We’ve had a rough couple of weeks. I’m uncomfortable and sad and pretty useless around the house. Mike went back to work but still has to do everything. And our beloved Lucy the Nurse Cat died on Saturday.
Aside from taking walks around the neighborhood to see the latest in street art/graffiti, we’ve been trying to lay low. Sorry for hiding, friends, but we just can’t right now. FCK CNCR, indeed.
Some news to report for this week, though. On Monday, we met with my medical oncologist. He was very patient and thorough—and frustrated. Turns out the pathology report isn’t final yet. And more testing is needed. Won’t know if chemo and/or radiation are required for another 2 weeks.
More concrete action happened this morning: After 17 days of pinning it to my waistband, clipping it to a lanyard around my neck in the shower, and stripping it on the daily, my unwelcome sidekick, Drain No. 2 was removed. With Mike as my witness, it was gross but did not hurt.
Today also marked the start of a visually disturbing chapter in breast reconstruction: Expansion. Every few weeks, 50 CCs of saline will be delivered into the tissue expander under my skin via a very large shot. Picture the scene in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta jabs Uma Thurman with a giant syringe after she ODs. Only we were in a doctor’s office downtown and they used a little magnet gadget to find the opening of the port in the tissue expander. Also, no heroin.
Didn’t hurt at the time. Does now.
