My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 9

I have to backtrack a little bit here. I forgot to impart an important piece of information. When I was first diagnosed, Dr. P. said lumpectomy, radiation but no chemotherapy. Along this wild e-ticket ride, that changed. Based on my tumor (stage 1, aggressive, invasive), I would be needing chemotherapy after all. Just another piece of news I had to digest and dissect.

Thanksgiving day. I feel like a new person. No more evil metal meat skewer. No more incredibly comfortable and hip mesh bra. No more pain. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I feel the worst is behind me. Time to get back to living.  Lots of people over to the casa for Thanksgiving. Everybody contributed. It was odd watching others clean up my kitchen - something I do not normally allow. Just didn’t have it in me to protest. We played our usual board games (Scrabble and Clue). It's a tradition. Life felt normal for the first time in a couple of months. 

Monday after Thanksgiving (Nov 28^th), I returned to work. I was exhausted. Just getting ready for work threw me for a loop. I had to sit down every couple of minutes to steady myself. I made the mistake of wearing an underwire bra. Uncomfortable doesn’t even adequately describe how I spent the next 11 hours. Stupidly, I did it again the next day. Finally, Wednesday, I got a clue. I donned a sports bra. Not a good choice for 12-pound bowling balls, but what’s a girl to do?  On Wednesday (Nov 30^th), I had an appointment with the radiation oncologist. I pointed out to him that my boob seemed to be filling up with liquid. He talked about draining it, and how another patient went through that for 8 months. I was like, oh hell no. I’m not going through that for 8 months. I vowed to ignore it. Maybe it would just go away on its own.

Well, that didn’t work. The pain became too much. I called Dr. P’s office on Thursday. They told me to wait until my appointment on Friday (Dec 1st), even though I told them what was going on. When Dr. P. found out about that, he wasn’t too happy. Anyway, Friday rolls around, only been a day but it couldn't come soon enough for me. Driving to the appointment was so painful. Every bump, every pot hole was agony. I start crying when I see the receptionist. I can’t help it. I settle down a little bit while I’m in the waiting room (poor pitiful me moment is over). They call me to the back, where Dr. P. takes one look at my boob and says he needs the ultrasound machine. I’m lying on my back, marveling at the ocean of liquid showing up on the monitor. If the little mouse was still in there, he’d be doing the backstroke. Dr. P. says he has to drain it. Oh goodie. Any person in the right mind would think the doc was going to numb the area so that’s what I thought was going to happen. You’d want a numbing shot before someone drained liquid out of your boob…right?

I heard Dr. P. say “give me a # something syringe and needle.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the nurse hand him a syringe the size of a turkey baster with a needle that resembled a samurai sword.  I don’t hear him ask for anything else so immediately my mind starts screaming… ”WAIT!”  But my mouth is frozen shut. I’m sure my eyes were the size of dinner plates. All of a sudden, Dr. P. plunges the needle into my boob. I’m totally expecting pain. But there’s nothing. My mind can’t grasp what just happened. Why didn’t that hurt? I know that area around the scar is numb, I just didn’t realize it was that numb. I feel instant relief as he extracts the liquid. It’s a light reddish color. The nurse again calls it serum - the same stuff that came out when she removed the evil metal meat skewer. I don’t care what it is. I just know it’s a painful hot mess. I don’t remember how much he extracted that day, maybe 60 cc’s.  All I know is that I felt so much better. Come back and see me in a week, Dr. P. says.

By the end of that day, I can tell my boob is filling back up with serum. I’m continuing to go to work, wearing the sports bra that barely contains the girls, but so much more comfortable than an underwire. I wonder if I could get away with never wearing an underwire again…hmmmmm…something to ponder. It's now Friday, December 9th. A week has gone by, and I’m back in the same state I was in the previous Friday. My boob is so swollen and full of serum. It’s very painful. Back to see Dr. P. who does another ultrasound. The ocean of liquid appears even bigger on the monitor than last time. I’m in no mood to look for a mouse doing the backstroke. This time I don’t panic when he asks for the gargantuan syringe and needle. He plunges it in and pulls out 90 cc’s of serum. The relief is immediate. Instead of dumping it down the sink like last time (which is actually a little disturbing if you think about where stuff dumped down the sink goes in Las Vegas), he’s sending some off to be tested for infection and puts me on antibiotics.  I don’t think it’s infected but better safe than sorry, I suppose.  Dr. P. says to come back in a week. I say a week is too long, I'll be back in five days.

