Fall, 2020

 And just like that, six years have come and gone.

The years have seemed typical, I suppose, with laughter and love and friends and family.  We have watched our son grow (and grow and grow) into an incredible young teenager.  I have felt strong(ish), healthy, and whole.  I have worked with countless patients, volunteered excessively, and lived life, always trying to be the best wife, mom, and friend.

I have also been uncomfortable.  I have felt, for the last six years, like my chest has been wrapped in the tightest industrial cellophane or tape you could imagine.  I have been unable to do even one pushup.  I have been unable to regain my shoulder flexion (overhead) strength, and I even tore my acellular dermal matrix (ADM or mesh) in a Pilates class.  I have been unable to lie on my stomach.  I have lost countless hours of sleep.  

I have been unable to receive any MRI imaging to check for implant integrity, which was recommended when I received my implants, as my insurance company considered it an unnecessary procedure.  I was also denied an MRI after separating the right side mesh trying to exercise within self-limited ranges.    I did begin to receive, however, letters from my implant manufacturer, stating that a rare type of lymphoma, known as anaplastic large-cell lymphoma (ALCL) has been linked to textured implants, which I received after my bilateral mastectomy.  (A little more info here.)

This summer, after consultation with my plastic surgery team, I decided to make the switch to smooth, less lethal implants.  After all, I wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon due to the COVID pandemic.  My tennis league wasn't planning on holding a competitive season, and it was blazing hot outside.  I thought it was a perfect time for a short break from the heat, since the world was kind of on hold anyway.  

A new reconstruction technique has been developed since my mastectomy, which would entail placing the implants on top of the pectoralis muscle, inside a new capsule created from an ADM, also superficially, in relation to the muscle.  The tissue in the middle of my chest would be lifted/separated from the sternum, allowing for more natural movement.  The added bonus for me was that I would be more comfortable in the long run, and I was so excited about erasing the super tightly wrapped sensation.

I was scheduled for and underwent a bilateral capsulectomy and reconstruction revision with (smooth) implant exchange.

Surgery was great, healing was fine.  Drains were the worst.  Therapy (manual myofascial and lymphatic) was unpleasant for the most part, but I always felt like a slight improved version of myself the following day.  I must say...  this was a WAY bigger, more involved procedure than I had expected, and I think I'm pretty tough.  At the risk of being a bore, let me just say that I have had complications arise on the right side, and I will be having another reconstruction revision surgery this week.  

This will be my fifth breast cancer related surgery.  My normal life has now been dangled ahead of me again, like a cruel finish line, just six-to-eight weeks away.  I will once again require help to wash my hair.  To cook dinner.  To pick anything up.  To close the car door.  To close the trunk.  To do the shopping.  To do the laundry.  To reach almost everything in my kitchen.

Damn.  

I am so lucky.  I am so fortunate.  I am so blessed.  

I would go through this as many times as it takes if it means that I am here.  I am here to drag my ass out of bed before five in the morning to make my son's lunch and drive him (in the pitch-black crack of dawn) to the bus stop.  I am here to be busy beyond belief.  I am here to be exhausted.  I know that my guys would be okay without me, but who would drive them the perfect amount of crazy?  These painful experiences remind me over and over again of the fragility of life.  The brevity.  The power.  The beauty.  

My friend that was the impetus for this blog has recently suffered a metastatic relapse.  She is now, six years after beginning her breast cancer journey, the recipient of more surgical intervention, radiation, and chemotherapy.  My natural emotional response to her current status was guilt and a sense of minimizing my own journey, which I shared with her.  She quickly reminded me not to downplay my journey, because we all have to navigate our own path through cancer.  We don't choose these battles, but we all will do whatever it takes to be here for our children and someday grandchildren.  

I am so lucky.  I am so fortunate.  I am so blessed.  I am here.