It’s been three weeks since my surgery, and I think this is the best I’ve felt since my diagnosis. Though it feels like there is a ping pong ball in my left boob, and I’m down six lymph nodes, it’s done.
And the best part?
The chocolate-covered cherry on the damn sundae part?
My pathology came back clean.
There was no residual cancer in my tissue or lymph nodes.
!!!!!!!!!!!!
Every day is a step back into my old self. I’ve now gone more than a month without post-chemo effects. Though my mobility has been somewhat limited, I take advantage of running around with the kids.
The only effects I’ll carry with me for the long term are these dreaded hot flashes. I’ll feel what I can only describe as a spine-tingling electrocution for ten seconds before I’m sweating and burning uncontrollably. For about 1-2 minutes, I’m constantly tearing off layers down to the tank top and running outside into the cold winter air. If Gable isn’t home so I can momentarily abandon my kids to run outside, I grab a water mister bottle (I have one in every room) and douse my face/scalp/neck. My one leg is perpetually out of the covers, and poor Gable is subjected to sleep in our arctic bedroom. Some nights, I’ll almost fall asleep before realizing I’ve left the window open.
And if god forbid, I am out in public with the kids when a hot flash plagues me, it gets tricky. As I rip off my jacket and place it in the same cart as my two children (who are one toy’s view away from a tantrum), I am faced with the ultimate decision; to remove the hat or not? Shock the general public for momentary comfort or endure an internal volcano with a sleeping bag on my head?
I typically endure. Maybe when the shade of my hairline regains its prominence, I’ll get there. But as a young mom and a thirty-year-old woman anxious to regain a shred of vanity, this fucking sucks.
Fear pertaining to surgery has dissolved into reluctance and hesitation. I hope this is courage gained for a lifetime, not a temporary feat. Just before my surgery, Dr. Jones noticed the copy of The Two Towers lying in my lap, and we chatted about her favorite books of late. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to pull up the cover of Geneva, Richard Armitage’s first book. She’s a sucker for British mysteries and spy thrillers.
The attending doctor asked how I felt about The Rings of Power with a gleam in his eyes. I didn’t want to disappoint him with my sour review, but I can’t lie about where it relates to Tolkien. He shrugged and said he wasn’t die-hard enough to let it deter him. I get it.
A year ago, there was no way I’d be able to carry on banter like that before surgery. It’s a flimsy accomplishment, but something is better than nothing. The way I didn’t have a panic attack as they were injecting blue dye into my veins, and the nurse said, “wow, you didn’t even flinch!” Not even a flinch, all the way into the OR. I even slid myself onto the operating table alone and raised the anesthesia mask to my face.
The moment my eyes flashed open in the recovery room was followed by an audible gasp of relief. The recovery nurse looked over, and hazily I yelled, “IT’S DONE!!!” Then I bantered on about every single fact of my life for I have no idea how long. Finally, as I was being rolled back to the Pre and Post surgery holding area, I could recall what I said but not in any order. Poor girl; I hope she gets paid well.
As I told Sari on the phone the other night, between my C-Section, port-a-cath, partial mastectomy, and lymph node removal, my body is basically Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas. And my soft fuzzy head is Gollum! So yeah! Definitely an all-time low. I see my old hair stylist posting about her appointment openings, and it makes me want to jump out of a window!
But, and I really mean this, I am genuinely so so thankful to be alive. That sounds corny as shit, but after Karline and Claire, I don’t have to venture far through my thoughts before my line of thinking comes to either one of them.
I had a nightmare last night that I was told my cancer had progressed to Stage 4, and the treatment was too much on my body. Then, as I watched a neighboring patient vomit to her death, my dream doctor told me I had a year left.
Then I woke up. In my cold bedroom, with sweat rolling down my back, I woke up to this beautiful life.
I will FINALLY get my radiation schedule this week, allowing me to map out the rest of my cancer treatment.
After chemo, surgery, and looking at this subhuman in the mirror, I can confidently say that this was all worth however long I have left on this brittle melting rock in space.
I think we’re on the upswing now.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 