Got To Vs. Get To

Lately I have been assessing my capacity for crap...more specifically, negativity.  

I've come to the conclusion that my capacity and therefore tolerance for crap is low.  Maybe with the recent health issue, some things have been put into perspective and I'm just maturing (eek).  

I'm working on a theory (please don't expect anything groundbreaking): there are two types of people, "Get To" people and "Got To" people.  I wish I could come up with something more catching than that (you know, like "leaning in"), but along with my waning capacity for crap is also my waning capacity for creative thought (which, I'm told will get worse as I cut off all the estrogen in my body with one fell swoop...more on that later).  The last few weeks I've been highly sensitive to complainers and whiners - at work, on Facebook (always a favorite place to vent), in some of my social circles, etc.  I understand that there are people that don't have good sounding boards at home and that sometimes if you don't vent, the consequences could be dangerous, but seriously folks, at what point to do you suck it up and just move on to something positive.  Are you continually going about your day saying, "I've got to do this and I've got to that" or are you saying, "I get to this and I get to that"?  

When you are on the receiving end of the "got-tos", you begin to believe that you are a burden on that person.  If my child is always hearing me express my frustration about the things I've got to do for her, at what point does she stop asking me things...important things.  At what point do I stop asking grumpy coworkers for help, if all I ever hear from them are complaints about all the other things that they have to do for other people?

So, I get to.

I get to spend time with my sweet husband and funny child.

I get to go to the office.  

I get to go there under my own accord and not be in debilitating pain.  

I get to volunteer for my community.  

I get to do this with women that I really like and enjoy.

I am lucky.  I have a lot of "get-tos".  There have been a couple of "got-tos" in the last few months, but those things have turned into "get-tos" and hopefully, they will provide me with even more "get-tos".

Don't stress, I'll still listen to you bitch and moan, but I'd love if you would conclude your vent session with something positive and a way you are going to change the "got-to" into a "get-to". 

Health Update:
I went and saw my fabulous gynecologist yesterday.  It is confirmed.  I'm getting gutted.  It's all coming out this summer.  The ovaries (the Naomies), the tubes, and the uterus.  No reason to keep the uterus if I don't have the ovaries and the Tamoxifen (scheduled to start in December) does a number on the uterus that requires some extra "maintenance".  This procedure will be scheduled with the implant exchange, so I should only need to go under one more time.  The bright spot in all of this is that she's going to start me on a slight dose of "happy pills".  This will allow us to watch for any side effects and then help transition me into an estrogen-free life (one filled with a tenor voice and frequent chin-waxing).  I am happy (no assumptions, I'm not on the drugs yet) about this.  Why make it more difficult?  Do I really need to experience the extremes of the mood swings to fully appreciate them?  I say, no and I think those around me would agree.

To Pink or Not to Pink?

Last weekend was our area's Komen Race For the Cure.  I have been involved in the past as a team leader and participant and wanted to participate this year.  Walter said that he wanted to join me, so we made it a family affair with Scout lounging in the stroller while we walked the 5k.  I had planned on trying to meet up with a couple of survivors that had been so helpful throughout the last couple of months, keeping in contact with me and sharing their personal stories.  As soon as I entered the survivors' area, I was very overwhelmed.  There were so many people and there was so much pink.  The breakfast line was half a mile long and the coffee was at the end of it (note to any event planners: easily accessible coffee makes everyone VERY happy).  By the time I got some breakfast and coffee, all I wanted to do was sit and drink my coffee.  They called for the survivor photo and parade and I just couldn't do it.  I felt very much on display.  To be honest, I am very conflicted about the whole thing.  I like that Komen contributes to local programs, programs from which I have benefitted.  I like that they provide gap funding for some screening programs for women that can't afford screening.  But the event is so commercialized and there are so many vendors pushing their products and so many people jockeying to get product.  I will probably not put a lot of support behind the group.  I know there is a lot of debate about the organization and I am aware why people don't support it anymore.  I, personally will probably through my weight behind a different group.   I'd love for there to be a cure or at least a very clearly defined path to prevention in the next 20 years before Scout starts dealing with the issue.  It's difficult to outsmart your genes, but why not?  I'm glad I participated in the race although it brought up a lot of conflicting feelings.  A big thanks to my Junior League sisters that hosted a FABULOUS brunch at a local hotel after the race.  It was great and so relaxing and fun.  I really love hanging out with those ladies!

