Breast Cancer Awareness -- Part 4

The next week was crazy. I had an MRI to make sure my breasts were clear of cancer. I also had my first meeting with the plastic surgeon I'll call Doc PS. Doc PS had a nice manner about him. According to what I read about him on the internet (research, people, not stalking!) he was in his early 40s, a perfect age for a surgeon, I think. You want them to have a lot of experience, yet you don't want them to be so old that their hands shake. Seriously. He also went to NYU for med school and UCLA for residency. Not bad.

I appreciated the fact that Doc PS took his time explaining everything to me. I had the option of either implants or the stomach tissue transfer procedure. In fancy surgical terms, it's called a Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator or DIEP reconstruction. DIEP is now considered the "gold standard" of breast reconstruction because you are using your own tissue, or, I guess I should just come out and say the "f" word here -- fat. The reconstructed breasts, created from my own stomach FAT, would look and feel like real breasts. Implants, though less invasive, require more maintenance and sometimes go awry. The bad thing about DIEP surgery is that it is very long -- usually over ten hours -- and the recovery is notoriously painful. Depending upon a woman's physiology (and surgeons can't tell what you have until they open you up) sometimes stomach muscle as well as fat has to be transferred and that is very, very painful. Ouch city!

After Doc PS discussed the myriad surgical pros and cons he brought in his handy dandy computer to give me a slide show. This "show" included graphic pictures of what happens in surgery, along with many before and after pics. Doc PS was enthusiastic, and I think his intention was to inspire enthusiasim in me, too. Looking at picture after picture of headless, scarred torsos, however, only made me more nervous than ever. A strange sadness overcame me.

After the computer peep show, he examined me. (Now this part is for girls only, so if there are any boys out there, you need to go away now!) Because my breasts were large and had seen some gravitational pulling, i.e. sagging, action over the last (over) forty years, Doc PS said he wasn't sure he could save my nipple area. I knew my skin would be saved, but I had hoped my nipple would be part of the plan. Then he gently pinched my stomach fat. "Whatever I can pinch, I will use," he said.

Finally, for the first time since this whole BRCA 1 business began, I started to cry. Doc PS was very nice and said I needed time to absorb everything and he would meet with me again before the surgery. He left the room. His nurse, who had been there for the examination, gave me a hug. "I've been through this, too," she said. "I know it's scary. If you need to talk to any other women who've been through this, I can arrange that." I thanked her. I felt a little better, I felt a little worse. I felt nothing.

Back at home, I went on the internet and looked at more pictures of breasts in a week than a pervert does in a year! Every now and then I'd see a set of reconstructed girls that impressed me. I even printed out a few pics to show my husband. "I want to look like her," I said, "she must be a B cup." He nodded his head. "As long as you're healthy...But if you want to be smaller, that's okay with me."

Then the epiphany came. My personal moment of truth: I really, truly wanted to be smaller. After a lifelong battle with DD boobs and backaches, I began to embrace the idea of a smaller chest. A flatter stomach would be the icing on the cake. If I was going to go through ALL of this to be cancer-free, I also wanted the cosmetic perks. Vanity won out.

Within a week I revisited Doc B and Doc PS. My MRI came back clear, thank goodness! I made lots of decisions. My ovaries would be removed at the same time as the "big" surgery and I met another surgeon who would take care of that procedure. I also opted to have my nipples removed altogether, and would have them reconstructed at a later date. I told Doc PS emphatically, "I want to be a B cup."

The date was set: July 6th. July 6th, my own independence day.

Breast Cancer Awareness - Part 3

What do breast surgeons want?

In my opinion, they want their patients to live long lives, and they will do whatever it takes to reach that goal. Sometimes, however, to a frightened woman, a breast surgeon might seem scarier than breast cancer itself!

At my first visit to the breast surgeon's office I couldn't help but notice the other women in the crowded waiting room. I wondered what their stories were. A few women wore hats or scarves completely over their heads -- a sure sign that chemotherapy had taken its toll on their tresses. My heart went out to them and my stomach turned. This was life and death we were talking about here!