The Best Husband has been doing some research on the internet and discovers that the issue with the liquid building up in my boob is actually quite common and it has a name. It's called a seroma. We had both been given the impression from all the doctors that this was not that normal. Research indicates that this is quite normal and almost expected after having brachytherapy (internal radiation with the evil metal meat skewer). That's somewhat of a relief because here I thought I was experiencing something odd, wondering if I somehow caused it. There is no recommended treatment for a Seroma. It just has to go away on its own. I just hope it doesn't last 8 months, like the lady's seroma that the radiation oncologist was telling me about. That would suck. 

In the mean time, I have an appointment with the chemotherapy oncologist. The Best Husband meets me there. I fill out the incredibly redundant paperwork. Shortly, we're taken to an exam room. Where we sit, and wait and wait, for the doctor. We're getting pretty agitated. Ready to just walk out. Finally, two and a half hours after our appointment time, he appears in the room. We're both thinking, "this better be good." And it was. Within minutes, we know the wait had been worth it. I've always called him Dr. S., but really, he's a physicians assistant and I guess technically he's Mr. S. But whatever. All I know is that he knows his stuff. He explains everything to us so clearly. He made a ton of notes on that thin paper that covers the exam table. I wish I had torn that off and taken it home with me. I tell him about the seroma. He decides that he wants to give my boob time to heal before he almost kills me with chemotherapy. So we decide to start treatments on December 29th. He tells us about the do's and don'ts. What foods I can and can't eat. If I buy fresh vegetables, I have to wash them in bleach water before I cook them. No raw fresh vegetables. No fruit that doesn't have a removeable cover, like bananas and oranges. No peaches, no pears. No strawberries...they're too fuzzy. Don't know what that has to do with it, but okay. I'm really glad it isn't summer, because I absolutely love summer fruit. He then says, "You're going to lose your hair." I had been wondering if my treatment would cause that. I say, "Okay." He says it again, "You're going to lose your hair." I look at The Best Husband. We both say, "Okay. We understand." He says, "All your hair." I'm still thinking about the top of my head, of course. I'm sure I have a perplexed look on my face, because he turns to the The Best Husband and says, "You're wife will look like she's 12." Oooooh.....I get it now. He's not just talking about the top of my head. I'm going to lose hair everywhere. This comes as a suprise to me. I mean, seriously, how many of you have ever looked at a cancer patient with no hair on their head and realized they have no hair anywhere on their body? I know it never occurred to me. I'm glad Mr. S. made that clear, because I would have been freaking out for sure when I started going bald in other places besides my head.

I'm back to Dr. P.'s office on Wednesday (Dec 14th). Same routine. Ultrasound. Ocean of liquid. The mouse is doing the breast stroke now. Dr. P. pulls out another 90 cc. The seroma isn't getting any better. He says the report from the previous week's withdrawal indicates there is no infection. But I am to continue taking the antibiotics just in case. Then Dr. P. tells me he’s leaving for the Caribbean on December 16th and won’t be back until after the new year, but Dr. C. will be taking care of me while he’s gone. That’s a little worrisome. I’ve never seen Dr. C. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I’ve seen him in the hallway….he looks too young to know what he’s doing. The nurse says to come back in a week, but I tell her, "Nope, seven days is too long. I’ll be back in five days."

Over the next couple of days, my boob once again inflates with serum. It’s a pain in the a…well, boob.  Sunday, I have this odd burning pain around my scar, and there is serum seeping out of my boob. I can barely sleep because every time something touches the area, it burns. I finally look in my makeup mirror (10x zoom!) and discover that the pressure from the serum buildup has caused my incision to pop open at one end. Wow. That’s incredible. In my experience, liquid will always find a way to escape. My incision, which probably isn’t 100% healed, was the path of least resistance. On Monday (Dec 19th), I had planned to go to work, go to my Dr. appointment, then return to work. Instead, I call in sick , and at the appointed time, I arrive at the doctor’s office. Dr. C. does an ultrasound and attempts to drain the serum. Now I’m no expert, but I can clearly see LIQUID in my boob on the monitor. It’s been seeping out all night. It’s definitely LIQUID.  I don’t know what Dr. C. was looking at, but he decides it’s a clot, one that he wants to break up so he can drain it. I hear him tell the nurse, “Give me a syringe with hydrogen peroxide.” I’m wondering WHY, but my mind doesn’t register a problem. How would I know what was about to happen? So, before I continue, let me give you a little advice. If you know you have a liquid buildup in your boob and someone wants to shoot hydrogen peroxide into it…..RUN! Run as fast as you can to the nearest exit. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. RUN!

