Celebrating our friend Carrie. She's the one with the killer smile in the middle.
I was added to a Surviving Together Facebook group when I was first diagnosed... I didn't think much of it at the time. It was a small group, probably less than 100 ladies. I didn't know anyone personally who was part of the group. But, the more I began to creep on their group page, I realized these ladies 'got it' in a way no one else could understand. We offered encouragement, advice, and prayers. Once I moved back to Joplin, I would even join the ladies for lunch or meet ups. The instant acceptance of these women was amazing.
One girl had a smile that I will never forget. Carrie was stage 4. She was a few years younger than me and had 2 small children, one Mason's age. We were diagnosed around the same time. While I didn't get to spend a lot of time with her, she made me feel like I was a cherished friend. She loved big and loved hard.
She finished her treatment from breast cancer and days later had a seizure. The cancer had spread to her brain. She had brain surgery, and still displayed that amazing smile and attitude despite the complications. The cancer continued to spread. And Carrie continued to balance the fight with living her life fully.
The last time I saw Carrie, we went and saw the movie The Shack. I remember that movie touched me, but I couldn't help but wonder how that movie touched her, given the hard battle she was continuing to fight, being Stage 4. I had to rush out of the movie to pick my son up from school, so I never got to talk to her about that... Oh, how I wish I would have followed up that movie with a coffee date...
A week ago, Carrie shared that she was out of options and was being put on hospice. I knew she was inundated with calls and messages, so I thought I would wait a week or so and message her to let her know how she touched my life and offer her some insignificant, blubbering words of encouragement. When I would see her, I would often share "Hey, at least I'm not Carrie Couch." It was my way of acknowledging that her battle was hard. She always laughed when I would point that out. It feels good to have our struggles acknowledged. And with this group of ladies, you could get away with that kind of humor, because when you are dealing with something as serious as cancer, it feels good to laugh -- no matter how inappropriate. I was figuring out a way to tell her she was taking this "at least I'm not Carrie Couch thing too far". Days after sharing she was out of options, Carrie passed away. She leaves behind a husband, two young boys, and a lot of friends -- because Carrie made everyone feel like a friend. I'm heartbroken I'll never get to tell her thank you for welcoming me with open arms and her big beautiful smile. I'm heartbroken for those who were close to her -- while she was fighting her own stage 4 fire, she took time to pour buckets of encouragement into others. I'm heartbroken for her 2 boys who will only remember their mother by the stories people tell. She was an amazing person and taken way too soon. She was an angel to a lot of here on Earth, and now I know she is an angel in Heaven. God must have needed her, but man, it hurts to see her go. This world needs more people like Carrie Couch.
Carrie's service is today. I can't be there, but I'm there in spirit. I'm crying as I type this -- Life is so unfair. But you'd never hear Carrie say that. She would say God is good, all the time.
I was feeling very stoic today until a close friend of Carrie's posted "5 more minutes". I knew exactly what she meant...
Work has started back up for me and I don't have much time to write. But, I did want to quickly write this down, as I keep this blog not only to educate others about the walk, but also to document my own journey.
A few days ago, I had another treatment. They told me I only have 3 more to go (yay!). As I'm sitting there hooked up to the IV poll, I look around and get a lump in my throat. I'm the youngest person on chemo-row (the treatment room is set up with probably 25 recliners all in a row) by about 30 years. The woman next to me is struggling. She has a walker and hooked up to an IV poll. Her obvious wig is all askew. She is trying to get the attention of one of the very busy nurses to help her make her way to the bathroom. (I so badly want to help, but I'm plugged in and hooked up to my own IV poll, so I know I will just be in the way.) She appears to be confused. She's at treatment alone. It's absolutely heartbreaking.
Another gentleman on chemo-row is getting treatment for a brain tumor. I overheard one of the chemos he is taking and I know it's going to be a rough couple of days for him. His wife says he's been battling this brain tumor for 15 years.
Another woman, who is in a local Facebook group for women with breast cancer, is struggling. She says the doctors tell her there is nothing left to do. How do you wrap your head around that? Do you admit defeat and vow to enjoy what time you have left? Or, do you keep on fighting, praying for a miracle, even if that means you spend precious hours on chemo-row and recovering from the assault chemo does to your body. The quality of life for these individuals appear to be dwindling and where are they spending their time? Getting treatment or worrying about this God awful disease.
I know of another local mother who has young children. Her breast cancer metastasized to her brain. How do you explain that to young children? Or even your husband who has to consider what life would be like without you? You can cut off your breast, but not your brain. That is a whole new level of Survivor.
As the tears started to fall, my nurse came over. (God bless cancer nurses! All of mine have been amazing!) She looked into my eyes, handed me a tissue and held my hand. Tears started to flow even harder. All I can muster up through my tears and sniffles is "It isn't fair." She could see exactly what I saw and didn't need me to explain.
I feel so out of place. I think to myself "I don't belong here" but then I remember I DO belong here. I'm sitting on chemo-row, getting the same kinds of treatment these folks are. I'm no different from them. That is a scary thought! We are all trying to be Survivors, some of them are just having to fight harder than I've had to.
