It's been a year.

Yes, yes, I know.  I'm sure you readers thought I jumped off the face of the planet, however, I did not.

My husband has had some majorly serious health issues for the past year, which has more than kept me busy since I'm his primary caregiver, so I definitely have less time to blog.

Since my life has definitely taken a different turn, so I'm not going to continue with this blog any longer.  That said, there's some interesting things to read here, so I will leave this up for the sake of posterity, I suppose.

I wish you all the best.

The One and Only Horse Doovers

Critical of "awareness," of course I am!

Awareness.  Who fucking needs it?  

Those who haven't pranced their way through CancerLand certainly know what a pink ribbon means, possibly even know someone else whose life has been affected by that dreaded C word.  (No, not THAT C word.  I can easily type out the words cock and cunt without referring to them as a "C" word.)

Those of us who have taken our steps through CancerLand, as The Cancer Curmudgeon puts it, have all the awareness we could ever ponder having.

How would we or how could we forget? 

We are scarred. 

We have been poisoned with chemo and/or radiated, both of which cause residual collateral damage to our bodies and minds. 

Some days are better than others, but then some are not. 

Those are the days that I get out of breath walking through the house, courtesy of cardiotoxic herceptin. 

Those are the days when I still throw up after trying to eat because of how sick I was during chemo, that now my esophagus and stomach get out of sync when trying to process food as I'm eating, so it doesn't go anywhere but back up--this is years after the last dose of chemo I was poisoned with. 

Those are the days when my arms are excruciating from lymphedema and as awesome as my sleeves are, they only help minimally. 

Those are the days when my scars on my chest hurt badly.  By badly, I mean imagine taking rebar, cutting it into two equal pieces of a foot long each, strapping it to your upper chest vertically, and then having someone slam a baseball bat into that rebar repeatedly. 

My skin is no longer normal.  If I even look at paper the wrong way, I have multiple paper cuts.  This is coming from someone who used to do yard work for hours bare handed, and only occasionally needed gloves.  I loved the feel of dirt on my hands.  Now, I'm grateful to have the opportunity to have horse dirt on my hands, mud, and horse poop.

Days where the neuropathy is so bad in my feet that I'm afraid to walk across the floor because I'm not sure I won't fall on my face and break something. 

Days where the nerve damage from a shitty surgery has fucked up my upper chest, arms, and even around toward my back so badly that bumping into a door frame or wall can cause me to literally wind up on my knees sucking in air so I don't throw up or pass out.

Days where my brain works better than others.  CICI (Chemo Induced Cognitive Impairment) is real, let me fucking assure you.  My phone, tablet, and laptop are all synced now for keeping the calendar updated all the time.  You may not think this is a big deal, but for someone who formerly had a borderline eidetic memory when it came to names, addresses, and numbers, I cannot tell you how devastating this actually is, especially when I had enough memory for detail that I could once write nearly fifty pages of fiction a day.  There are times when I can attempt to articulate something, either verbally or written, know what's in my head, what it is I want to attempt explaining and yet fail epically with what I'm trying to say.

Recipes, I could recite and write down recipes for days.  I'm lucky if I can remember a recipe from one week to the next if I want to repeat making it or share it with someone. Now, I struggle to write my name because of the nerve damage and messed up/lack of entire muscle control that no physical therapy could ever fix.  Filling out a check for something makes me want to to violent things with the pen and checkbook because my manual dexterity for writing is gone.  My handwriting and even printing look completely different from what they were five years ago.

Fatigue that's so bad, I literally can't move some days for hours on end. 

There's probably more I could list, but I'm probably forgetting it and will likely think of it at two o'clock in the morning when the laptop isn't on.

I've had to learn to prioritize and give myself time to adjust and function.  If I volunteer on a Monday, I've learned not to have much of anything planned for the next day.  If something absolutely cannot be avoided the next day, then I've learned to appreciate being able to utilize the slow cooker to have one less thing to really deal with on Tuesday and to try to avoid having anything that has to really be done on Wednesday, other than the usual stuff.  For me, slowing down isn't something I've ever really had to do, I accomplished things, did things, and now, I have to stop and think, look at my phone, try to figure out what I can manage and when I can manage it.  It bothers me that I can no longer do things at the rate I once did them.

