Nightmare before Christmas or the day that I decided to finally fire my plastic surgeon

In my last post I described my reconstruction surgery.  While I love my flat stomach and I'm grateful to have two boobs again, as I start to examine the work, I had some questions for my favorite plastic surgeon (PS).  For one, I am covered in scars.  I have a long horizontal one for the tummy tuck.  The boobs, well, let's just say I sort of feel like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas:

What I currently feel like.  Perhaps I should get a Sally tattoo?

I had a check-up with my PS yesterday.  Here's a summary of our conversation:

Me: What are the next steps were as I continue to heal?  

PS (with a puzzled look on his face): What do you mean, "next steps"? 

Me: Well, the scars.  I look like a character out of Nightmare Before Christmas (yes, I actually said this to him.  I'm sure few of you are surprised).  

PS (condescendingly of course): There are no next steps.  I don't think you look like a creature but there's nothing we can do to hide the scars.  Don't worry, when we do the tattooing, you won't notice them anymore.

I hate him.  I've never liked this guy, but today I had my limit.  It wasn't so much his answer, it was the way he answered.  I take some responsibility for not asking more questions, but it never occurred to me that there would be so many scars.  And it's always been difficult to pull information out of this guy.  Some scars?  Sure.  Looking like a patchwork quilt?  No.  I was told time and time again that his work as amazing.  If this is amazing work, I cringe to see what non-amazing work looks like.

I wanted to say several things to him:  that he was a condescending asshole, that if the tables were turned and we were talking about penis surgery, I'm sure the scarring issue would have been resolved a long time ago.  Instead, I held it together until he and the rest of the team left the room and I lost it. I didn't want to give this guy the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Thankfully, I ended up having lunch with a friend yesterday, which got me out of the house and was a good distraction.  As far as I'm concerned I'm done with him.  Time to find a surgeon that's willing to listen to me and help me out here.

I also had a conversation with a friend this morning who was recently diagnosed and is making her own decisions around treatment, double mastectomies and the type of reconstruction to get.  She had been leaning towards the exact same surgery and called me to talk about the pictures she had seen yesterday.  She had been horried by (wait for it)...the scars.  Her timing was uncanny.  She's working with another PS in the same office as mine.  I know somebody else that's working with this doc too and I've heard nothing but good things about his bedside manner.

At this point I feel like an idiot.  That being said, it's hard to ask questions of somebody that isn't that interested in interacting with his patients.  If I knew a few months ago what I know now, I would have asked a lot more questions.  Shame on me for trusting the opinions of other healthcare professionals.  Other than firing my PS, I'm not sure what else to do.  I just feel stuck and helpless.  The attitude seems to be, "this is what the surgery is."  Which makes me feel like I should just be happy to be alive and my breasts and the way they look now is just something I have to live with.  Which is bullshit to me.

This is a bit of a ramble and a rant and I apologize for that--I try to write more concise posts but my emotions are far too raw right now.  The good news is physically I feel great.  I get tired and I'm not ready to start exercising yet (nor am I even cleared for that).  I guess my future of outfits with deep cleavage and side boob and just going to have to wait until I get over my self-consciousness of the scars.  At least I can focus on wearing midriff tops now.  Sorry, my knee jerk reaction is to make jokes in times like these.

BIDMC: Come for the surgery, stay for the buttered haddock

I finally had my reconstruction surgery two weeks ago yesterday.  Boy was that rough.  Things didn't really start off well post-surgery.  The doctors were all gathered around me speaking their jargon.  My numbers weren't looking very good.  I asked for an explanation and was basically ignored.  I asked again for an explanation and was told by a woman doctor (which pissed me off even more--a lot of men surgeons are assholes but women are usually better) that they were talking "Shop talk."  EXCUSE ME????  That set me off to say the least.  So then the doctors were telling the nurse to give me some Ativan because I was becoming difficult and making the numbers worse.  She explained that I was becoming difficult because I was asking them questions and they weren't responding to me.  I'm sure there were notes written about me in my file after that.  I never saw the woman surgeon again but I did see the first guy several times throughout my stay.  Needless to say, we never really hit it off.  Fortunately BI sent out their survey which I filled out and provided a high level summary of this interaction.  I'll be disappointed if I don't get a follow-up call.