And that's where the guilt creeps in. When I leave, my plan is to get home and run, I can literally skip out of there if I want (and I just may after my last treatment). The folks sitting next to me literally struggle to walk 10 feet to the bathroom. My fight is almost done. His fight has lasted 15 years and no end in site. Who knows who will help her when she is feeling sick and exhausted from her treatment. At times, I feel on top of the world, and then there are times where I feel so guilty for being spared with a treatable cancer that was caught relatively early.
How do these girls look this beautiful in the pouring rain?
I've mentioned that I run with a group of friends that are there for me come Hell or high water. This morning was no exception.
We all signed up for the Tata Trot 5k weeks ago, a race to benefit breast cancer research. I was so humbled thinking that these girls would get up early, arrange for childcare, and give up their Saturday morning to walk in something that is now near and dear to my heart. I mean, we all know how precious sleep is to moms, right?!
This morning, the torrential rain started. I gave everyone an 'out' saying I would completely understand if they just wanted to skip it. Nope. These girls were committed. Not to the 5k, but to me. As they have been for the last year.
The race shirts said "Cancer, we're coming to get you". To which my friend Carrie replied, "Gotcha bitch". See why I love these ladies?
As the race started, the rain turned into a mist. We laughed the entire way telling stories and poking fun at Maria because her legs were burning after mile marker one. Isn't that true friendship when you refuse to talk behind their back, but are willing to say damn near anything to their face?
What a great morning we had! Looking forward to many more!
My friend Carrie made us these buffs, she's crafty like that.
Left to right: Carrie, me, Brooke, Kristan, Maria, Becky and Whitney
To be honest, a few days ago, I was really down. Cancer is hard (okay, that is a massive understatement), but you know what else is hard? Transitioning back to "normal" - whatever that is.
I really looked forward to my exchange surgery, where the take out the rock hard, uncomfortable tissue expanders and put in soft, round implants - while I still have treatments, in the breast cancer and tissue expander world, the exchange surgery is often viewed as crossing the finish line. I thought I would come out of the surgery skipping (okay not really skipping, as exercise isn't encouraged yet) and euphoric. I mean after all I had been through, it was going to end with perky breasts, right? What girl doesn't want perky, youthful breasts?
Well, I got perky, youthful breasts (my husband even called them a 10, minus the black-blue-yellow-greenish bruising). And guess what: I still had a bout of depression after my surgery. For so long Richard and I have had to FIGHT for my life. Now what? It's certainly a blessing, but an odd feeling none the less. The depression has passed. For now. I suspect it may come back... And that's okay; I've been through a personal war. (Side note: I would imagine this is something similar to what our veterans face, although obviously on a different scale... it's not easy. Thank you for all of you who have served!).
Okay, so for some good news:
My pathology came back from my exchange surgery all clean! If you didn't know that they were sending more tissue off to pathology after my exchange, join the club. I didn't either. I knew my surgeon was going to shave a bit more off my chest muscle to help create a bigger margin, as one was very close. Blissfully stupid of me, It hadn't even dawned on me that there was a chance the cancer could still be present in my body. The surgeon told Mom and Richard that he was sending it off to be checked and apparently they decided it was best not to tell me that. Well played, you two. They knew the results were going to come in a week and wanted to spare me the week of worry. I damn near cried when the nurse announced my pathology was clear: both because I was oblivious obviously relieved and also because Richard and my mom choose to keep that burden to themselves, and protect me from it. Thank you.
My energy keeps improving. We stay very busy with playdates and shuffling around town to school and soccer practice. The beautiful weather helps, too.
Hair is starting to come back everywhere. I even had to shave the other day (I haven't done that in months and gotta say didn't miss it one bit!). I am getting a hair line; Think a man's 5 o'clock shadow, but on my head.
Eye lashes are also growing back, and not just a few, a whole row of them. Right now they are about a millimeter long, but it's a start!
After some inspiration from some great friends, I've really tried to clean up my eating. So far, I've lost 4 lbs!
My breasts... They are a 100% fake, but they aren't trying to kill me. And, as a bonus they are 90% fabulous (Richard would probably even rate them higher), even more amazing considering what they have been through. They will take some time to get used to. It takes months for them to 'drop and fluff' and do their thing. But, my surgeon did an AMAZING job! Ya'll ~ I had the DREAM TEAM of medical professionals! If you are in the Springfield, Missouri area and need recommendations, please hit me up!!! These guys are a amazing! (Side note: Richard tells me he's seen a lot of breasts and felt an undisclosed number of them, so he's pretty much has an expert opinion).
Off to enjoy the beautiful day... Gentle hugs everyone (oh, hugs are way better without those blasted expanders, too!).
I've been a bit hesitant to write the post, and if you know me, you know I'm not hesitant to say much. Honestly, now that I am feeling better, I am feeling a little more protective over my boobs. They aren't trying to kill any more. Yes, they are still a work in progress, but they are feeling more a part of me every day. I am a little hesitant to share, but I am so grateful for the women who have mentored me on this path and if I'm able to mentor or help make someone else's journey a bit easier by offering some information, some humor and understanding then that would make my over sharing worth it.
