Here in Katie’s Head

It’s been nineteen days since my mastectomy. They’ve been the worst nineteen days of my life and I am glad to have them beyond me.

I wish doctors would warn you how much you will hurt after major surgery. That even with the narcotics, it still hurts more than any pain you’ve endured.

I wish doctors would warn you that even after you’ve done everything you can to rid yourself of cancer, you will cry and cry and cry and then cry some more because you can’t discern the precise source of this sudden despair and feel hopeless about being unable to make yourself feel better.

I wish doctors would warn you how robbed you will feel when you give up a part of your body and replace it with a pathetic facsimile, because even though you knew what you were choosing, you won’t realize how un-whole you’ll feel once that part is gone.

It’d also be nice if they’d give you a heads up about what symptoms of hospital-acquired infections to watch out for. The GI tract infection is a real delight, as is the UTI caused the antibiotic for the first infection, as is the seeming inability for the now two antibiotics to work at the same time despite the doctor’s assurance that they would respect each others’ territory.

I’ve been camping out at my parents’ house since I left the hospital. And even though I’ve technically moved back to my apartment, it makes my skin crawl to be home alone. It’s quiet and paralyzingly lonely and I’m terrified that I’ll get sicker without Mom around to call attention to and address my symptoms. I’d probably still be shitting my brains out without her.

And while I do know that each day I physically feel a little better, it’s progressively harder to cope with yet another day of feeling like shit.

I know it’ll all be over eventually, and I crave the day I can put it behind me and feel like an ordinary person again, when I can once again think about anything besides my health.

Posted: 9:17 pm · Category: Health · Comments: 3

It’s been a flurry of doctors and appointments and information and being asked whether I have any questions and being too overwhelmed to think of anything to ask.

I walked into this thinking I’d follow the same route my mother did: biopsy, lumpectomy, radiation. And then suddenly my doctor says, “well, we don’t want to give a 24-year-old radiation. That’s dangerous.”

And then she said, “mastectomy,” and the world froze.

But the more I thought about it, the more clear it was that I had only one way to escape this nightmare. And now I look in the mirror every day and think about how there are only a few more days until I don’t look like this anymore.

For my own amusement, I have kept a tally of how many people have touched at least one of my boobs during this whole ordeal.

1. Mammogram tech #1, Wendy, who took my initial films
2. Mammogram tech #2, who likes Enya, and was there when the dick radiologist told me that it was probably cancer
3. Cancer surgeon, who is wonderful but looked at me like I was an injured puppy
4. Cancer surgeon’s resident, the first dude to touch my boobs in a medical way
5. Radiologist who did my first biopsy
6. Radiologist’s helper
7. Mammogram tech #3, who took the films showing the little metal clip they left to mark my biopsy site
8. MRI tech, who was pretty cool
9. Physician’s assistant who was in charge of my second biopsy, disappointingly impersonal
10. Some other girl who was helping with the MRI-guided biopsy, no idea what her qualifications were
11. Mammogram tech #4, who did a cool digital mammogram and showed me the pictures on her computer
12. Radiation oncologist, dude #2, who is an excellent doctor
13. Plastic surgeon, dude #3, is very talented even if he didn’t let me talk very much

It’s possible there was another MRI tech in there, but I couldn’t really see what all was going on that day. This list entertained me more when I started it. Now it just reminds me how complicated having cancer is.

The first biopsy came back bad. High-grade ductal carcinoma in situ. It hasn’t spread, but it’s definitely cancer.

They did a second biopsy, mostly out of paranoia, and that was clean. That’s been my one shred of good news.

Next Tuesday, I check into the hospital. I feel like I’m not ready, but I have no clue how to ready myself. How does a 24-year-old ready herself to have her breasts removed? I feel like I’ve done all the research I can. I’ve got the support of all my friends and family and coworkers.

But I still feel alone and in the dark.

I just want it to be over. I want to be done with surgery. I want to breeze through the months of appointments with the plastic surgeon. I want time to speed up and this stupid year to be over.

Posted: 7:55 am · Category: Health · Comments: 13

When I walked into the mammography room, I was told that there was an 85% chance that everything was fine.

By the time I walked out, that had been reduced to 10%.

I am 24 and my body knows how to make cancer.

Posted: 5:01 pm · Category: Health · Comments: 14

I remember running laps in sixth grade gym when I felt the slightest hint of a jiggle.

“Awesome,” I thought, “I have boobs!”

But as we all know, most thoughts we have at age eleven are critically flawed.

Fast forward to this January. I’d been contemplating breast reduction surgery for a couple of years. To the casual observer, I pass for a 36D, maybe DD depending on the day’s wardrobe. But clothing and flab betray the tininess of my frame.

32FF is not a bra size sold in stores. In fact, 32FF is a size that makes my doctor’s eyes bug in horror.

Ordinarily, I’d have been sent directly to the plastic surgeon — the finest in the land. But given my family history of breast cancer, Doc thought maybe I should get a mammogram first. Just to get the ducks in a row.

Two years ago, my mom had her annual mammogram. The film came back and there were small calcifications on her left breast. Her doctor said, “Your mammogram is bad. We caught it early. I’m sending you to a specialist, do everything they tell you.” A second mammogram, a biopsy, a second surgery to remove any iffy margins, and a round of radiation later, she is cancer-free.

Today my mammogram came back. It looks eerily similar. Calcfications, left breast, three-o-clock.

The radiologist gets a closer look at 8:30 a.m. on the 24th.

Part 2 coming as soon as I know what comes next.

Posted: 8:16 pm · Category: Health · Comments: 4

My heart leaps every time I see this clip.

Posted: 3:16 pm · Category: Random · Comments: None

Dear critter in my ceiling,

Get out. Please. You wake me up with your scurrying noises. This is only the second time, but three strikes and I call the maintenance guys.

You sound small, so I’m guessing you’re a squirrel. If I buy you some nuts and put them on my balcony, will you promise to stay out of my ceiling?

Walnuts? Pecans? I know peanuts aren’t good for squirrels, but I’m pretty sure they don’t sell bags of acorns at Dillons.

Love,

Katie

Posted: 10:52 am · Category: Apartment, Letters · Comments: 1

I hauled my collections down to the recycling center today. It’s a quarterly exercise where I go and look at all the hippies and wonder if I blend in with them. (I think I do.)

I bundle up three months’ worth of newspapers, a few beer bottles, a couple of wine bottles and a big mountain of Diet Coke cans. I want to think that these cans breed in my kitchen closet when I’m not looking, but they don’t. I put every single one of those cans into that trash bag. I know because I crunch them all by hand and my hands are very tired.

And then I put it all into my trunk, drive down to the highway, get on, get off two exits later and drive into the sad part of town where the houses are smaller than my one-bedroom apartment. I turn right on Clark Street and ponder whether I should wait in line to park inside the warehouse or take an open parking spot outside and lug my junk a little farther. Depends on how long the line is. It’s been longer lately.

And I pick up a big, heavy laundry basket full of newspapers and awkwardly carry it inside, thinking, “thank god for weightlifting class or this would be even less fun.” Then some teenage volunteer says, “I can take that for you, ma’am,” and “ma’am” makes me feel old and unattractive, although I appreciate the help.

And then, my trunk emptied, I drive home dreaming of the day when I live in a house and have curbside recycling.

Posted: 12:56 pm · Category: Consumerism · Comments: 2