7 January 2012

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

After a terrific start to the week, I fizzled out on Thursday.  I'm fighting some weird rhino-virus: makes me cough, bad-ass post nasal drip that burns my throat like acid and gives me heart-burn.  Popping Tums like Pez and up all night, even threw up a little.

Even so, I was back on track Friday and met with my trainer at the gym.  We did a full re-assessment and I am weaker, fatter and bigger than I've ever been.  My legs seem to have weathered ok, (thanks in part to walking over 30 miles a week building up to my surgery,) but my upper body strength is gone - and I had really worked hard to increase it.  I've always been a little weak up top and I'm incredibly demoralized.  I did manage to walk 15 miles last week.  A drop in the bucket o' goo around my middle.

I've also taken a hit mentally.  Now that I'm through the surgery and chemo, the initial fear and panic that gripped me from my diagnoses until now has dissipated.  I now have five years of disruptive hormone therapy to look forward to.  Five years is a hell of a long time.  Side effects include menopausal symptoms - hot flashes, joint pain and leg cramps, and increased risk of blood clots, stroke and uterine cancer.  Five years!

Additionally, I am just now starting to feel the emotional effects of having my breasts amputated.  When first diagnosed, I was full of piss and vinegar and couldn't wait to get rid of the boobs that turned on me.  Now I'm grieving the loss of a part of my identity and sexuality.  Compounding this is the incredibly alien look and feel of my foobs.  They look great under clothes but they are gross naked and uncomfortable on my body.  I still have the feeling that I'm wearing something cut too tight under the arms.  There is no give to them, so when I move my arms in front of me, they squish to the middle and the compression of the tissue attached to my sternum and charged with holding them apart actually hurts.  It's a little embarrassing that because I can't feel them, I can be brushing up against someone or something and not know.  The other day I tried on a t-shirt in a store and the sharp corner of the cardboard tags scratched my foob, drawing blood.  I didn't realize it until I saw the stain on my shirt when I got home.

Why did I opt for reconstruction?  A lot of the literature out there talks about being made whole again, but that is just not the case.  They will never look real when naked.  They will never feel like a part of me.  They will always be alien.  The one thing that they will do is stop quizzical stares from strangers and save me from having to explain I had cancer.  I guess in my heart of hearts I was hoping for more.

Even though my initial treatment decisions were made while under a cloud of fear, I still maintain I made the right choice going the aggressive route.  I am just finding out now that I have emotional scars every bit as real as the physical ones.