Dr. C. shoots the hydrogen peroxide into the seroma and instantaneously, the PAIN is excruciating. I can’t even begin to put into words how much pain I was in. I lay on the table in the exam room for a good 45 minutes, crying and moaning. Dr. C. kept apologizing and rubbing my forehead. I’m sure I scared him. Probably scared away some of the other patients. Dr. C. decides he has to open up the surgical site and clean it out, wants to take me to the operating room right then. I must have been dilerious because I ask him to just cut me open right then and there. He appears to think about that for a second, but he must have realized that was a completely stupid idea. "Not going to happen," he says. Unfortunately, I had eaten a bowl of cereal a couple of hours ago, so he doesn’t feel comfortable putting me under anasteshia. Yes, it should still be spelled that way. So he decides he’s going to operate the next day (Dec 20^th).  I manage to finally stop crying and sit up. The nurse mops my face with a tissue. I call The Best Husband and beg him to come get me. I don’t think I can drive while in this emotional state. I call my office and tell them I am having surgery the next day and won’t be coming in. Luckily, the hospital where I have to pre-register for surgery is a short walk from the doctor’s office. As I’m walking over, I must have been still moaning, and of course I look like hell because I’ve been crying for an hour, because a doctor walking in front of me turns and asks if I’m okay. That was nice of him. I say no, but I'll be fine thank you, and keep on walking. The Best Husband meets up with me as I get closer to the hospital entrance. A co-worker had dropped him off so we wouldn’t have more than one car. I sign in and the receptionist gives me a pager. We sit. We wait. And wait. And wait. They aren’t even that busy, what is taking so long? I’m rocking back and forth, moaning, trying to deal with the pain. It has subsided, but not completely. All of a sudden, I hear a loud pop. I look at The Best Husband. He looks at me. We both know immediately what it is. I pull out my collar so I can look down my shirt. Eeeeeck! Serum mixed with hydrogen peroxide is pouring out of my incision. Just to give you a visual, think about how the stream of water looks when it’s leaving the garden hose. Houston, we have a problem. I’ve sprung a leak. Eeeeck! We rush to the bathroom to get some paper towels. It’s going everywhere. All over my shirt, down into my pants, filling up my bra. I call the doctor’s office. They send the nurse over to help clean me up. We literally milk my boob while standing in the hospital lobby bathroom. The moment was so freaking crazy we both starting laughing.

The Best Husband had exited the bathroom when the nurse got there, and has been waiting for us in the lobby. He realizes a pre-register clerk is yelling our last name. Angrily. With attitude. The Best Husband has the pager. It hasn’t gone off. He tells the clerk that I am in the restroom, and I’ll be right out. This guy is a jerk. Of royal proportions. He proceeds to tell The Best Husband that he’s called our name "at least 10 times." Why haven’t we answered? The Best husband tells him we’ve had a small crisis. We weren’t listening for our name because we have a pager. Which didn’t go off, by the way. The clerk proceeds to tell him, with his snootiest attitude, that he doesn’t have to beep the pager. He has been calling us. Sheesh. What is our problem?

I emerge from the bathroom and proceed to the pre-register desk where I have to deal with the asshole clerk while I’m dealing with my irrigation leak. Luckily, the pain has completely disappeared. But one would think that the clerk, knowing that he’s pre-registering people for surgery, would have a better attitude. Everybody has been so wonderful from the beginning of this entire experience. I should have known there would be one jerk along the way. And he’s sitting not five feet from me. I really, REALLY, want to tell him off. But I restrain myself. When the nurse asks me how my visit was, I tell her all about him. She writes it all down, saying how sorry she is. Karma. I hope it came back and bit him in the ass.