But I don't HAVE cancer!

semicharmedwife — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 11:25:14 -0600

This entry started out as a routine recap of my latest self-improvement project, but it somehow evolved into the story of the last year of my life--the double masectomy, the recovery, the self-pity... It definitely wasn't pretty, but it led me to a place where I am more committed to LIVING than ever before. I learned a lot about myself over the past year--some bad, some good. I learned that I am stubborn and I tend to run from problems. I learned that pain's got nothin' on me--I can take more than I ever thought possible. I learned that what you DO is much more important than how you FEEL. Yeah, I learned a lot.

Wnen I started this entry, I wanted to describe the first day of my 21-day project (I pledged to work on my novel for an hour a day). I was writing about how I was torn between starting a new project or going back to one of the three, count ‘em–THREE, unfinished projects that are gathering electronic dust in my computer. The perfectionist in me really wanted to finish those projects, but in the end, I decided that choosing the new idea I was more enthusiastic about would maximize my chances at success. My reasoning was that excercises like this require willpower and self-discipline (which are kind of like mental muscles) and, over the past year, I recognized that my mental muscles had grown flabby and weak. This is because I spent most of the past 365 days feeling sorry for myself and being self-destructive.

Last year was unbelievably hard. In January 2007, at my mother’s urging, I took the test for the breast cancer gene. Every female relative on my mother’s side of the family has had breast cancer at least once, and my mom has had it four times. Her mother died from it when my mom was 13. As you might imagine, it's an emotional subject. As my doctors predicted and I expected, I tested positive. Because of the early age of onset in my family history, they recommended that I undergo a double masectomy--IMMEDIATELY. I stuck my head in the sand and refused to discuss the matter for six months. My mother would cry and beg me to consider it. All I'd say was, "But I don't HAVE cancer."

Then, I got engaged in May. My fiance convinced me to see an oncologist--he told me that he wanted to be with me, but he needed me to care as much about my life as he did. After getting a second and third opinion (I REALLY didn’t want to believe it), I decided to go forward with the surgery. I had a double masectomy on July 13 (Friday the 13th–can you believe it?).

I left the hospital with a morphine pump installed in my chest and tubes from the surgical drains poking out of my sides. I felt like a disgusting, alien, unlovable freak. My fiance had to change my bandages and empty the drains. It was awful, but at least I had the painkillers, right? Ha. Funny story. It turns out that I'm allergic to opiates and NSAIDs (ibuprofen, aleve, etc.). Good one, God. I had an allergic reaction that left me with angioedema (swollen hands, feet, lips, and eyes) and urticaria (hives). I was in the hospital for ANOTHER three days and went home breastless, itching, covered in spots, swollen, and unable to take ANYTHING for the pain.

Man, did I ever feel sorry for myself.

Once I had recovered from the masectomy, I had the reconstruction in September. Yep, I had silicon implants wedged under my chest muscles with no fancy painkillers to make things better. All I had was Tylenol and muscle relaxers and white knuckles. My self-pity swelled to epic proportions. The two and a half months from the masectomy through the reconstruction were, without a doubt, the worst months of my life.

As I said, I was feeling deeply sorry for myself. Intellectually, I knew that I was lucky to great insurance, wonderful doctors, an amazing fiance, supportive family and friends, and access to a surgery that would prevent me from ever having to deal with the hell of breast cancer. But I also knew that I was 29 years old and having my breasts removed a few months before getting married. I knew I will never, ever breastfeed a baby. I knew I was losing an integral part of my femininity. I knew that it hurt all the time and there was nothing I could do about it. I knew that it SUCKED.

This led me down a path I never want to travel again–the path of self-pity, rationalization, and self-indulgence. I felt like I DESERVED to have it easy for a while. I quit working out, stopped eating, started smoking the occasional cigarette and drinking more wine, and withdrew from my family and friends. Maybe worst of all, I stopped WRITING. I gave up on my dream--just let it go. Why? Because I’d been through a LOT, damn it, and I wanted a f*cking break for once. I shouldn't HAVE to work for anything--not after what I'd been through. I just wanted to escape, to wallow in my misery–thank you very much.

Did it make me happy? No. Numb? Yes. But happy? No. I didn't snap out of it until a good friend told me that I was acting selfish and entitled and ungrateful, and that if I kept it up, I was going to lose everything--including my fiance. That was the wakeup call I needed. I turned things around, got married in December, and have come out of all this with a renewed determination to appreciate the blessings in my life. I feel better, happier, stronger, and more self-confident now that I ever have.

Looking back, I wish I could tell six-months-ago Jen that what she actually deserved was good health, support from family and friends, and the exhiliration of pursuing a life’s dream. Like I said, I didn’t start out intending to write about this, but it feels good and I'm glad I did. And I guess what I’m trying to get across is that, yeah–life sucks sometimes. And it seems like the first things we drop when life gets tough are our dreams. Don’t do that–put them first no matter what else comes your way. You won’t regret it.

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But I don't HAVE cancer!