“What are the implants made of?”
“A cohesive gel, similar to that of a gummy bear.”
“And what are the risks?”
“Although it’s less extensive and there are fewer possible complications, there is the chance that some years down the road you might need another surgery to get the implants repaired or replaced.”
“What do you think, Erin?” I asked.
“The natural boobs made out of your tummy tissue are a way bigger procedure than I realized.”
I could tell she was overwhelmed. I was, too, although I had gotten used to medical language being thrown at me.
Doctor 9 showed me an example of an implant, and Erin and I both felt it.
“You’re right—it does feel like a gummy bear,” I said. I tried to imagine what it would feel like inside me, and how it would feel to someone else.
He then opened up his computer and showed us photos upon photos of breasts.
“So you essentially created these?”
“Yes.”
There was an entire section that didn’t apply to me—breasts that had been augmented or reduced for cosmetic reasons. Then we looked at photos of breasts created from tummy tissue, and afterwards photos of breast reconstruction with implants. After looking at the photos I began to think I had a better idea which route I wanted to go, but I had to ask another question. “Which surgery do you think would be best for me?”
“I can’t recommend one over another for you, given the circumstances,” he said, but after a pause, he went on. “Because of your age and because of the great cosmetic effects we can get, as well as less operating time initially, I think the implant procedure would be the best option for you.” That made me happy. If I was going to get new boobs, them being perky would be a bonus. And if I never had to wear a bra again, that would be even better.
“I went in thinking one thing,” I said to Erin when we left. “Now I’m not positive. You know I’ve never been a big fan of fake boobs, because I always felt they looked so unnatural. After seeing those photos, though, I think the breast replacement implants look more natural than the breast augmentation implants. I don’t want anything bigger, I just want something that looks like what was already there.”
“There’s so much to think about,” Erin said. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I do like that with implants I don’t have to decide up front how big or small I want them to be.”
“How perfect is that! You get to ‘try them on’ for size and see what works for you.”
“True. But there’s a lot on the downside.” I appreciated that Erin was trying to be positive, but there was so much involved in both surgeries.
Once we got back to my place, Erin got Rudy out of his car seat and handed him to me. “He’s getting hefty.”
“Twenty-eight pounds now.” I kissed Erin good-bye and shifted Rudy from one arm to the other to unlock the door. I had time to make a decision about the reconstruction, but regardless of which procedure I chose, there was one order of business I definitely needed to take care of. With my not being allowed any heavy lifting after either surgery, eleven-month-old Rudy would need to move from the comfort of his crib into a big-boy bed shortly after his first birthday on February 11. Even though I’d have some help, I couldn’t ask someone to stay with me for a whole six weeks. While we had already babyproofed the kitchen, we desperately needed to babyproof Rudy’s bedroom. He’d taken ten steps the other day, all at once, and any day now would be walking everywhere, getting into everything. In fact, we’d nicknamed him Bamm-Bamm, he’d gotten so destructive.
It was the end of January, my mastectomy was scheduled for March 23, and we needed to begin Rudy’s transition. Before that, though, I still had two more chemo treatments.
Chapter 27
OVERREACTION
Mary Kay, who had sent me the Believe T-shirt I wore to the hair-shaving party, was due to arrive at my house and take me to my third Taxol treatment. I’ll never forget our first conversation. She’d been the vice principal at my school when I was on maternity leave with Charley. Charley was having a hard time adjusting to day care and I couldn’t stop stressing about that. I found myself in front of Mary Kay’s office one day when I popped into the school, and I knocked on her door.
The next thing I knew, we ended up chatting for a good hour. I couldn’t help but feel like I was in trouble at first, because Mary Kay looked at me so directly—and she was the vice principal!—but I desperately needed some distraction to keep myself from thinking about poor Charley, and Mary Kay provided it. After that chat, I felt as though I’d known her forever. She was such an honest, genuine, sincere and generous person. I was so happy to have her with me for that chemo appointment.
When she arrived at our house, Charley ambushed her. The kids loved her. “Hey!” Mary Kay said, and gave me a big hug after managing to detach herself from Charley. “Your eyebrows and eyelashes are looking good!”
She’d been getting the “hair play-by-play,” as I called it, but I’d begun to fall behind in my updates. “I thought by now they’d be totally gone, but there are a few stragglers, and at least there are still those few. I’m feeling better again, too. Finally some relief from the aches and pains.”
I grabbed my snacks, we kissed the kids good-bye, and we headed to the hospital. While she’d heard about the usual round of blood work, weighing, and so on, Mary Kay was kind of wide-eyed about it all and wanted to know everything that was happening. She hadn’t been to this type of appointment with anyone else before. When my number was called in the chemo suite, I went in and sat down on a stretcher.
“What’s that?” Mary Kay asked when the nurse handed me some pre-meds.
