Breast cancer screening by committee

Thank you mighty, mighty good man David for sending this my way.

Emotional rescue

Yeah, so, I think that this whole cancer thing is finally starting to hit me.

On Saturday night, David and I went to dinner at Chez Maman in our hood. We have been meaning to go there for a long time, but there is always a wait. Finally, we decided we will wait, dammit. We are eating at this restaurant!

After a decent wait, we sat down to eat. The restaurant was warm and softly lit. The waiter brought me a nice glass of red wine and then … I was completely overwhelmed. I teared up in the restaurant. I was so happy to be there; so happy to be there with my handsome fiance, an amazing man who nursed me through my cancer battle; so happy to be healthy again.

I have been walking around in a state of shock for months. I think I’m finally processing everything that I’ve been through since the Good Doctor called me in August and told me I had breast cancer. It’s sinking in, and during this past week and a half, I have been very sensitive, very emotional.

I get misty about everything.

Having a friend tell me that I’m an inspiration? Yes.

Putting on a dress and going to a party at a friend’s house? Sure.

A dance routine on “So You Think You Can Dance”? Yep.

Just sitting on my couch writing on my laptop sipping wine while David draws? Of course.

Pretty much everything makes me misty. I’m just so grateful. So, so, so grateful and amazingly, super lucky.

To Thy Own Self Exam Be True

Yeah, so, I’m kinda angry.

The U.S. Preventive Task Force, whose positions influence many insurance companies, released a report today claiming that women should get a mammogram every two years starting at the age of 50, as opposed to 40 as originally thought. Meanwhile, I feel like I have been hearing about more and more women under 40 being diagnosed with breast cancer. I had been telling people I thought they should lower the recommended age to 35.

“Mammograms produce false-positive results in about 10 percent of cases, causing anxiety and often prompting women to undergo unnecessary follow-up tests, sometimes-disfiguring biopsies and unneeded treatment, including surgery, radiation and chemotherapy.”

Even if mammograms are not 100 percent accurate, don’t most women want to be safe rather than sorry? We are talking about cancer here, folks! CANCER! I would rather have some anxiety, unnecessary tests and treatment and a biopsy than let cancer spread. By the way, unless your lump is massive or your surgeon is really a veterinarian, chances are your biopsy won’t result in serious disfigurement.

So, this is my favorite quote in the Washington Post article:

“Tens of thousands of lives are being saved by mammography screening, and these idiots want to do away with it,” said Daniel B. Kopans, a radiology professor at Harvard Medical School. “It’s crazy — unethical, really.”

Well said, professor.

I’ve decided that if insurance companies start not covering mammograms before the age of 50, I’m going to invest money in those cancer-sniffing dogs. “What is it, boy? Is it ductal carcinoma in situ? Is it spreading to my lymph nodes? Oh, someone’s at the door. Good dog.”

The task force also recommends they don’t do mammograms on women older than 75. I guess if you are older than 75 then you can just roll over and die. Is Sarah Palin and the Republicans going to talk about this death panel?

But wait, there’s more.

The new guidelines also recommend not teaching women to do self breast exams. This is what really drove me nutso when I read it.

So, let’s see if I got this straight … You are going to recommend that we get less screenings AND not do self breast exams! WTF U.S. Preventive Services!?!

According to the task force, there was not enough evidence to suggest it was beneficial.

Really?

I had your evidence in my left tit, U.S. Preventive Services. During a self breast exam, I found a lump that turned out to be cancer. CANCER! I don’t have a family history of cancer. I was 38. If I followed your helpful advice, I would have found that cancer too late. Thank you, U.S. Preventive Services. You prevented me from having a life. Mission accomplished.

Ladies, I don’t care what this task force says. Check your boobs. Feel your boobies. Massage your melons. Grope your ta-tas. Knead those knockers. It’s good for you.

Open Letter to Carrie Prejean

Dear Carrie Prejean,

Please stop talking. I know you are doing the media rounds promoting your new book; a book that I’m sure you didn’t write nor will you ever read. Still, I beg you to just shut the hell up. Between your book tour and Sarah Palin’s book tour, I can’t read the news right now without my eyes being raped by stupidity and ignorance.

In your interview with Christianity Today (seriously?), you, the national embarrassment, explained why your breast implants are totally cool with God.

“I don’t see anywhere in the Bible where it says you shouldn’t get breast implants,” she said.

Ummm, it says it right there in the Bible, Carrie: Thou shalt not worship false idols. More specificially, it says, “You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.”

