Ah, yes, The Menopause.

It’s going to happen whether my uterus and hormones want it to or not. Finally. At long last. I’m starting shots and an estrogen suppressing medication, so my body has no say, which makes me happy. The medical oncologist was surprisingly surprised to hear how eager I am to no longer have periods, which leads me to understand that he has never had a period. I’m just sayin’. I really like him so I don’t want to drag him too hard, but he did say, “but it should be ending next year anyway…” to which I thought, “now there’s a man who has never stuffed a wad of cotton up his cooch.”

Many of you know about my count up, so I’ll let you know if I get any time frame estimates on The Last Days, and if you can’t be here, you can burn some of your own stuff in your back yard, and maybe recite an incantation, or something equally frightening to The Patriarchy.

I’M GOING FULL CRONE, HERE, FRIENDS. FULL FUCKING CRONE.

Fatigue and jobs and radiation, oh my!

I have a part time gig right now and I’m going to appointments and stuff right after work, so I’m so so tired. The love high has dissipated a little, but I gotta say, overall, I’m still more or less in it.

The job is great, and I wish it paid more and offered benefits, because I would stay there. Since it doesn’t, I have been doing interviews and I think I have a job lined up at a school again. Apparently, someone from The Disaster (my old school) applied there as well. I hope I get to know who it is.

I am working with a trainer now, too, so my body will look different in a few months. I feel good.

The best problem I could have

I alluded to growing up unsure of love in a previous post. When I was a kid, love was something that I could not count on-it was unreliable because it could go away at any time. It could be betrayed quickly and lose its meaning in minutes. As an adult, I have realized especially since having cancer, that I am struggling with the outpouring of love that I have felt from my chosen family and friends. I feel myself wanting to doubt it and to shut it down, since in the end it will fail me anyway. While I’m talking to people, I feel amazing, then later that day or the next day or week, I start thinking about how they probably didn’t mean it, or I start trying to find fault in their love. I’m glad I have the self awareness to see what I’m doing, but the struggle is real. I never thought that having this much love in my life would be the thing I would need to talk to my therapist about, but that’s exactly what I’m doing the next time I see her.

Anxiety, the anti-love story.

Introduction: There may be a thing that I might need to worry about sometime possibly in the distant future.

Chapter 1: Disregard the tons of love and support surrounding me, doubt it all, believe The Anxiety when it says it’s all untrue.

Chapter 2: Find one thing to focus on and tear it to shreds in a gross over-analysis.

Chapter 3: Keep obsessing irrationally until the incorrect logic almost becomes my truth.

Chapter 4: Involve someone who has a connection to The Anxiety through no fault or desire of their own.

(sub-chapters 1-4): Try to nap to no avail because I keep startling awake, finding a new angle to obsess over.

Chapter 5: Drink more coffee.

Chapter 6: Finally untwist myself and realize I need to do something to get out of my fuckin’ head before my heart explodes.

Chapter 7: Do The Thing. (Today was clarinet and guitar)

Chapter 8: Feel like an ass and make a Sallyism post about it.

Epilogue: Spend time being grateful that I can recognize it so quickly, but cursing my upbringing, knowing that a lot of this stems from the uncertainty of my childhood. Never being sure of love is hard to overcome.

I’m having Very Big Feelings

The post anesthesia love-fest seems to have passed, but I am still feeling Very Deep Things. I wonder how long it takes for this to fade. I think having surgery for a disease that would like to kill me versus having surgery to fix problems is what’s going on. It still feels unreal.

All my emotions are at the surface right now-a lot of joy, love, anger, sadness just gliding around under my skin waiting to pounce. I’m very tired. I don’t think I’m laughing out loud any more, but I’m definitely cackling out loud in my mind a lot more than normal. I’m screaming with happiness in my mind a lot. I also just need a nap. And my armpit hurts.

Meh.

Cancer. Take it or leave it. 1/10 would not recommend? What’s frightening about breast cancer is that it can go so long undetected. No symptoms, sometimes very difficult to feel (like me-I still can’t feel the lump), nothing other than family history and the state of our hormones to go by. Yes, yes, it’s more than that, but what it boils down to is I got really fucking lucky.

I am done with surgery. My body has been manhandled by more professionals in Minnesota and New York than I care to think about. And now, half of the hospital in Bronxville has seen my bare chest. At least I was anesthetized for some of it.

I saw the image of the tumor. It was tiny, tiny. .7cm, I think?

The day of, I had to go to the breast center (all of those women are delightful, by the way) and get a wire put in to mark the spot. That was odd. I sat in a chair and they mammogrammed the shit out of my left breast. More pressure and squeezing than your normal image. I cried.

I cried again when the anesthesia was wearing off. I didn’t expect to be so emotional about everything since it feels like the last 6 years have been nothing but upheaval and surgery and mess. Good, too, but it’s been a lot to deal with.

I have an oncology consultation next week, then a radiation consultation the week after that. It sounds like I’ll be doing 1-6 weeks of radiation 15 minutes a day and will be taking an estrogen suppressant.

I’m so grateful for my friends and chosen family. So grateful.