“It’s to help counteract allergic reactions. I already took a bunch last night and early this morning. It’s unlikely anything’s going to happen, since I’ve already gone through this twice, but can’t hurt.” I propped myself up on a couple of pillows so I could look at Mary Kay more comfortably while we talked, and the nurse started the saline drip, checked my vitals, and hooked up the Taxol drip. “Okay, you’re good to go,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”
Mary Kay pulled a chair close, and we started talking about all the changes that happened since she’d left my school. Before we could get into the real nitty-gritty, though—two minutes at most since the IV had been started—I had to stop.
“Are you okay?” Mary Kay asked.
I looked at her. She shifted in and out of focus, but I could see she looked worried. “Can you get the nurses?” Before I could finish asking, she was out of her chair. My head was congested, my chest felt tight, and I felt dizzy.
The nurses were at my side within seconds.
“She looks like a ghost,” I heard Mary Kay say.
“I’m going to throw up.” It was all I could do to grab whatever was handed to me before I vomited up everything in my stomach, including all of the pre-meds I’d taken. What on earth was going on?
“Stop the IV and check her vitals,” a nurse said.
Within minutes, the awful feelings began to subside.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How can the Taxol be causing a reaction now? I’ve already had two successful treatments.”
The nurses were stumped. “We’re not sure what’s going on,” one said. “For a reaction to happen during the third infusion is rare. It’s probably not the Taxol.”
The other nurse chimed in. “Also, typical reactions involve shortness of breath, flushing of the face, fever and/or chills, or hives, not vomiting.”
“Maybe it’s the flu or something you ate. We’ll talk to the oncologist and see what he thinks.”
I lay back on the stretcher. “I thought I was going to get away with just the achiness,” I said to Mary Kay. “Not so lucky.”
One of the nurses returned. “We’re going to start the saline drip again, especially since you vomited, okay?”
I nodded, and
she set to work. I was surprised to find I hadn’t been embarrassed to throw up in front of everyone. The nurses had closed the curtain around me to give me some privacy and while I appreciated the gesture, I really didn’t care what anyone thought. The whole thing reminded me of that moment when you’re giving birth and realize there’s a room full of people looking at your crotch, and you’re in so much pain that at that moment that’s the least of your worries.
The nurse finished, but I had to ask, “Did you start the Taxol drip?” I’d begun to experience the same sensations as before, although at least this time I didn’t vomit.
I could tell from her expression that she had. “I’ll stop it right away.” She was puzzled. “Because all your symptoms are so atypical, we think your reaction is just coincidental. But to be on the safe side, we’re going to give you more steroids and some Zofran for the nausea.”
So I popped more pills, and after a half hour, when the drugs were well into my system, the Taxol drip was started again, slowly. I warily watched the drug dripping through the tube, waiting for something to happen, and a nurse stayed to watch over me. But nothing. After twenty minutes, the nurse stood up. “Great! No glitches. I’ll be sure to make notes on your chart for next time.” The rest of the infusion went uneventfully. When all of the Taxol was in my system, the monitor started beeping and the nurse returned to gently pull the IV line out of my hand and bandage me up.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Okay?”
“I think I’m good now.” I picked up my coat and purse. “Thanks for bringing me,” I said to Mary Kay.
“I’m glad I was able to be here with you for it,” she said and squeezed my good hand.
We ventured down the hall to get my pre-meds for next time, and then to the elevators, grabbing a coffee in the lobby for the drive home. On the way, Mary Kay kept asking me how I was feeling, but I was fine—no more weird reactions. And luckily no more nausea.
Back at the house, Mary Kay walked me in and gave me a huge hug. “That was an experience.”
If only she knew everything I’d been through.
“Mommy!” Charley jumped in my arms when she saw me.
The great thing about kids is that no matter how “abnormal” their parents’ lives become, in kids’ eyes, things keep going on as usual. I was bald, I was about to lose my boobs, and every other week I was being pumped full of some toxic chemicals, but the kids’ lives didn’t change much. Charley still went to day care a couple of days a week; we still went skating at the public ice rink just down the road, built castles and played princess and zoomed toy dump trucks around the house. Everything for them was normal, and it was important to me to keep it that way.
Having Rudy and Charley helped me keep my focus away from my treatments, away from my aches and pains, away from the baldness. Rudy, who had been only seven months old when I was diagnosed, would soon be turning one. He was walking everywhere and loved taking things from where they belonged and putting them in different places, and it still drove me nuts. I was thankful, though—it kept me busy, which was perfect.
He didn’t have a clue what was going on, though, but Charley was becoming more attentive at times. She always wanted to rub my bald head, and cuddle with me when I was tired, too. On the odd occasion when I was able to sleep in, she’d come into my room, pull the blanket up around me and give me the gentlest kisses she’s ever given. “I’m just coming in to check on you, Mama,” she’d say.
She was incredibly perceptive about the chemo jargon we used, and although she didn’t understand everything, she’d use the words fairly accurately. On one occasion, she bumped into my arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t hurt you where you get your chemo.”