I'm excited to start volunteering for a program that matches survivors with recently diagnosed survivors.  This will be coordinated through the local breast center.  I've benefitted tremendously from being able to talk with other women who had recently gone through their experiences.  Hopefully I can help other women through my own experiences.

Ibuprofen and a Chevy

I got through this week with a little help from my good friend, Vitamin I.  I had a filling of my expanders on Wednesday and it about stopped me in my tracks.  I don't know if I've hit the point where they really are stretching things past the original size or if I just tweaked something leaving the office.  My chest was so tight and I felt like the expanders were pushing on my heart and lungs and trying to kill me from the inside (i would love to see that in an obit, "woman died from traumatic injury of internal organs caused by her tortoise shell implants).  Of course, instead of taking some ibuprofen and going home for the afternoon, I went back to the office, ran errands and spent the last three hours of the day in meetings.   I could hardly get out of the bed that evening.  I know the reconstruction process isn't a cake walk and there will be times that I experience some pain and discomfort, but I was definitely questioning the whole process earlier this week.

Someone in FB nation had posted an article about breasts and how normal breasts don't look like plasticized stripper boobs that we see everywhere - what, you don't see them everywhere?  Women should be proud of their asymmetrical, saggy selves and not succumb to pressures to look like Barbie.  I started thinking about that and how (or even if) it applies to my situation. I started to feel a little guilty for getting reconstruction.  Maybe I should have just lived with the mastectomies and chalked it up to "character building".  Then I thought about it for another ten seconds and thought, "nope".  I've had my character built up just about enough for a while.  It made me think of a past "character building" incident.  When I was in high school, I drove my dad's 1978 white Chevy pick-up with an extended bed and a large pipe with a chain wrapped around it on the front for the bumper.  One night while he was parked on the side of the highway working a traffic accident, a gal came around the corner and smashed in the driver's side door.  Once the insurance settled, Dad and I headed to the salvage yard and found a replacement door...a brown replacement door.  I begged my dad to let me paint it (there was a time in junior high when I was pretty good with auto body work).  He said the brown door built character and we would leave it.  Awesome.  Did it kill me to drive the big white truck with the brown door?  No.  Would I have rather had a white door?  Yes.  I'm not trying to draw an analogy between Chevy trucks and my breasts (I'd have to think about that one a while to come up with anything witty), but I'd like to have the front half of my torso look somewhat like it did.  And you know what?  If it looks bigger, perkier, and a little like Barbie, I don't care.  They will be man-made in every sense of the word and I'm not going to be apologetic.  Someone else can drive the old truck around for a while and work on their character.

Fairy Fingers

Since I've been back at work and logging lots of hours behind the desk, I've started to get tense and tight like I used to.  I was getting ready to call my usual therapist when I remembered that I could book a massage through Highlands Oncology for $35/hour.  You can't beat that price and since I'm officially a patient at HOG, why not.  I showed up at the office which was decorated with very relaxing, typical Asian-inspired decor.  The nurse/therapist was very nice and had a calming manner about her.  I got undressed and propped up on the table so nothing was uncomfortable and started to relax in anticipation of a good deep tissue massage.  After a couple of minutes of fairy fingers, I told her that I wasn't sensitive and she could use more pressure.  And this is where the relaxation ended.  She began to inform me that due to the fact that I've had a couple of lymph nodes removed, I am in a risk category for lymph edema.  One of the things that is on the no-no list is deep-tissue massage.  There are a lot of other things on the no-no list.  Here's a sample:

-mani/pedis

-long flights

-heavy lifting

-strenuous exercise

-bug bites

Needless to say, I was not relaxed when leaving the massage.  The nurse sent me with a large stack of pamphlets and tasked me with getting compression garments for my arms in anticipation of an upcoming trip to D.C.  I started to call the list of medical supply businesses to find out if they had compression garments and if they would even fit me (I have the wingspan of a condor).  I asked one of the gals what the garments were made of and she said they were simple, Spandex sleeves.  I said, "so, kind of like Spanx for your arms?"  "Yes, very similar."  Well, then I definitely don't have a risk of developing lymph edema in my ass.

The whole thing struck me as very funny and I know that I'm not at great risk for lymph edema.  I haven't had any symptoms, I don't smoke, didn't have chemo and am not over-weight.  Even though the price is tempting to go back to HOG, I don't think I'll be going back to the sweet, informative nurse with fairy fingers.