I knew I was taking a chance when I opted for a mastectomy and no follow-up treatment like Tamoxifen. I did the Oncotype thing, though--had the tumor genetically mapped in order to estimate the chance of recurrence. The results suggested the chance was low. I didn't assume that I'd have the mastectomy and that would be the end of it, but I was just 45 then; there were things I wanted to do; and I suspected that if I got on the cancer medication track, side effects might prevent me from doing them.
One thing I knew I wanted: to travel to the Caribbean island of Aruba. The full-page ads I'd seen for it in Bon Appetit probably planted the seed of interest. I went on my own in April 2011 and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I'll never forget stretching out on a lounge by the pool on the night I arrived, gazing at the crystal clear stars, feeling relaxed and utterly free of care.
Back at home, after a while, I decided that the breast implant, mentioned in Prologue, Part I, had to go. Because the plastic surgeon who installed it turned out to be a jerk (One example of said jerkness: He told me after the surgery that I should "go out and mistreat some men" so that I could "feel good about" myself again. I wasn't feeling bad about myself, but I guess he assumed otherwise.), I switched to a different plastic surgeon, a woman. The initial consultation went fine, and I told her about the weird hard spot just above the implant that I assumed was scar tissue. She cut it out right there in the office (after injecting an anesthetic), said she didn't know what it was, and sent it off to the lab. And when I went back for the follow-up she very kindly and sympathetically explained that the biopsy showed that it was cancer.
It took two more in-office procedures, with the cancer surgeon who'd worked on me in 2010, to remove the full tumor with clear margins. I opted for the follow-up treatment of radiation this time. Somewhere along the way I think someone told me that even though both occurrences were breast cancer, they weren't the same type, and somehow that was good because it meant it wasn't actually a recurrence, but two separate incidences. But I'm not certain I remember that correctly. It's been seven years and a lot has happened.
Soon after the radiation treatments were complete, I realized another desire I'd had for ages when I flew solo to New York City and spent the day touring the Museum of Modern Art. The Cindy Sherman retrospective was on, and that was nearly worth the trip by itself. I also met up with an acquaintance I'd made in New Orleans in 2010, right after I was initially diagnosed, and I literally walked 20 miles, from mid-town Manhattan to Ground Zero and back. I twisted my ankle while walking that day and didn't realize how bad it was till my ankle blew up like a balloon following the plane trip home. I was on crutches for a few weeks while it healed.
And still, I was determined to keep going, to keep living. I figured I'd just continue until I couldn't anymore, until something happened that would prevent me from doing and seeing and experiencing anything and everything that I wanted to do and see and experience.
I partied a lot, worked on some artistic collaborations with a photographer friend, danced on stage with The Flaming Lips, etc., etc. From time to time I would think, No one knows how much time they have, but I really don't know, and it spurred me on. If, at any given moment, I checked in with myself and found that I felt I wasn't truly living, I'd come up with something else to do to make me feel like I was going full-tilt again.
One thing I knew I wanted: to travel to the Caribbean island of Aruba. The full-page ads I'd seen for it in Bon Appetit probably planted the seed of interest. I went on my own in April 2011 and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I'll never forget stretching out on a lounge by the pool on the night I arrived, gazing at the crystal clear stars, feeling relaxed and utterly free of care.
Back at home, after a while, I decided that the breast implant, mentioned in Prologue, Part I, had to go. Because the plastic surgeon who installed it turned out to be a jerk (One example of said jerkness: He told me after the surgery that I should "go out and mistreat some men" so that I could "feel good about" myself again. I wasn't feeling bad about myself, but I guess he assumed otherwise.), I switched to a different plastic surgeon, a woman. The initial consultation went fine, and I told her about the weird hard spot just above the implant that I assumed was scar tissue. She cut it out right there in the office (after injecting an anesthetic), said she didn't know what it was, and sent it off to the lab. And when I went back for the follow-up she very kindly and sympathetically explained that the biopsy showed that it was cancer.
It took two more in-office procedures, with the cancer surgeon who'd worked on me in 2010, to remove the full tumor with clear margins. I opted for the follow-up treatment of radiation this time. Somewhere along the way I think someone told me that even though both occurrences were breast cancer, they weren't the same type, and somehow that was good because it meant it wasn't actually a recurrence, but two separate incidences. But I'm not certain I remember that correctly. It's been seven years and a lot has happened.
Soon after the radiation treatments were complete, I realized another desire I'd had for ages when I flew solo to New York City and spent the day touring the Museum of Modern Art. The Cindy Sherman retrospective was on, and that was nearly worth the trip by itself. I also met up with an acquaintance I'd made in New Orleans in 2010, right after I was initially diagnosed, and I literally walked 20 miles, from mid-town Manhattan to Ground Zero and back. I twisted my ankle while walking that day and didn't realize how bad it was till my ankle blew up like a balloon following the plane trip home. I was on crutches for a few weeks while it healed.
And still, I was determined to keep going, to keep living. I figured I'd just continue until I couldn't anymore, until something happened that would prevent me from doing and seeing and experiencing anything and everything that I wanted to do and see and experience.
I partied a lot, worked on some artistic collaborations with a photographer friend, danced on stage with The Flaming Lips, etc., etc. From time to time I would think, No one knows how much time they have, but I really don't know, and it spurred me on. If, at any given moment, I checked in with myself and found that I felt I wasn't truly living, I'd come up with something else to do to make me feel like I was going full-tilt again.
On the opposite end of the spectrum from my trip to Aruba was a visit to the radically different European country of Finland in April 2013. For the life of me, I don't know how I became intrigued by the place. Maybe it was because I'm a curious monkey, and Finland is a country we Americans seldom hear about, outside of the Winter Olympics. Perhaps I just wanted to explore the unknown. But, ultimately, the why doesn't matter. I wanted to go, so I did--with a man with whom I was involved for a while. It is the only trip I've taken that turned out better than I imagined.
Helsinki, Finland, April 2013
Unfortunately, in the summer of 2013, my personal and professional life went sideways. I wound up making some changes that seriously impacted my income, and that put an end to just about any activities that required money, outside of the basics for living. I was eating up my savings, and right about the time I was close to going broke, a new and better job came through. Phew. I felt like I'd come to a screeching halt and was still settling in to my new life when the cancer came back and knocked me flat, in April 2016. Which brings us to now and the end of the Prologues.