Here’s today’s jumble of thoughts related to ongoing cancer adventures in my world.
A big shout out and good karma for my friend Diana undergoing lumpectomy today. Welcome to the crappy pink ribbon club.
Too busy looking fabulous to let breast cancer get in her way.
A sigh of relief as my relation with ovarian cancer is finally home from the hospital after yet another extensive surgical adventure. There’s nothing like one’s own bed, comfort food and purring kitties to speed the healing process. I am also quite selfishly glad that my ovaries and tubes are no longer around to cause trouble. To my former parts I quote Monty Python: “I fart in your general direction,” which after two weeks in gut-crushing Spanx is probably dangerous.
Last but not least, I have released myself from the evil of said Spanx now that I’ve hit the two-week post-op mark. Still very sore, bruised and swollen. My midsection looks like the aftermath of a serious bar brawl. Jeans? No way. But for the first time this summer we have a weekend of upper 90 degree temps and I can break out a sundress. I went an entire day with no need to nap yesterday. Baby steps worthy of celebration.
Once a crab, always a crab.
Being cranky is not one of my finer attributes, but like my crappy BRCA genes, it is part of me. Following my initial mastectomy/reconstruction surgery the plastic surgeon counseled my husband and mother that I would likely be very irritable over the course of the next 48 hours. Jim and Mom broke into uncontrolled laughter. The surgeon, who has never seen crabby Lee in action was mystified by their reaction. Me irritable? Baby, I was born to be a crab.
It has been eleven days since Stage II breast revisions and BSO surgery and while I’m so pleased not be a total wreck like I was last time, I’m peeved to be caught in no man’s land, somewhere between sick and well.
James is in Salt Lake City today. Lucky man. The cats are the only critters in my orbit and like all cats, they do not give a rat’s ass about human problems unless it interferes with their food.
I guess my biggest gripe is not that I’m still fatigued and need frequent naps. Nor is is it the pain level, which no longer requires my friend Vicodin. I even drove for the first time yesterday and that was no problem. No, my biggest complaint is the stupid Spanx. I HATE SPANX!
Not to disparage this fine product. It is helping my liposuctioned, bruised, scarred midsection heal nicely. Two weeks the doctor said. I’m counting the minutes until I can be rid of these things. Twenty-four hours a day is a long time to wear any garment, particularly one that squashes one’s guts. Shapewear is meant to be worn for an evening under something slinky, not ’round the clock. So what is so horrid about a pancake flat tummy and a nicely lifted fanny?
Let’s just call it digestive disturbances of a volcanic nature and leave it at that. No wonder I’m crabby.
48 Hours was one of Eddie Murphy’s funniest movies. It’s also the name of a long-running TV show and the exact amount of time before my next surgery. Yes, I am feeling a bit crazy and that is to be expected. Last time I disappeared down the surgery wormhole it took a long time to surface again. The closer it gets, the busier I get. Who says avoidance is not a good thing?
Yesterday’s distractions included cleaning the oven, laundry, shopping and some dark chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joe’s. 73% dark Belgian chocolate is good for the soul if not the skinny jeans. James is on a road trip to the Midwest and this gives me license to watch weird stuff at night on Netflix that would put him to sleep. Another good time killer.
I wish sleeping was easier.Less than six hours last night. Been up since before 4AM.
Today, it’s off to treadmill land, more work around the house and lunch with a friend. Writing a single word other than this blog and a to-do list is just not happening. I will survey my nest and purchase anything else I think might be needed. Last weekend I bought Spanx to wear after surgery. Doctor’s orders. Shapewear they call it. I call it a high-tech girdle. Less onerous than what my mother’s generation wore, but the thought of a bruised belly being squashed twenty-three hours a day in a compression garment is not pleasant. Still, if it helps the lumps and bumps created by fat grafting settle better, I will be a good girl and do as I’m told.
My husband had never heard of Spanx. His dyslexia took over and renamed them. They will forever be known around here as Skankies. I hope we will be laughing about this when he has to help me put them on.
Spanx Girl Shorts aka “Skankies”