Thursday, December 14, 2006

Cycle 2 of chemo was on Tuesday the 12th. That’s how the chemo treatments are counted – by cycles. Then, there’s the number of days after each cycle. So Tuesday was Cycle 2, Day 1 or C2D1. Wednesday becomes C2D2. You get the idea.

I’m afraid at some point I’ll become R2D2 and will morph into a short, squatty robot that makes beeping noises, while my bald head spins around and I’m looking for Wookies.

On Tuesday, my dear friend, Annette, drove me to the appointment. I’ve known Annette for 18 years and she’s an impressive lady. She’s had several tragedies in her life, but she overcomes them with grace and renewed strength. I admire her tenacity and look to her a role model as I muddle through my journey.

The chemo itself was once again, fairly uneventful. After the treatment, Annette’s talented daughter, Alyssa, met us for lunch and presented me with a beautiful bracelet with the Breast Cancer Ribbon charm that she made. I’ve known Alyssa since she was a baby and have watched her grow into an accomplished, talented and always fun young woman.

I went to work today and that probably wasn’t the best idea. I still had “chemo brain” which translates into “air head”. I had a hard time concentrating and would not take responsibility for any decision made today. At about 1:00, I went home and took a big nap. Me and my best friend – the couch!!

One thing I want to bring up is the lack of modesty that I’ve developed since my diagnosis. At some point you realize that multiple strangers have viewed and/or examined your breast. You just walk in, take off your shirt and some total stranger touches you. Here’s how it goes:

STRANGER #1 – Mammogram technician. At the Breast Center, where I have my annual mammograms, all of the technicians seem to be female. I’ve been going there for over 10 years and have never seen a male tech. As all women know, when you get a mammogram, the technician pushes your breast onto two horizontal metal plates. She squeezes your breast as the plates move closer together, you raise your arm, take a deep breath and “click” she takes a photo.

STRANGER #2 – 2nd mammogram technician. After they found the lump on my first mammogram, I had to go for a follow-up. Same procedure as above, just a different technician.

STRANGER #3 – Ultrasound technician. After the radiologist read my 2nd mammogram, it was determined that I needed an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech pours the cold, goopy stuff on the ultrasound wand and spreads it across my breast.

STRANGER #4 – Radiologist. The radiologist (another woman) then comes in, pours more cold, goopy stuff on the ultrasound wand … same as above. The radiologist says she thinks it’s cancer and I should see a surgeon for a biopsy.

STRANGER #5 – Surgeon. This time it’s a male. “Hello, I’m Dr. Blah-Blah. How are you?” He proceeds to feel around my breast, then jabs a needle in to get a piece of the lump to be tested. “Nice to meet you. I’ll have the results of the biopsy in a few days.”

STRANGER #6 – Actually, it’s Strangers #6, 7, and 8. Lumpectomy time. I get wheeled into the surgical unit and there’s the surgeon (who is no longer a stranger), an anesthesiologist and 2 surgical nurses. Everyone’s wearing surgical masks so I have no idea what they look like. While I’m asleep, they proceed to take a piece of my breast out. Prognosis is good, but “you should probably see an Oncologist for a consultation.”

STRANGER #9 – The Oncologist. “Hello, I’m Dr. Blah-Blah-Blah. How are you?” We have a long discussion about my health and family history, then of course, strip down so that he can feel my breasts. Time for more test results. “Nice to meet you. I’ll have the new test results in a few days.”

Like most American women, I have body self-esteem issues. I certainly don’t have the body of a supermodel or Angelina Jolie (whose body defies explanation). When I get a physical exam or massage and am stark naked on some table, I figure they’ve seen better and they’ve seen worse.

But during this whole journey, I’ve become numb to showing my breast to strangers. At this point, my breast isn’t any different from any other part of my body. “Wanna see my knees, my feet, my elbow.. how ‘bout my breast?” It’s all the same.

I’m not sure when and where I crossed the threshold, but modesty is no longer an issue for me.