Those first few days I definitely was having doubts about whether I'd done the right thing.  The first few days were a blur due to the morphine I was on.  I hated the morphine--it didn't seem to be anything for the pain and I just felt stoned and out of it.    I've always thought I'd prefer meth or coke to heroin or morphine--I like things that give me more energy, not make me feel lethargic.  I have vague recollections of texting and/or messaging people.  I also have vague memories of watching shows but I couldn't tell you what happened.  I couldn't wait to get off of that, which I did around Wednesday.

The food at BI was terrible.  TERRIBLE.  Granted, I didn't have much of an appetite, but eating the food there didn't give me much of an appetite either.  Nothing sounded good.  There was some bizarre buttered haddock offering.  I wish I'd taken a picture of the menu as proof.

Thankfully, I went home on Friday, September 12.  I was so glad to get home.  Once the pain went away completely the middle of last week, I started to get really antsy.  I don't have clearance to drive yet so I feel cooped up.  I can't walk that far yet because I still have drains in and they tug and hurt.  And by far I mean I have yet to walk a mile in a single trip, but I'm told I'm acting like somebody who's five weeks along, not two.  I can't pick up the girls for four weeks.  All told, I should be back to myself in about six weeks.

The work itself looks pretty good.  I love the tummy tuck.  LOVE IT.  I don't have a lot of sensation in my stomach area, but there's no fat there.  AWESOME.  And my new boobs are a bigger size than I was expecting them to be.  I can't wait to go bra shopping.  And while I'm very grateful to have two boobs again, I feel like a character from Nightmare Before Christmas.  I'll save my thoughts on that, as well as today's interaction with my favorite plastic surgeon, for the next blog post.

A visit with the plastic surgeon

Every once in a while I think, “Maybe I shouldn’t share so much.”  Especially when I’m moping about things post-surgery.  Because when I read some of posts after the fact, I sound pretty pathetic.  But you need to understand—I don’t like taking breaks.  I find getting things done and being active relaxing.  So being forced to sit and do nothing is very frustrating.  I’m told that not everybody is like this.  Now imagine having to live with somebody such as myself and you can imagine some of the challenges that Aaron faces as my husband.

Earlier this week I had a trip to the plastic surgeon.  As you know from past posts, this is always a fun experience for me (please note my sarcasm).  As somebody that likes to connect with people, I get frustrated when I don’t.  I’m pretty sure this guy doesn’t smile.  Ever.  I have to remind myself that I don’t have to like him.  He does amazing work, that’s the point.  I don’t dislike him as much as I did when I first met him, but I still dislike him.  To make matters worse, this visit was…awkward.  He took pictures, which was uncomfortable.  He did that at my initial visit, but he wanted updates.  Everyone's staring at you, you feel violated.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  Needless to say, I more than earned a glass of wine that night.

A prize for my visit to the plastic surgeon

 

The surgery is tentatively on for August 18.  I'm just waiting to get the confirmation from the surgeons.  They will move fat and tissue from my belly and these will be my new boobs.  Some people have asked if I have enough fat for this.  It's very sweet of you to say so, but the answer is yes.  The plastic surgeon got a good feel of my fat yesterday too.  To his credit, he did say they’d be small.  A little tummy tuck and a lift?  Sweet.

This recovery will be the most difficult one out of all the previous surgeries.  It’s four to five days in the hospital.  I really hope I have a better roommate this time around.  Similar to last time, I won’t be picking anything up for two weeks.  He said to expect to lay low for about four weeks.  I keep telling myself I’ll be better this time around, but who am I kidding?  It will be so weird to be in the hospital for that long.  If I’m lucky I’ll be home earlier.  Although since I’m probably a low readmit risk, I’m a good opportunity for the hospital to make money.  The last sentence is a joke for those of us in healthcare.

Eventually I’m going to run out of things to talk about that are cancer-related.  Really the only thing left is my reconstruction at this point (hopefully).  I imagine I’ll do a post when I hit my anniversary too. Which is a good segue to a post I wrote a few weeks ago about my new blog—book reviews.  Let me know what you think!

Frustrated

Yesterday was a boring day of more bed rest.  I got up this morning ready to spend the morning with the girls.  Two and a half hours later, I'm back in bed, not feeling great.  The surgeon wasn't kidding about the importance of not picking up anything more than eight pounds.  This is extremely frustrating.  I know it's irrational, but I feel like a failure. 