You’re welcome.

Sincerely,

The Sonia Show

Don’t dream and drive

Yeah, so, last night I had this dream that I was in an accident on the Bay Bridge.

My car went off the bridge and plummeted into the bay. As the car was filling up with water, I tried to remain calm. I reached into the back seat to get Homer out of his crate. Then I pushed Homer through my open window and I swam out. Next thing I knew I was in a police station, and I was talking to someone else who had also drove their car off the bridge.

Me: “Dammit! I left my phone in the car! I don’t know anyone’s number! Who do I call? … You know, that was a brand-new phone. It was a Droid. It’s probably worth more than my car. … Everyone is going to make fun of me, because I just Twittered about how driving on the S-curve on the bridge isn’t that difficult.”

When I woke up, I told David about my dream.

David: “So, even after you drive your car into the bay, The Sonia Show is still on.”

Me: “Even in my sleep, The Sonia Show is on.”

But does this Droid speak Bocce?

Yeah, so, I found the Droid I’m looking for.

I guess all the advertising worked, because I just had to have a Droid phone. I am not a techie person. I had a regular flip phone a few hours ago. Four years ago, I was still working out while listening to a Sony Walkman … that played cassettes. It wasn’t even a Disc-Man!

I’m not someone who runs right out and gets the latest high-tech device. I am not that cool.

BUT …

I just had to get a Droid.

I had been thinking about trading in my cute, little pink flip phone for a while. A majority of my friends are avid texters. They would send me these long-ass texts, only to get a response from me that was “yes,” “no,” “ok” or “HA!” It took too long to text.

Also, I was becoming quite smitten with David’s iPhone. I was jealous that he could check his email, Facebook and Twitter from anywhere. I don’t know how many times we looked up directions, used Yelp or NextBus while out and about. It proved itself invaluable while I was in the hospital. David read me Facebook and Twitter statuses while nurses stuck me with needles. Also, David posted on the popular Sonia’s Boob Twitter account that updated everyone on my progress before, during and after my surgeries.

So, I was finally ready to jump on the smartphone bandwagon. The iPhone was tempting, but AT&T was not. I had AT&T years ago when I lived in Concord. I couldn’t get a signal in my own house and very often had to talk on the phone outside. It was not unusual for me to not answer the phone because of bad weather. “Sorry, I missed your call, Mom, but it was raining outside.”

When I read about the Droid, I definitely wanted to check it out. Today, David, Kate and I went to the Verizon store and, I was instantly smitten.

It’s faster than the iPhone. The screen seems sharper and brighter. It has a physical keyword. The camera has a flash. It’s not AT&T. Best of all, it’s got GPS navigation, which is perfect for me. I have gotten lost many times and called my sister crying, “Are you in front of a computer? I’m lost!”

I think I made the right choice.

I brought David with me to the store, because I was convinced the salesperson would talk me into buying a bunch of things I don’t need. “I had to get two Droid phones, but they were a set …”

Also, I needed David with me, because I get nervous about buying something like this. I don’t really need such a fancy phone. I just need a phone to make and take calls. I have a computer. I have a camera. I don’t need all this stuff on my phone. Sometimes it’s hard for me to justify buying something kinda pricey for myself just because I want it. But, finally, I just said to myself, “Yes, I want it. So there. Now, let’s get it.”

So, I got it.

Feeling normal

Yeah, so, today is the first day since the mastectomy that I felt like myself. Well, more like myself anyway.

Yesterday, I finally got the last drain removed. It was such a relief! It’s amazing how much that thing made me uncomfortable. I felt better the instant it was removed. I’m still not terribly mobile on the left side. I can’t lift my arm up all the way, but I can sit more comfortably. I can drive again. But best of all …

I can shower again!

Oh man, I didn’t think I was ever going to come out of that shower last night. Heaven.

Also, now that I am without the drain, I can wear my own clothes again! Before I was basically wearing David’s button-up shirts all the time, because they were roomy and kinda hid the drain. I opened up my closet this morning, and I didn’t know what to wear first. I don’t have a drain to hide anymore! So many options.

I returned to the office today, and I was so happy to be there … just to be normal. A mere month ago, I was lying on an operating table, having my left breast removed and worrying that cancer was spreading through my body.

Now, I’m cancer free. I’m showering and getting dressed like a normal person who totally doesn’t have cancer. I’m driving to work like a normal person, who isn’t worried that a disease is running wild through her body. I’m sitting in my cube like a normal person, who is doing her job and her cell isn’t ringing every 10 minutes with appointment reminders from Kaiser  …

Look at me, being all normal and stuff.