Here's a bit of background: After my prophylactic mastectomy, performed by a breast surgeon, my plastic surgeon put in expanders. These are basically empty shells (think like a small deflated ball) inserted in pocket he made in my chest muscle. Every few weeks, I would visit with my plastic surgeon and he would use a syringe to gradually fill my expanders with a saline solution. While I had a skin sparing mastectomy, my muscle still had to be stretched to create a large enough pocket to hold my permanent implant. The expanders were quite uncomfortable and rock hard; I'd often compare it to having two cereal bowls in my chest.
On Wednesday, I went in for my exchange surgery. During this surgery, the plastic surgeon takes out the expanders and puts in permanent implants. The doctor used the same scars he made during my initial mastectomy surgery. I chose to go for silicone implants, as they look and feel the most natural and my doctor thought that would give me the best result. My surgeon also took the opportunity to to shave an additional part off of my left chest muscle, as one of the margins to my tumor was very narrow. The surgery took less than an hour and a half. I checked in early in the morning and by noon was released and having lunch with Richard and my mom. While any surgery is scary, this was one that I looked forward to... hopefully it marks the end of my reconstruction.
The pain with this surgery was much less than my mastectomy. I took pain pills for about two days and ibuprofen one day after that. While I must be cautious about my activity, I am able to do pretty much anything that doesn't involve heavy lifting.
I was instructed to wear this super tight sports bra for the next 3 weeks (quite a change for me since I haven't had to wear a bra for the last 7 months). I cannot wait to take this beast bra off and try on some clothes. Overall, I am happy with my results so far, although it can take some time for things to settle. My right breast looks phenomenal, nicely shaped and perky. My left breast still has some significant bruising and swelling, but that is to be expected because of the additional trauma. I'm anxiously awaiting to see how things fall into place within the next few months.
I will draw the line at posting my pictures on my blog, however, if you are someone who is going through a breast cancer diagnosis and would like to see the progression, feel free to email me and I would be willing to share my pictures with you. Seeing others' pictures was a big comfort to me and helped me know what to expect along the way.
No matter what my breasts look like, the key thing to remember is that they aren't trying to kill me any more and that is absolutely worth celebrating! Admittedly, I'm also celebrating having perky boobs, too.
In several past posts I've written about the blessings to come out of my breast cancer diagnosis. I've included things such as appreciating my family and my great friends. But, let's be honest, I had those long before cancer. My friends aren't amazing because I have cancer. Richard isn't any more awesome because I'm sick. Cancer shouldn't get the credit for those blessings. God gets credit. Those people get credit. Certainly some rogue, bastard cancer cells don't deserve the credit.
All cancer does is take. And steal. And abuse. And ravage.
It takes away your ability to blissfully roll through life oblivious to curve balls. We will always be aware that the risk of recurrence is there.
It steals away time. The past 4 months has been a whirlwind. We haven't been focused in the moment, we've been focused on fighting and surviving.
It abuses your body. Scars. Ports. Chemo. Steroids. Hormones. Hair loss. Extremely dry skin. Nausea and diarrhea. Thrush. My fingernails hurt. I'm losing eyelashes. Nosebleeds. Weight gain. Exhaustion.
It ravages your confidence. I know that beauty comes from within. But let's be honest, a girl likes to feel pretty. I've lost my swagger. I don't even have energy to walk with swagger anymore. I used to get 'checked out' when I was out and about in public. Now I get 'checked out' because I'm the girl that is either bald or wearing a hat while inside eating at a restaurant.
It detracts from your marriage. Richard and I are fine and stronger than ever, but cancer has definitely taken some important things from our relationship.
It robs you of your money. We're extremely blessed to have insurance, but even then cancer is very expensive. For some, it wrecks everything they have worked hard for their entire life.
It suffocates: In the psychological sense that at times it almost feels like it's suffocating you and in the literal sense that I get winded simply walking to the mailbox or up from the basement.
It robs you of sleep. The one thing that can give you a reprieve of having to think about cancer and survival... Yep, somehow it manages to take that away, too. It's exhausting.
It makes you stupid. It literally kills brain cells. Chemo brain is a real thing.
It rapes you (please know I don't use that word lightly). It takes what it wants and has zero regard. You can't reason with it. You can try fighting it, but even that doesn't always work. It doesn't care who it hurts (and it hurts so many more people than just the one physically fighting) and will destroy everything in it's path.
So won't you all join me in giving cancer the big F YOU! I'm mad. I'm tired of being strong. I'm just... well, I'm just tired. Hate what you have taken from me. I hate you. I FUCKING HATE YOU. I'm pissed that I don't get a chance to kill you myself and see you die. I have to take someone's word for it that you seemingly, passively left my body. When all I really want is to see you suffer the way you have made me suffer. Fucking coward. You came in quietly, essentially raped me, and now if you decide to leave, you will leave quietly too. Not even strong enough to fight the way my family and I have had to fight you every minute since this started. FUCK YOU.