It’s still unreal

I find myself separating myself from the word cancer. It doesn’t help that I don’t feel sick at all other than my post-covid lungs. I keep making myself say that I have cancer so that my brain takes it in. One week from today I’ll have had the surgery already. I guess it’ll be real then? The process is multi-day. 1st, I go for an MRI tomorrow to make sure they haven’t missed anything. This sounds like a ridiculous process-me laying face down with my boobs in coils. I wish there was a way to make it more ridiculous, but I can’t think of anyway to top that. 2nd I go for a covid test, then I can stay and get other intake stuff done. 3rd is the surgery and 4th is the follow up oncology appointment.

After that, I am getting a new tattoo. These are the rules, and I just follow them.

I’ve had a lot of opportunities over the last 5 years to re-evaluate my life and think about how I want the rest of it to look. You’d think I would no longer feel the need to do this, but I can always come up with something. I don’t know yet if changes will happen; probably not, but I know for sure that I want to fill my life with even more love and joy than I was already experiencing. I think I can cram a lot of love and joy into this last 20 years or so.

Be prepared to be love-bombed, friends.

Pre-surgeon post

Thoughts before my appointment:

It would be kinda cool if the instrument they used to scoop out the cancer was like a roto-rooter and ice cream scoop combo. Would you like a single or double scoop?

What was my mom thinking not telling me about this???????????????????????????????????????????!

I can’t believe I have to see a male surgeon to take care of my boobs.

Ugh. Parking.

Oh my god, how long will I be able to mine this for jokes/how soon will my friends get tired of cancer jokes?

It’s from the coffee isn’t it? Or was it the BPA in my Nalgenes?

Why wouldn’t I have breast cancer-all this shit happens when I get back into a good workout routine. My body does not want me to be fit. My body thinks I should no longer workout. I should eat more butter.

Mm. Butter.

I am not upset about possibly not having boobs. I would be happy to be rid of them. Useless milk bags.

Fuck you, titty meat.

Title courtesy of my friend, Tasty Bev.

I guess I’m not going to die from getting ebola virus from having monkey poop thrown at me and hitting me in the eye.

I have a small tumor in my left breast. (BUT AT LEAST IT’S SMALL AND YOU CAUGHT IT EARLY, SALLY!) I don’t think it’ll go badly, but wow, cancer might just be the biggest word I know. 6 deadly letters. Words I can form from the word cancer:

can, car, rec ran, acre, arc, race, crane, near, nacre, era, ear, earn, ace, are

I have a lot to process, but so far I’m landing on fear, rage, disbelief, but at the same time a sense of “of course!”, frustration, and wonder. I’ve been totally disassociating it from my body-I’ve been telling myself not that I have cancer, but that I have a very small cancerous tumor in my left breast, (I always hated that breast the most.) so I’m repeating my regular mantra (I am safe and I am well. I am healthy and I am loved) and following with I have cancer, so that I am forced to confront it.

I have a feeling it’s going to all be fine, but I also think this is a big fucking deal, and it’s okay for me to feel like it’s a big fucking deal.

More cancer to follow.

I hate my ancestors’ genes

I’m having a second back surgery in March. I’m waiting for a scheduler to call me to confirm a date, posting stupid shit on FB, and spinning between feeling like cackling hysterically and crying. Then I think about getting my shit together and making loose mental plans because that usually makes me feel better. So far, I have taken Rips for a walk, played guitar, brewed a fresh pot of coffee (so I can deal with everything in a properly wired state, of course), and eaten lots of Jewel tortilla chips. I’m giving myself a headache.

One of the main things fucking with me right now is thinking about another year of no really hard, vigorous exercise. It is scaring the shit out of me, to be honest. I’ve made it through the pandemic, menopause transition, being back in touch with my family, starting a business, normal relationship stuff, staying sober, and all the regular stressors in my life because of exercise. Even through all the physical pain I’ve had I still keep moving and sweating and it gives me clarity and peace of mind. If I didn’t have all these things going on at one time I would be better off. If it was just my family, or just pandemic, or just perimenopause, I would be okay, but I already feel like I just can’t take one more fucking thing. My plate is full. My balance is already off. Once I get done here, I’ll go exercise. It’s a thing I have that I can rely on.

I’m not going to kill myself, I’m not going to start drinking, I’m not going to lose my mind (maybe just a little). I am however, going to be working really hard to hold on and I don’t feel up to it. I will be up to it. I will be fine. I don’t feel like it today, however.

I also dread the medication. I went through withdrawal from Oxy last time, after only 10-14 days on it and I don’t feel like I want to do that again. Shaking, crying for no reason, profuse sweating, chills. I never even felt a need for it, or craving. My body just can’t have addictive substances. The nurse I spoke to today expressed sympathy, but was, as they all are, slightly dismissive of my concern. They all tell me since I know about it, I’ll be fine. I’m aware and have told them, so it will be okay. They can all say that because they most likely have never gone through withdrawal. It’s fucking miserable. I’m also slightly allergic to Oxy, so I’ll be itchy the whole time I’m on it. I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.

I did not win the genetic lottery.