Urine luck!

I'm home and in my own bed!

The surgeries went well and my sweet little nurse, Leeanne, said I was her favorite patient this week (she didn't mention it was a short week).  Both Dr. Cross and Dr. Stacey are happy with how everything went and how my incisions look.  I've been given very specific instructions for recovery and Walter is making me adhere to them (think, nurse Cratchit).

The pain is mostly dull and achy and everything is tight, but it's tolerable.  I'm trying very hard to not use my arms for any pushing or pulling, as that makes the drainage increase and the healing go slower.  It'll be a fun couple of weeks.

I haven't spent much time checking out the surgeons' handiwork, but I'd compare them to two small flat crab cakes.  Dr. Stacey said that it'll probably take about three months before I have the exchange surgery to install the silicon implants.  Lots of office visits the next few months.

Although the last couple of days have not been a cake walk, they were ok.  I had great support from my family and my sweet sister/friend, April, sat with me last night at the hospital.  We had a good time catching up and laughing.  When the night nurse came out of the bathroom after recording my pee collection, he said, "You're in luck, we can remove your IV."  April and I looked at each other and said, "Urine luck?"  Who doesn't love a good pun?

So, my hope and prayer is for a good recovery, free from infection and a clean pathology report.

Thank you to everyone that sent me sweet words of encouragement, prayers, wishes, flowers, cookies, fruit, etc.  I felt/feel incredibly loved and supported.  I love you all!

Ready For My Close-Up

Front closure pajamas and tops.  
  Check.
Comfy new sheets.  
  Check.
Microwave (haven't had one in eleven years).  
  Check.
Stool softeners and probiotics.
  Check.
DVDs and new Netflix subscription.  
  Check.
Meal train for the next few weeks.  
  Check.
Hugs.  
  Check.
Prayers.  
  Check.
Laughs.  
  Check.
Tears. 
   Check.

I guess I'm as ready as I can be.  I really enjoyed time with family this weekend.  My sister and I had a giggly time last night casting a plaster cast of my breasts.  Not sure what I'm going to do with it (it's staring at me right now from across the room), but if I was ever going to do one, last night was the night.  I also took some topless photos this weekend.  I had another survivor suggest that.  She said that there might be times when I might want to look back on what was.  Again, not sure what I'll do with them (anyone have Hugh's address), but I took them and will have them.

Why do all of this?  I don't know.  I don't know how I'm going to process everything to come. I may need some images to grieve over or to put into perspective the bigger picture.  It's not the breasts themselves, it's the larger issue that they represent.

We all have things that remind of us of our larger life issues.  Mine just happen to be "nearly B" sized.

The Naomi's

"Ms. Jennings, your ovaries look beautiful."

Blush, blush.   How sweet of her.

Another attribute of carrying the BRCA II gene, is that you have a 26% chance of developing ovarian cancer by the age of seventy.  So last weekend when I had the house to myself and had a bit too much downtime to think, I convinced myself that I had ovarian cancer.  The symptoms of ovarian cancern are subtle and it's not something that is easily caught.  Many times, by the time you think something is wrong, the prognosis is not good.

But all is good.  They are beautiful and I can stop worrying about them for now.  I'm still probably going to lose them in a year or so.  Although, they are beautiful, no one likes them.  They are volatile and pose a threat.  They are like Naomi Campbell.  "Watch out bitch!  Don't make my ovaries come over there and smack you with this hotel phone!"   

Sorry, that seemed kind of funny to me.

More than likely around the same time I'm having my areoles tattooed back on (I hear that mint green is very popular this season), I'll be having a longer conversation with the team of doctors about the Naomi's and how they are trying to kill me.  Nothing like being thrown into menopause in my mid-thirties.  Woot, woot.

But all is good for now.  My mastectomies surgery is next week, the family is in town for some fun this weekend, one of my dear sweet besties has organized a meal train that should have us sitting fat and happy for the next few weeks, and I powered down everything  at the office.  I couldn't ask for a better family, team of doctors, coworkers and friends.  I appreciate each and everyone of you and thank you for all that you are doing for me.

Art Installation and An Empty Drawer

According to my plastic surgeon, I'm never going to have to wear a bra again.  Although it's against dress code policy at the office, I'm going to hold him to his word.