When breast surgeon (I'll call him Doc B) came into my room, he wasted no time by saying "you owe the doctor that tested you for the BRCA gene a good bottle of wine. He saved your life." I was taken aback by his bluntness, but the message certainly resonated. As he examined me (you know what that feels like, ladies) he talked about all of my options. I could take preventative drugs such as Tamoxifen, have constant monitoring through mammograms and MRIs, or...

Doc B took his finger and drew an imaginary line from my nipple across the side of my breast. He said, "the incision would go from here to here. We will save your skin, possibly the nipple, and take out all of the breast tissue. You'll be a little smaller -- perhaps a B or C cup -- and a plastic surgeon will replace your tissue with fat from your stomach. So you'll get a tummy tuck and you'll be perkier." He smiled.

He made it sound so easy. And what woman who has had babies and c-sections wouldn't jump at the chance to have a tummy tuck! I have also been a DD cup for so many years, that the thought of smaller, more manageable breasts (and less backaches!) was alluring. But what Doc B really wanted to do was give me a bilateral (both breasts) mastectomy with immediate reconstruction.

We are talking some serious, major, kick-ass surgery, here! Ummmm. A little voice inside of me was saying, "Help MEEEEEEE!"

But first, Doc B would have to send me for an MRI to make sure there was no cancer already present. If my MRI was clear, I could be scheduled right away for the surgery. If there was any cancer present, then it would be a whole new ballgame -- chemotherapy first, yada yada yada. A much more involved process.

Doc B was a true salesman. "I have a whole waiting room full of very sick women who would jump to be in your shoes," he said. "In the eighteen years since I have been doing this procedure on BRCA patients, no one has ever gotten breast cancer."

The next step then was to have an MRI and meet with the plastic surgeon Doc B recommended to "reconstruct" me. Again, I was numb, I was scared, I was even slightly terrified. But the seed of survival had been planted. I couldn't ignore the facts. The surgery seemed like the right thing to do.

I would have an MRI and meet with the plastic surgeon. I would come back to Doc B in a week to further discuss the surgery. Deep down I knew there was no turning back.

Breast Cancer Awareness - Part 2

There I was, BRCA 1 positive. That evening I told the news to my husband who got teary eyed and then said, "What does that mean?" It is funny how "informed" we are, yet when it comes to our own well-being, we can be quite ignorant. Actually, earlier in the year my husband had shown me an article about the need for women with an Ashkenazi (Eastern European) Jewish background to get tested for the BRCA genes. I had read the article and somehow forgotten all about it! Oops!

Thank goodness for the internet. My research gave me these facts: I had an almost 90 per cent chance of getting breast cancer, and a 44 per cent chance of getting ovarian cancer in my lifetime. MUCH, MUCH higher odds than the general population. Was I a ticking time bomb? Anyone who has ever had bad news from a doctor usually feels two things afterwards: fear and total confusion.

Within a week or so, husband and I were in soft-spoken doc's office to discuss my test results. As I was nearing 50 years old, doc said it was the perfect time to remove my ovaries. (Yay! No more children! No more birth control! And best of all, drum roll, please, no more period! Whoo-hoo!) Don't get me wrong about the children part, I love them dearly, but I'm so done, if you catch my drift. The surgery is called an "oophorectomy," and is a relatively simple laparoscopic (done through the navel, so not invasive) procedure. The surgery lasts only about 40 minutes and poof, I would be ovary free. I'd go through instant menopause, but I was gearing up for that, anyway. Doc said he would provide treatment for those pesky hot flashes if need be.

That was the good news. Oophorectomy to be scheduled, a no brainer. Now about those breasts of mine...

Very casually, toward the end of our conversation, doc mentioned that he would like me to meet with a prominent breast surgeon, just to learn about my "options." Note to self in the future: beware of any soft-spoken doctor who nonchalantly refers you to a freakin' surgeon!

I must be the most naive person on the block. I made an appointment with the breast surgeon.

In Part 3 I reveal what every breast surgeon wants.