“Oh, sweetie, no, you didn’t!”
She was amazing, and without her energy and kisses my chemo days would have been much tougher. She was so excited for her birthday in March not only because she’d get presents but because I had told her back when I was beginning chemo that hopefully by her birthday my hair would start growing back. She’d remembered that and had been reminding me about it, so I’d been praying to the hair gods that it would happen.
I had only one more chemo treatment to go, and it was wonderful to think about how life would start getting back to normal. My kids were my world, and my desire to kick cancer in the butt grew stronger and stronger, because every day I had with them wasn’t enough—I wanted more days. Many, many more.
Chapter 28
PLANNING AHEAD
Not only were my kids amazing, my family was rock solid when it came to supporting me. My mother was always ready and willing to drop anything to be there for me and the kids, and Greg was, too. My sister was also always on hand to come to appointments with me, help with the kids, and she even came to massage my legs when they were feeling extra achy from the Taxol (she is a registered massage therapist). My brother, Braden, lives in Winnipeg, and while I knew how hard it was for him to be so far away from me while all this was going on, I knew he wanted to protect me and would have been there if he could.
They were all amazing. Then my grandmother fell ill.
“She has C. difficile,” my mother said.
“What’s that? How did she get it?” I asked.
“After a visit to the hospital. Apparently it’s a bacterium that upsets the balance of healthy bacteria in the digestive system. People can die from it.” It seemed that for the last month Grandma hadn’t been eating well or drinking enough, and had lost twenty pounds. She had to be admitted to the hospital. I couldn’t believe it. I felt terrible for my grandmother and my mother. My grandfather had passed away when I was four years old, and by the time I was thirty-three, my grandmother had already been living alone for almost thirty years. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how tough that was. Now she was really sick, and my mother was feeling torn and stretched in every direction, dealing with her and me.
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” When I found out what was going on, I was amazed that she hadn’t already broken down. My mom worked as a seamstress for a local company, and while the owner was an extremely compassionate woman who was good to her and had told her she could take as much time off as she needed to be with me, things still must have been stressful.
“We’ll get through it. Your grandmother is strong. She’ll get out of the hospital and go home. You’ll see. And we’ll help her. All of us.” Mom took me by the chin. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything. Just pray for her, and I’ll take care of everything.”
I couldn’t help but wonder how.
“Alana, I think we should just go ahead and build the house now,” Greg said to me one night at the dinner table.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I was truly leery about doing anything while there was so much going on. “I don’t know where this is going to take me.”
“You’re going to live another seventy years,” Greg said. “We should build our dream home now so we’ll have seventy years to live in it together.”
I was nervous. We had planned to wait about five years to build on our piece of property—not that far off, but still a few years away. But I thought about my situation and about my grandmother’s, and decided to take these examples to heart. We were learning from this experience, and I realized that I couldn’t help but agree with Greg. I hugged him. “So what do we have to do?”
“Start thinking about how to make this house sellable.”
I jumped in. “Start finalizing the house plans.” The idea of that made me excited—we could make it exactly what we wanted.
“And look for builders,” Greg added, ever practical. “We could move into a rental in the spring and start building in the summer.”
“Somewhere in Crystal Beach. It would be great for the kids. We could go swimming every day, when we’re not working on the house.”
Something to look forward to for once! I smiled. Things were looking up.
Chapter 29
MISSION ACC
OMPLISHED
February 22, the day of my last chemo session, arrived and I was happy—I was ending one phase and beginning another—although I underestimated how big a deal the event was for everyone.
“When a doctor gives you a prescription for antibiotics, you take them. When you’re told you need to have a filling, you get it done,” I said to my mom while I waited impatiently for Erin to pick me up.
“But this is a big thing, Alana.”
“None of those things, or chemotherapy, seems like a big achievement to me.” For me, it was a necessary journey, and even though it was difficult at times, it didn’t seem like a great accomplishment.
Erin’s thinking was more aligned with my mother’s. She had her arms full when she arrived. “I baked you cupcakes to mark the occasion!” She was smiling so hard she looked like a little kid. Pink balloons bobbed in the air behind her, the ribbons wrapped around her fingers. “Look! The cupcakes have breasts and pink ribbons and flowers.”
“They even have nipples!”
“I brought enough for all of you, and the chemo nurses and oncologists, too. I even made them vegan, so you can eat them.” Then she pulled out what she’d been trying to hide, a large bristol board sign made by my niece and nephew. It read: I Did It!
“That’s so amazing!” I hugged her.
The balloons, the sign, the cupcakes—everything made me realize that what my mom had said was true: What I’d undergone wasn’t as minor as a prescription or a filling. Physically getting through the chemotherapy was rough—in fact, it was horrible. It was a huge accomplishment. I asked myself, Would I do it again? And the answer was a resounding yes! If it meant I could live for many, many more years, yes, I would do it as many times as necessary.
Holding on to Normal Page 14