Lap dog does a lap around the laptop

Yeah, so, I’ve been working from home for almost a week while I am recovering.

My “desk” is my couch with two pillows, my laptop and my dog, Homer. Most of the day, Homer just snuggles up next to me and the laptop. But a few times a day, he wants my attention and he does this …

"Hey lady, look at me. I'm cute, right?"

"Hey lady! Can you see me now?"

"Hey lady! ... Ahem. I'm right here and still cute."

Picture Imperfect

Yeah, so, I don’t photograph well.

That’s not me being modest or ridiculous. I really don’t photograph well.

Some people always look great in photos. Some people do not look great in photos. I do not look great in photos. I have a round, shiny face, and if you don’t catch me at just the right angle, it’s a big ol’ mess, photography-wise.

For example, the fine folks at Muni Diaries posted photos from the live event on Friday night. The angle makes me look like I have a triple chin. That’s right, folks! I’m a triple threat!

Now, I was just at Kaiser that very afternoon, and the nurse weighed me. I have put on 8 pounds since this time last year; and last year, well, I was skinny. I don’t mean to brag, but … I looked pretty good this time last year.

My point is that picture on Muni Diaries makes me look huge, but I’m not huge. Maybe I put on 8 pounds all in my face, but I doubt it. Or, maybe I just have no idea how I really look. I see these photos of myself and I think, “Umm, I don’t look like that,” but yes, that’s how I look.

I think I’m finally getting to the point where I am accepting the fact that I just don’t look good in pictures. I just have one of those faces. I don’t photograph well. I know that a million pictures will be taken of me on my wedding day next year. I predict two of them will look great.

Drain, drain, go away …

Yeah, so, I still have one remaining drain from my surgery three weeks ago, and it is making my life miserable.

Basically, a tube is sticking out from under my left armpit, and it’s running into a little plastic bottle. Obviously, this little plastic bottle must remain with me at all times. It’s tied to my waist in a little bag. It’s ugly, gross and embarrassing, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

When I left the hospital, the nurses put the drain in a little white bag with a string that tied around my waist. I was always worried that people would think it was a colostomy bag or a fanny pack, and I couldn’t decide what was worse.

Eventually, I got a fab idea.

I took a tiny little evening bag with a long strap out of my closet.

Ta-dah!

Now, I have hidden my drain in my cute, little bag. So cancer chic, right?

I want this drain out so badly, but the doctor will not remove it until it drains under a certain amount. For days now, it’s been right at the magic number of 30 ml. I keep wondering if I lie to the doc and say it’s at 29, would he remove it?

Now, of course, I don’t want it removed before it’s time. Getting the drain removed early can lead to horrible complications and infections. I’ll pass on that. At the same time, I am constantly uncomfortable, sore and, well, dirty. I can’t shower as long as I have this drain, so it’s sponge baths for me and washing my hair by sticking my head under the tub faucet. It sucks ass.

Also, I can’t drive with this drain. I returned to work on Monday, and I drove Monday and Tuesday with the drain anyway. I thought maybe I could ride in the carpool lane, but the cop told me that my drain doesn’t count as a person. Dang.

So anyway, I didn’t last the full day in the office both days, and I was horribly sore by the time I got home. On Tuesday night, I had a completely positive attitude fail! I was sore, grouchy and frustrated with my body for not cooperating with me by healing faster.

I spoke to my dad that night.

Dad: “I know you are impatient. You come by that rightly. You get that from me, but you are going to get better.”

True. I do get it from him. I have seen doctors order The Man with strict bed rest, and the next day he’s digging a ditch in the backyard for no good reason.

So anyway, it’s almost a blessing that the Bay Bridge has been closed, allowing me to work from home. I am getting a ton of copy editing done, and I’m sitting in a comfortable position that allows me to heal properly.

I am hoping that my couch sitting all day Sunday will do the trick, and maybe — dare to dream — I can finally get this thing removed. I refuse to get my hopes up. Every time I do, I get denied, which leads to me crying in the car: “I [sob] can’t [sob] take [sob] this [sob] drain [sob] anymore …”

I went to two doctor appointments on Friday. In one appointment, the nurse said they wouldn’t be removing the drain. The other appointment, the oncologist told me that I’m low risk for breast cancer reoccurrence. Guess which appointment I’ve been focused on?

I’m such a jackass.