any time, and we don't know when or why)"

The truth is, mentioning that you have cancer in a casual conversation can really throw people off. I have done it many times and it really just never works for anyone. And since my treatment is mostly "invisible" to others, it doesn't feel like I am qualified to add any gravitas to my situation. I don't lose my hair, I don't have that pallor of a cancer patient, and really, I have a significantly better chance of dying in a car crash on my way to a medical appointment than I ever did with this diagnosis.

For anyone who knows me personally, I am not a "woe is me" kind of person. Don't get me wrong, dealing with even an early stage breast cancer certainly knocked me for a loop and wreaked temporary havoc on my ability to manage all the day to day stressors in life with this added element of dread. This has been 3.5 years of uncertainty around something that could have/should have/would have been a done deal for nearly 75-99% of cases. Nevertheless, I truly remain very optimistic that this time is truly the charm - and if for some reason it isn't... well, I will simply accept it as another challenge in life in which I will be forced to find the silver lining. If you remember to find the joy and grace in the everyday, the practice will be easier when the challenging times arise.

This is the source of optimism. 

More and More like a Teenage Boy

***This post was actually written 3 years ago during my first DCIS diagnosis May 2015... but I finally decided to publish it...***

I am coming to the recent realization that I am more and more like a teenage boy with each passing day leading up to my decision.

I can't stop staring at boobs.

All the boobs.

Ladies, you can't say I didn't warn you.

Now to be fair, I try to stare only at the boobs of strangers - I don't want to freak out my friends. I look at symmetry and size, and then I speculate on if those boobs are real, fake, reconstructed, flat, round, and while I do not cast judgement per se, I do speculate on if those boobs would make me happy.

There is an astronomical number of women who have experienced breast cancer. There are also tons of women who have simply had surgery to cosmetically adjust the size of their breasts. The truth is, we are all our own worst critic. Hyperbole aside, there is no woman on this earth right now who is completely thrilled with every inch of their own body. This is not to say there are women out there who are the epitome of confidence, it is simply to say that if asked, they would identify some physical feature they would consider re-positioning or adjusting if the opportunity came up.

I consider myself in the same boat. I have lots of lovely features, but I usually can't see them for the fact that the things I don't love tend to poke me in the eye before I can enjoy the parts I do appreciate.

So this leads me to the following conundrum. Will the presence, or absence of my breast make me feel any better or worse about the way I look? Probably not. The coolest breast cancer survivors out there send out the empowering mantra that their breasts don't define them, and absolutely I agree. But that does not mean I don't still want to have one. My baby finger doesn't define me either, but if given the choice, I would keep that baby attached to my hand.

For those friends who already know what is going on, you all ask why am I so chipper about this. Well, I can assure you that on my "Just for Laughs" commentary, I am still using humor to manage the anxiety associated with the surgical decision. This is stressful, and I am worried. I am worried about a long and painful recovery time. I am worried about losing a lot of body conditioning (read... get even fatter). I am worried I will think I am even more unattractive than I think I am right now (that is right people, I have hang ups too). I am worried I won't be able to piggy back my kids, or get a really satisfying hug from my girls. I am worried my husband won't want to touch me anymore. I am worried I won't want to touch me anymore.

It is all very scary...

But then I need to unearth my inner Amazon woman. Rumour has it the Amazons cut off one of their breasts so they had better aim with their bows when they were busy killing all superfluous men they were warring with. (FWIW, this seems to be a fallacy, but let's honour the mythos anyway). I mean seriously, talk about kicking ass and taking names. I am surprised the breast cancer folks haven't gone to town with this line of marketing. Either way, I have moments where I feel like I need to embrace the fact that I am defined by more than my sexuality.

I am beautiful and empowered woman and my chest size and symmetry does not identify me.