Of course, Aaron is going on his first work trip in two years on Tuesday.  This didn't feel daunting until after this morning.  I was planning on asking for help.  Since I can't pick up the girls, I was going to need somebody to help get ready in the morning and somebody to come over at night.  This is mainly for Addie--Belle can get in and out her bed, car seat, etc. fine.  But Addie's still in her crib and can't climb into her car seat.  But at this point they're just going to go to my in-laws while Aaron's gone.  This bums me out a lot but I know it would be extremely difficult to work all day and take care of the girls.  I'll miss them all like crazy but at least I'll get some time to myself.

I hate admitting that I'm mortal and need help.

Post-surgery update

Hi all,

It's me, post-menopausal Rachele.  Not feeling too bad two days post-surgery.  Much better than I was feeling on Tuesday.  Tuesday had more of "I feel like I'd been beaten up" feel to it. Today it's more of a "I did a really hard ab workout".

I definitely didn't prepare myself for how long this was going to put me out of commission.  No strenous exercise for at least two weeks.  Maybe I can start jogging in two weeks, but no heavy lifting (more than 10 pounds) for more like a month.  A month????  I can't pick up my girls for a month?  If I do, I risk a hernia, which I definitely don't want.  So fine, I'll rest.  Belle stayed home from school on Wednesday because she wasn't feeling great and because of the snow, both girls will be home this afternoon.  So no rest for the weary. 

Adios ovaries

I didn't realize it had been over a month since my last post.  We celebrated Belle and Aaron's birthdays, work's been busy and life's been busy.  I even got my first haircut since I lost my hair!  And as I'm trying to write this on a Saturday morning, I'm reminded that it's very difficult to write a blog post with a 4- and an almost 2-year old bombarding you with questions and requests.  So if parts of this post don't make sense, as usual, I'll blame my children.

This Tuesday I'm getting my ovaries removed.  Because of my BRCA2 status, this is a preventive measure.  Despite my earlier scare, there's nothing wrong.  A few people have asked me how I feel about this.  I can't say I've been spending a lot of time reflecting on it.  The decision to have more children (or not) was really taken away from us back in April when we met with the fertility doctor the day after I got my diagnosis.  (Note: I thought I'd written about this in a past post but I couldn't find it.  So I'll write about it now.  Or again.)  Anyway, we'd spent an exhausting day in Boston meeting with my surgeon and my oncologist and then getting a second opinion at Dana Farber.  Then we had a last minute appointment with a fertility doctor.

We were so worn out by the time we got to the fertility doctor.  The fertility doc started running through our options and after a few minutes I tuned him out.  It was so overwhelming in terms of the process of harvesting the eggs, the price to store the eggs and the low chances that the eggs would even be "fresh enough" (my words, not his) to fertilize given how old my eggs were (his words, not mine).  Did I want to have more kids?  Call me crazy but yeah, I sort of did.  I was exhausted with the two that I had, but I loved the idea of more.  I hated pregnancy but I loved being a mom.  So for me it was worth it for me to suck up another few years of exhaustion.  Of course, there was the minor issue of whether we could actually afford another child.  My point is I wasn't sure it was going to happen, but it was nice to have the option.

Anyway, I tuned him out because it was too much.  I was still reeling from my diagnosis and I just couldn't process what he was telling us.  I didn't want kids enough to go through everything that he was describing, especially if the chances of successfully getting pregnant weren't that great.  And then when we got home my new oncologist called me in a panic and said that there was no way she was going to let me off Tamoxifen to have another baby.


If in a few years we want more kids, we could adopt.  That being said, I've heard that the adoption process can be stressful and I'm a little worn out on stressful processes right now.  Another disadvantage is I don't think adopting is cheap. Sometimes I get crazy ideas that maybe we could be foster parents one day. The latter usually happens when I see the Heart Gallery at Jordan's Furniture.

So there you go.  A long answer to the question of how I feel about my surgery.  I'm not psyched to be post-menopausal before 40, but it's worth it for the peace of mind that I won't develop ovarian cancer.  I'm sad that the option for more children was taken away from me, but oh well.  I have two healthy little girls that wear me out every day and I'm thankful for them.