Breast Cancer Awareness -- Part 1

It has been a very, very long time since I have blogged. To be honest, I went through a major medical procedure this past summer, and as much as I wanted to share my experience, a little voice said, "No, not yet." To blog or not to blog. I have waited and waited, and now that it is Breast Cancer Awareness month, the time finally seems right to tell my story. Many of my friends already know about this; many people who know me have no idea. My aim is to make people AWARE; if I can help another woman, then I have accomplished my goal.

A long time ago, when I was an innocent little girl,(yes, that was a LONG time ago), my mother had breast cancer in both breasts. Having radical mastectomies was the only alternative back then, and so I grew up seeing a big scar going from one side of my mom's chest to the other. Her first breast was removed before I was born, and the second was removed when I was about eight years old. I remember her telling me that she had a lump, and allowing me to feel the weird bump underneath her skin. Fortunately, mom lived to the ripe age of 80 years old. Cancer did not get her! Lucky for me to have had her in my life that long!

Flash forward to April, 2010. My new ob/gyn (recommended by friends, and located close to home) asks me about my family history. After I tell him about my late mom's bout with breast cancer, he then asks me if I'm Jewish. Affirmative. Without giving me much of a choice, he says he wants to test me for the BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 breast cancer genes. Yay for modern medicine! Women with a family history of BC and of Ashkenazi Jewish descent are candidates for this test. Doc said insurance would cover most of the cost (it's expensive!). I went for it, without any thought whatsoever about the consequences. To tell the truth, I thought it would be a good idea to know whether or not I was a carrier, and that was it. I had no plans to act on that information.

Little did I know that this test would change my life.

Of course, I got the phone call from Doc with the test results while I was at the market. Somewhere around the ketchup aisle my phone buzzed and Doc wasted no time, "You're positive for BRCA 1." Doc is soft spoken, and I could hardly hear him.

"Positive?" I repeated, in disbelief.

My mind started spinning. Doc mentioned something about removing my ovaries (BRCA 1 women are high risk for both breast and ovarian cancer). There I was in the market discussing surgery. SURGERY! I pulled my cart over to what I thought was the aisle less traveled. Ironically, it was the kosher food section.

My conversation with Doc left me reeling. I finished my shopping in a daze. Time to go home and talk with my husband. I knew I would need to go on the internet and do some research. LOTS of research.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

It's all about the bling

My six year old daughter says to me, "Mommy, you dress blah."

So that's what it has come down to. An 49 year old who dresses "blah." Something has got to give, and that something is me.

This is the year I've gone bling. I've discovered, too, that bling is a good thing. It does seem to give me a psychological lift to see myself in the mirror with a sparkle here and a glittery something there. Mind you, my bling is tame compared to a lot of women...but I've added a sequined t-shirt, a costume ring, a few necklaces, and a somewhat expensive purse to my collection. Actually, when I came home with the new sequined t-shirt, my daughter exclaimed with glee, "Finally, you're thinking like me!"

Bling on a little girl is very different than bling on a mature woman. (That is what I'm considered, isn't it? Mature? Oh well, it is not for me to decide that one.) Little girls look cute in EVERYTHING; I look good in only a handful of things. Clothes glide on my daughter's thin, straight as a stick frame. Clothes on me, however, have a few bumps to navigate over...um, you get the picture.

The bottom line is that when we think about bling, we are really talking about the fairy tale factor. Reality can be harsh. Wrinkles set in. Various body parts sag. Bling is a subtle camouflage for life's flaws. Light and bright cheers us up and deflects small inadequacies. Bring on the fairy dust!

I don't think women ever outgrow our need for fairy tale. My daughter and I are addicted to the TV show "Say Yes to the Dress" on TLC, which is about women selecting their wedding dresses. Nine out of ten women on the show want to feel like a "princess". They want fairy tale and fantasy. On the other end of the spectrum, I have seen cases where a daughter wanted a simple dress, and butted heads with her mother who wanted more sparkle for her little girl grown up.

