December 2nd arrived quickly, mainly because my girls both had wisdom teeth surgeries in between the scans and biopsy which kept me on my toes and actively caring for them. Wonderful distraction!
The Breast Diagnostic team is fantastic – full stop. For the biopsy, they did a pre-scan to grab a few more images prior to beginning. As they began to prep for the biopsy, that’s when things got exciting. The doctor came in to begin to numb me up. I knew there was a problem when he gasped when attempting to insert the lidocaine needle, and he couldn’t. “Oh, this is problematically dense tissue.” He stepped back, holding the needle up in the air, in deep thought. Moments later, the nurse had brought in larger needles, a scalpel, various numbing agents, and a new tray of sharps. He used a larger holed needle to guide the lido-needle to where it needed to be. He gave a happier sigh, moved his hands around to push the lido in, and then gasped again while firmly pushing the syringe. “Oh my,” he pulled it all out again. “I can’t get the lidocaine to inject into your tissue. This is the densest tissue I have dealt with in quite a while.” It took 10 minutes to get the lidocaine injected into my breast tissue, and then I needed three times as much as normal to not feel things.
After the oddly long numbing process was finally successful, he grabbed the very long handled biopsy needle devices (which make a loud “snapping” sound when the biopsies are taken) into my tissues. Again, he couldn’t get them in. He had to again route to using a very large needle to allow the biopsy needle to have a guide hole to get to the spot, and then he had to put his entire body weight into the last push to get it into the problematic tissues. They also placed markers that were left in place to mark the spot for the surgeons in the future. The outer holes and incisions were closed with glue. After the markers are placed, the doc leaves, and the tech takes more images, making sure the markers are close to where they should be. He warned me as I moved to the last scans that I would be much sorer as this wasn’t a “typical” biopsy and that I would be extremely bruised in the days and weeks to come. (He wasn’t lying.)
The final scans were pretty painful. Squeezing an area that had just been “beaten up” wasn’t cool. Pretty sure I snarked my way through it. I also wore my Christmas shirt, which has two ornaments on it with the words, “Stop staring at my balls.” They all appreciated my humor.
After the biopsy, you can’t lift for a day or two (for me it was three) and ice packs become one with your snug bra. Not wearing a bra was (still is) uncomfortable as hell. I had some bleeding the first few days, which they said was normal for the sizes of guide needles they had to use. The doctor did call me to check in and guide me a bit on the bleeding, but all was well.
Weeks after the biopsy now, I still have some solid soreness, especially when moving in certain ways. I am also quite sure I can feel the markers deep in my chest. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve got a real sensitive body and can feel off-ages and changes often before docs even note they exist. One of my magical superpowers. (That only works when you have docs who listen and care, in my experience.) ((Which hasn’t been my luck until recent years, hence the ostomy. Eye roll.))
Results.
I got my results via phone call from the doctor who did the biopsy on the 9th (BEFORE it triggered the MyChart notifications), bright and early as I stepped out of the shower. My brain numbed out for half of the call, because while I knew I had cancer and what was to come, I was just momentarily frozen. I do remember uttering one, “goddamnit,” under my breath. I didn’t have many questions, but to ask if I could hurry along the process and call the Cancer Center myself to get things going. He chuckled at my drive but asked that I wait to hear from them. I got dressed and started making phone calls and sent out a few messages to let those who cared to know.
They called later that day and got me set up for the appointment with my surgeon, whose name I won’t be sharing in posts for now. I also heard from most all my other specialists who were devastated for me. My gyno surg was on vacation but took the time to call and check in on things and give me a pep talk. But my favorite calls and professional supports came from my integrative team (and old obgyn/lifesaver). Not only did they call me the day of and day after my biopsies results, answered my few questions, talked me through some feelings, and then met me with an entire team’s worth of forced hugs (I’m not a hugger and they know this…) when I was in for my infusion. Personal cell numbers given. Offers for late night chats confirmed. It wasn’t until I talked to my two favorite docs and heard the tremble in their voices that it all really started to hit the ugly feels. Fave doc said, “You are the perfect example of doing everything right and having everything go wrong.” And “the rarest for the most unique, complicated woman I know.”
Immediately after the diagnosis, I logged in to the ACA and chose the only affordable mediocre plan and paid the first month’s premium (scoured the couch cushions). Now I sit and hope subsidies are renewed, or that insurance chooses to help a human out and caps the cost so it doesn’t magically rise at the end of the year. If this happens, we won’t be able to afford insurance at all. And I know we are not alone in this situation, but damn, the thought of no insurance with cancer? *shakes head in disgust and disbelief*
So, now I’m in the in-between again. In-between the confirmation of TNBC- triple negative beast cancer – one of the rarest, most aggressive types there are, and meeting with the surgeon to learn the plan, and then push for what I want, too. Which is a double amputation, or bilateral mastectomy. Immediately, if I could. I can only hope it hasn’t spread, or metastasized, into other organs or parts of my body.
I’ve created my info binder – if you’re unaware, I have a binder for every major medical event. I’ve been working on my med lists, allergy lists, other issues, past issues, concerns, wants, desires, and questions. And boy howdy, my concerns have little to do with cancer at this point (other than wanting it OUUUUTTTTTTTT yesterday). And I’ve been doing a whole lot of writing. The deep, twisty, dark poetry that always emerges when my brain is truly under fire. (maybe you didn’t know I am an author, too…)
My worries? Not having my ostomy bag touched or changed when I am unconscious and making a plan to ensure that happens. Not getting an NG tube after surgery and doing all the right things for my body, not for what “rules” dictate, to ensure that happens. Not being left alone in an unconscious, sedated state, due to previous things occurring while I was alone and under. (IYKYK…) Not being able to handle my ostomy after surgery with t-rex arms with healing. Making sure I get enough hydration before I leave the damn hospital, because with every major event, I end right back up in the ER the next day for copious amounts of fluids. Maintaining my extremely sensitive and touchy GI issues before, during, and after surgery.
As for how I am doing, physically, the mental stress is exhausting and hard on my body. On top of severe autonomic dysfunction and my other issues, some days have just been too much. Most days I’m pretty mentally balanced, until I start thinking about the kids or cats… then I’m briefly a leaking puddle, swearing at myself to pull it together. Or thinking about relationships and people who left or haven’t checked in or are still giving me hell. Or thinking about how hard this entire fight is going to be for my very worn down, already struggling body. Nights are the worst. The. WORST. But onward I must go.