So, that leaves me with a bunch of old bras.  Any suggestions on what I should do with them?  I'm thinking some kind of wind chime art installation.  Maybe cast them in something hard, paint them bright colors and hang them from the trees around the property.  Maybe fashion them into some kind of primitive varmint hunting weapon.

Again, I'm totally open for suggestions.

And then the empty drawer....

What should I put in the drawer that once held all of my "nearly B cup" bras?  

Dark chocolate?
Sexy negligees?
My pistol?
Loan amortization schedules?

Again, totally open for suggestions.

And a wave of feminine force washed over the land...

And they appeared on the horizon and emerged from their Odyssey and MDX chariots.  They were dressed in their warrior wears, with their spiky heels and tall boots.  They wore their armored Spanx and skinny jeans. Displayed around their necks, wrists and ears were the spoils of distant lands.  Their visages fully adorned with the paint indicative of their tribe...the blood red lips and dark outlined eyes.  This tribe of women moved forward toward the threat.  This was a battle for which they were prepared.  They would conquer the threat as a combined force, not allowing their fallen sister to struggle alone.  No compromise would be allowed and negotiations would not be entertained.

This was WAR.  

The enemy would be defeated.

As their fallen sister watched from behind enemy lines the imposing force of feminine might and power, she found her own strength growing.  Much depended on the victory.  The legacy of future warrior women and combined sisterhood force would not be threatened nor jeopardized.  Failure would not be an option.

And so she rose.  

She rose to her full height with her tall boots and big girl panties.  She rose with bowed breast and chin held high.  She rose to meet her sisters.  The battle had begun and she was ready for the fight.

Victory was at hand.


*************************************
For some reason, this was the image that kept coming to mind during our girls' night out.  It's fantastical, but I could believe it.  The women that had gathered were not merely joining me for a night out of drink, food and laughter, but they were displaying their loyalty, support and combined force.  A force that is needed to conquer life's challenges.

Thank you to all for the support and friendship throughout the years.  I know I don't say it enough, but I appreciate everyone of you and am so thankful to call you my friends.

And We Will Bid Them Farewell....In Style!

Tall boots: check
Sassy, low cut dress: check
Ultra fab tuxedo jacket: check
Designated driver: check

That's right, we're throwing the ladies a bit of a soirée.  Why not?!  If I'm going to have to go through all of this, why not throw a few fun memories in there as well.

I'm looking forward to a GNO.  We will laugh, make inappropriate jokes about my breasts, speculate about the size of the replacements and let our hair down!  Thank goodness we have the private dining room.....whew.

A tout a l'heure aux tatas.  

My Noggin Is Achin'

My surgery date is getting closer and I feel as if I'm running out of time.  There is a part of me that wishes I wouldn't have had this much time to plan.  I've been trying to think of all the things that I'm going to need while recuperating.  I want everything clean and tidy.  I want everything organized and ready for transition at the office.  The difficult thing is that I don't know what to expect.  I've talked with other survivors about their recovery, but everyone is different.  I'm hoping for a smooth speedy recovery, but the risks are there, even if they are slight.

Again, probably too much thinking.

I am ready to give my mind a rest.  I didn't account for the emotional and mental drain this diagnosis would bring.  If I just think about the breast health issue, I'm ok.  If I just think about work and the stressors there, I'm ok.  Switching back and forth constantly is wearing me out.  Talking to people about my diagnosis is wearing me out.  In my job I flex to the personalities and needs of over 150 clients.  I'm constantly listening for cues, trying to think forward to issues and potential conflicts and circumvent them.  I'm trying to manage the relationships, both internal and external.  When people ask me about my health issue, I am analyzing their reaction, trying to remember their personal history and structuring the conversation so as to facilitate the least possible drama.  I don't do drama.  All of this is wearing out the ole noggin.

So, if anything, I'm looking forward to a forced unplugging.  I will watch mindless TV and cable mini-series for hours on end and read slightly raunchy historical fiction.  I will make my own soda and drink espressos and eat my weight in casseroles and lasagna.  I will think of my own sensitivities and cater to them.  I will do things for me and think about me and my health and my recovery.  I will recharge.  And I will get bored.  I'll get bored and will be reminded why I do the things I do.  Too much idle thinking is not a good look for EBJ.  I need problems.  I need challenges.  I'm a Virgo and a fixer.

Now, off to save the world....but first, a shower.