It is not that I have ever been anti-bling, it is just that for most of my life, I have preferred simple, comfortable clothes with one or two select pieces of understated jewelry. Adding a little oomph to my wardrobe is certainly a conscious decision. As a young girl I wore only t-shirts and jeans. My mother, who worked at Tiffany's jewelry store, was surrounded by Beverly Hills bling all day long, and dressed to the nines every day. She tried to take me shopping in Beverly Hills, tried to get me to wear snazzier outfits, but I always resisted (stupid, stupid me!). I preferred my somewhat sloppy ways instead. I was a teenager, what did I know? It is ironic, then, that now my daughter is taking over where my late mother left off. Bling must be in the genes.

To bling or not to bling, that is the question...isn't that what Shakespeare had in mind when he wrote Hamlet's famous soliloquy? Whatever. Excuse me now, because I'm going to string cute white lights on my porch overhang, because it's looking a tad frumpy out there and I've decided even my backyard needs some, you guessed it, bling.

Where Does the Time Go?

Lately, I have no time.

No matter how hard I try to stay focused and on task, numerous obligations pop up out of nowhere and then the day is gone! Sometimes, I think this is a good thing. Hey, I have a busy life with two kids, a husband and friends, and all these amazing people require love and TIME. Occasionally, I also have to work and clean my house. :-)

I read an article in MORE Magazine recently where a woman (and mom) wrote that she gave up on the infamous "Girls' Night Out" because she'd rather just chill out and enjoy a rare moment of quiet time. Coincidentally, I met another woman recently (a mom, too, surprise!) who said she does not want to spend the money on a GNO -- she'd rather use that money on getting her house professionally cleaned so she had more...you guessed it...time to herself.

I've already touched on the "Just Say Yes to Yourself" theme in a previous blog, so I won't go there. Who am I to talk, anyway...I've been so busy with work and family this month that I haven't had the TIME to write this blog! Right now (a Friday night, mind you, when most people want to go out) my daughter is crashed out on the sofa fast asleep, my husband is out taking a walk, and my son is in his room playing his guitar, waiting to go out with his buddies. Finally, I have down time, and so here I am.

I have also had to make exercise a priority over my blog. (Sad, but true.) So on those mornings when the house is quiet and perfect for concentrated writing time, I have opted to trek up the Summit, sometimes alone, sometimes with company. In addition to my 45 min. to an hour walks, I have added 30 minutes on an exercise bike. This is a major chunk of time...but it is going to a good cause!

This morning I went to a PTA breakfast where a woman was giving a speech about another mom who volunteers her time and takes on tasks wholeheartedly, even to the point of making herself sick. I thought to myself, as I swallowed a major carb item, that this helpful mom is not setting a good example. Her intentions are admirable, but at her own expense. I believe our health and well-being should come first before volunteering. That is not to say a person should obsess or overdo fitness (it can become an addiction, I think) but that priorities should be to get the heart pumping a little bit every day. It is everywhere now: people (especially women nearing a certain age) absolutely NEED at least an hour of exercise a day.

Well, so much for my time. My daughter is stirring, my son is hungry and my husband is about to walk through the door at any moment. The wind is blowing like crazy outside...my "me" time is gone with the wind!

At any rate, I don't have to worry. This morning I took my long walk (thanks, J!) and rode my bike.

Happy Mother's Day!!!

Mother's Day is almost here! I don't know about you, but MD is my absolute favorite holiday, because it is the ONE day in the year I tell my family, "I AM NOT DOING ANYTHING!!! NO COOKING, NO CLEANING, NO LAUNDRY, NO DRIVING HERE AND THERE..." Motherhood is so filled with "stuff" it is hard to describe all that being a mommy encompasses.

The other day I was at the doctor's office and all around me were pregnant women in all their big belly glory. Been there and done that...but I know the excitement, anticipation, and worries that go along with being a new mama. You can always tell the difference between a mom who is having her "first" and a mom who is on her second, or third, or (as is typical in Santa Clarita) her fourth. A first time mom has planned her nursery to every last detail. A mom who is on her second child is just rewashing all the already worn clothes.

