My ovaries and Fallopian tubes joined my breasts this morning as medical waste.
That’s a fun sentence to write.
Surgery started at 7:45. I was in the recovery room by 9:10. I was home by 10:50. For once, I woke up from anesthesia without nausea. Dr. He told me everything looked good, no visual oddities, and he’ll see me in two weeks. Hopefully, he’s right. Everything is sent to pathology no matter what. I’ll call Dr. O tomorrow to let her office know the surgery is done and see what the next treatment step is. It should be cancelling the Lupron shot in April. It might be switching to Armidex from Tamoxifen immediately. I really don’t know.
I’m on bedrest today and most of tomorrow. I guess that’s ok. It’ll give me time to read since I’m rereading the Harry Potter series, and it’ll give me time to play on Pinterest.
This is the one surgery I’ve been completely ambivalent about having, but today, when I had to sign two documents acknowledging I understood this procedure would result in total, irreversible infertility, I paused.
No, A and I were not going to have another child. Too dangerous even if I had any fertility left after chemo, but there was something about being forced to put in writing that door would close to never open again.
We once said we wanted three children, and if I hadn’t miscarried in 2004, we would have had three children. We’d have a 13 year old now along with 11 year old S and 8 year old AJ. I’m never really sad over the miscarriage because I know it wasn’t meant to be, but sometimes, there’s a what-if that floats through my mind.
Cancer took away that what-if. Cancer took away so many of my what-ifs.
My great-grandmothers all lived well into their nineties, one into her hundreds.
My mother and her sisters are in their sixties and seventies.
My sister is nearly fifty.
My older cousins are in their mid forties and fifties.
A turned 37 last Friday.
It seems to me I’m the one destined to live a short life…”the sharp knife of a short life.” No more what-ifs about living to old age.
Cancer reminds me daily how fragile life truly is, how mortal we truly are, even as we fight against mortality, against growing old. What a paradox. We want to grow old because that means we’ve lived a long life, yet if we live into advanced ages, we do anything we can to avoid being seen as that age. Anti-aging creams, vitamins, surgeries all because we’re seventy and want to look fifty and because we’re fifty, we want to look forty and because we’re forty and where did that line come from, how can I look like I’m twenty?
Last year, when I had my bilateral mastectomy, I struggled so hard when I woke up in recovery and found tissue expanders instead of reconstruction. Suddenly, I had absolute, inarguable, physical proof of cancer, more physical than the port. The mastectomy cut away the cancerous parts of my body. Two parts of my body became medical waste because the left one tried to kill me. Today, I lost four more organs that are uniquely female. Four more pieces of my 39 year old body became medical waste because my left breast tried to kill me. I’m numb to it right now (but not physically numb because this discomforting ache can go away).
As of today, with the exception of losing weight, I’ve now done everything I can do to keep the cancer at bay. I had six months of taxotere, carboplatin, herceptin, and perjeta. I had another six months of just herceptin as a year of herceptin is the gold standard for HER2+ cancer. I had a bilateral mastectomy. I had auxiliary lymph node dissection of the left nodes. I began tamoxifen when the mastectomy and ALND revealed ER+ cancer and will, hopefully, be on it or Armidex for 9 more years. I had radiation. I had a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.
Cancer is carnage. Cancer is waste. My fate is truly, deeply out of my hands at this point, not that it ever was in my hands in the first place.
We wait. We watch. We see. There’s nothing else to be done.