Bags of Blood

Before I start getting all serious n’ shit, I want to tell you a funny story.

This past Wednesday, I went in for my post-op check-in with my surgeon. I was all excited, thinking I might get to have one of my drains taken out. The right one (mind you, this was the breast that was totally healthy) had been coming in under 30 ml’s of fluid for about 24 hours, and I was dying for a bit of relief. My surgeon, a self-identified hobbit and all around amazing guy, let his PA take my right drain out. The removal process felt a bit like a hard, thin snake being slowly yanked from my chest. It was awesome. I was pleased with this progress and went about my day.

That evening, as I was moving around in my nest of blankets and pillows, I noticed a sloshing noise coming from my right side. That’s right. Sloshing. As in a bunch of fluid was rolling around in a big, empty cavity in my chest. “It must be left-over lymphatic fluid”, I thought to myself. That area of my chest grew bigger and bigger, as if my body was trying regenerate a tit like a lizard does when it loses its tail. I consulted the Interwebs to see what I should do before I lost my shit and called the doctor. I tried heat. I tried compression. I slept in a sports bra, and woke up with a huge bruise on my shoulder (MY SHOULDER).

So, I called the nurse. She told me to wait. I waited. It got bigger. I called her again. She told me to try heat and to roll the fluid out the hole that the drain had been in. Gods bless Justin- he tried. So I waited another night, but the fluid pocket/boob grew even more. I was fed the fuck up at this point, so I called her again. She told me to come in at 12:45 pm and they would squeeze me in.

Look, I know you’re all thinking ‘omg lady, just deal with it that shit will be absorbed back into your body through your lymph nodes lol that’s how bodies work you should be a seasoned pro at dealing with weird body shit by now’ but no. This was my line. Cut off my tits? SURE. Poke me with a ton of needles in all of my semi-working veins? GO FOR IT. Fill my gross skin flap with fluid? HELL NO I’VE HAD ENOUGH GET IT OUT.  And get it out they did, but not without some pomp and circumstance. What would this blog be without a little bit of that?

……………..

Five of us are piled into this tiny office, the surgeon, the PA, the nurse, me, and Justin. I’ll skip a few details and get to the exciting part of the story when they try to aspirated my fake water boob with a giant needle and are unsuccessful. Why? Because my chest is filled with blood, which must have happened when they pulled my drain (a ruptured blood vessel or something), and my surgeon then decides to just squeeze me like a fucking lemon into a mound of gauze. Blood is everywhere, I get squeezed until I’m dry but am then promised that it will fill again and the juicing pleasure will be all theirs, as early as next week.

As I write this, with my chest and arm muscles moving viciously to bang the keyboard on my iPAD, I can hear the blood squelching above my ace wrap. Now that I know that my chest cavity is home to internal bleeding, I feel so much more at home. Calm, cool, and collected.

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AND NOW…THE SERIOUS.

It’s with that calm, cool, collected zen yoga peaceloveacceptance shit that I now take issue. I cannot even right now. I know that I seem strong and put-together for what is happening to me. People remind me of that constantly, and are so kind to do so. But I don’t feel strong all of the time. I still succumb to that split brain thing that has plagued me for so long.

I’m amazing no matter what my body looks like.

Sure, except your body looks like a fucking train hit it and is reversing just for good measure.

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I’m a strong, independent woman who is being honest and sharing what life with this disease is like.

You sound like you’re whining.

You could be a voice for young women going through this in the future, etc etc. You are telling people what a female body can look like and still be sexy.

Yeah, but my body doesn’t fucking feel like my own right now and everything feels terrible, so thank you, but no.

And isn’t that the shit of it? I want to be a strong role model for women who are faced with a decision such as mine, but right now, I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel like I have control over my body. I don’t feel like this even IS my body right now.

On Tuesday, my oncologist told me that I would be starting chemotherapy as early as mid-May. Due to the unexpected appearance of cancer in my lymph node, it was no longer just a precaution. As soon as my second drain is out, I will go in to have a port installed and then I can power all of Steve Jobs’ shitty electro…I mean absorb a bunch of poison much more easily than I could intravenously, for about five months. I almost linked the regimen I will be following, but that can come at a later date.

My point is that I am not in control of my body right now. Nothing about what is happening to me is within my control, and that is undoubtedly terrifying. I am a person who tries to maintain her body, who enjoys using her body, and is apparently quite bereft without it. I am grappling with learning this new breast-less body, a body without eight lymph nodes, and a body in which I can now see the tendon that connects my chest muscles to my arm. It’s sick. It does not feel normal. And as much as I love it and was ready for this change, it is still unsettling.

I will lose my hair. This hair, that I have worked so stupidly hard for, that has helped me define myself in a lot of ways; I will lose it, and I will lose a bit of that identity. I will lose eyelashes, eyebrows, and leg hair–and in that, I will lose my control. This will not be my body. It is not the one I have chosen. It is not the one that I want. All of this hurts, and it stings true when my chest fills with blood and I am uncomfortable and hate everything. I can’t even do aerial or acro right now; all I can do is use my hobbit lower body. That’s no fun.

But I am not alone, thank the gods. My mother did this before me, and my friends’ mothers have done it. I am connected with a multitude of women who experience that same pain as I am feeling on a daily basis. So I can feel it, yes. I can slip into my second brain for a bit. And it can be overpowering and intoxicating, but my Tami Taylor brain overrides it and reminds me that though I am but little, I am fierce.