Nothing gets women gabbing more than retelling their birth stories. "How long was your labor?" "Mine was so fast, we almost didn't make it to the hospital!" "It was too late for the epidural...(ouch!)" The variations of the magic moment go on into infinity.

Okay, so here are condensed versions of my two stories. My son was born when I was 31years young. Easy pregnancy, difficult birth. He was two weeks late, and when the doctor said "I think your baby is going to be over nine pounds," I almost had a heart attack. My labor was induced, and my baby boy (I didn't know the sex -- wanted my first to be a surprise) was born a day and a half (!) later at 5:30 pm after an emergency C-section. I have always teased my son that he was too comfortable, and didn't want to come out; to this day, in fact, he is a late sleeper, and needs a nudge to get up in the morning! But oh, when I heard his little cry, and got to hold my first born in my shaky arms, now THAT was a thrill beyond compare! (Never mind that his tiny head was a little pointy and one of his eyes was swollen from trying to get out of his cramped quarters all that time!)

My daughter's birth twelve years later was another story entirely. As an older, remarried mom, I had had two miscarriages prior to my daughter's pregnancy. The first miscarriage was shortly after my mother passed away, and the second miscarriage was during my second trimester. For almost two months after the last miscarriage, I was a basket case. I have always prided myself on my strong constitution and demeanor, but suddenly, I couldn't stop crying. My heart had turned into jello. I almost gave up, but decided to try "one more time" to have a baby. So when the ultrasounds all came back showing a health baby girl (then I wanted to know the sex) I was at once ecstatic and terrified.

I think nothing brings with it that odd mix of joy and fear as does being a parent!

Fortunately, the pregnancy went well. When my very healthy daughter was born during a planned C-section at 8:00 am, I looked over and saw the most beautiful girl in the world. I distinctly remember thinking, "All the suffering was worth it." We bonded immediately, total mutual adoration. Even the nurses commented that we were like "two peas in a pod." Funny, too, unlike my son, she has remained an early riser (a little chocolate milk in the morning helps, too).

Whenever I talk with a woman who is pregnant with her first baby, I always reassure her that a healthy baby is what is most important. Don't worry about having a "perfect" birth or breastfeeding "perfectly." Certainly, a baby born the natural way is preferred, but if a C-section is required, then it is what it is. When it comes to breast feeding, I am also a pragmatist. My son HATED breast feeding, (we're talking major red-in-the face screaming action, here) and I was in so much pain after the surgery, I decided to give him the bottle, which he LOVED. He is a healthy 18 year old! My daughter breast fed for a few weeks, but for medical reasons I had to put her on the bottle, also. Now she is a healthy six year old. I say it is good to have intentions and plans, but parenthood is all about being flexible when you have to!

Just as babies are universally adorable, so are baby animals. Just the other day I was coming out of a local Corner Bakery. Right by the water fountain, was a mama duck and her two sweet ducklings. I stopped to watch them waddle around -- so cute! A young teenage girl with crazy-colored hair also stopped, as did an older, very well dressed businessman obviously on his way to work. The three of us, from different ages, backgrounds, etc., could not resist the site of a mother and her babies.

Also of note, on the big Kohl's sign on McBean Blvd. there is a nest over the "h." My daughter first noticed it, and a few times when I have passed by, I have seen big, black crows tidying up their house of twigs. Are they getting ready for the hatching of babies? Or are they straightening up for a worm dinner party? Not sure either way...

A few weeks ago my son, now six feet tall and around 180 pounds, wasn't feeling well for a few days. He rarely gets sick or complains, so when he tells me something is wrong, I take it seriously. I took him to the doctor (just a stubborn virus, it turns out) and later that day he thanked me for taking care of him. I said to him, just as I will say to my daughter when she grows up, "No matter how big you get, you'll always be my baby."

Chores aside, being a mama is all about expressing that bottomless pit reservoir of love for our offspring -- and it is the best job ever!

Happy Mother's Day!