You're probably sitting there thinking to yourself, "But Horse Doovers, at least you're alive!"  Well, yeah, I'm alive, but at what cost to my body, mind, functionality, and having to logic out what I can and cannot do?

My goals right now are to remain alive long enough to see my youngest graduate from high school, which is next year.  Beyond that, my goal is to get a degree and try to get into oncology counseling.  I'm already doing that with the private support group I maintain.  Somehow, some way, I want to get back into actual horseback riding.  I don't care if it's once a week or once a month, I just want to be able to ride again.  If I could figure out a way to incorporate the oncology counseling and equids, that would be even better.

Another goal is to bring information to doctors about how neglected oncology survivors feel after they've traipsed through CancerLand as a patient advocate/doctor educator.  Yet another goal is to continue to add my voice to those of the metsters in raising as much hell as possible for an actual cure, not more awareness because it hurts my heart to see post about mesters who have bad news because of a lack of an actual cure, or even worse, lost their lives because a cure is needed.  It hurts my brain to know that money is valued so highly above the lives of these women and men who are forever gone from their families and friends, so I, too, will raise hell as long as I possibly can because any death from cancer is one death too many.

All of these goals are equally important.  All of these goals are equally do-able.

Awareness for those of us who have been to CancerLand is every fucking day.  

Less "awareness" in terms of don't talk about it to make more people aware, be about it and do, for accomplishment.

Have I mentioned this?

Nope, don't think I have.

I have found the ultimate in hair and skin care products.  No, I'm not selling them, no, I'm not being reimbursed in any manner for saying I use these particular products, yes, I almost wish I was.

Shea Moisture.  Yes, these products meet all of the strict requirements that I wanted and needed, as well as being affordable, without sacrificing product quality.

They have a product line for every hair and skin type, and are reasonably priced, which is amazing.

Everything is natural and organic, sustainably and responsibly grown, fair trade, and there's no nasty stuff I try to avoid in the products I use, they do clearly list what isn't included in their products, and best of all, no animal testing!

Please give them a look and some consideration when purchasing your next go-round of hair and/or skin products.  This stuff is amazing and will make you feel like you're getting a spa day at home for yourself.  From me, that means something since I've never had a spa day, other than what I've done for myself.

Their products are available for purchase on their site, and they also have a list of retailers who have things available locally.  The prices are pretty consistent, so there's no much higher price at one store over another, although some stores will have a BOHO (buy one, get one half off), which is a great way to acquire matching products, like a shampoo with a conditioner.

big pharma

You know what? Anyone with three functioning brain cells should be fucking terrified of the big pharma corruption. I had never messed with stuff like that, illegal or legal, because I saw first hand as a kid what that shit does to people. Because of that, I had no interest in anything, it was even rare for me to take an acetaminophen for even a headache. It was my  husband who told me that if I had a headache and I took some acetaminophen for it, it didn't mean I'd become an addict. So from him, I learned that. 

Fast forward to me getting diagnosed with stupid fucking cancer. The piles of prescriptions I had shoved at me hand over fist would appall damn near anyone. It was like a fucking candy store for addicts, except I refused to take any of that shit because of side effects, they were psychotropics, impaired beyond impairment, highly addictive, fuck that, cancer is enough of a shit storm without all the extra problems the drugs I was being told to take.  (That said, if someone needs that stuff and feels as if they are able to function better or that stuff helps them, I'm certainly not going to give them shit about it.)

I had no idea how bad it actually was until I was diagnosed. Too many people make too much fucking money off big pharma meds for very many people to want cannabis to be a valid, legal option for healthcare--in other words, I believe that's greed and corruption preventing legalization in many states.  

It was unreal the damage the chemo drugs did to my body.  Maybe I should turn that into a blog post just to inform people how bad it really is.

The following is a list of the vile big pharma poisons I was subjected to for a year and I spent that entire year of my life very nearly dead, and no, I'm not exaggerating.

TCH= taxol / carboplatin / trastuzumab 

TH= taxol / trastuzumab

CMF= cyclophosphamide / methotrexate / fluourouracil / trastuzumab

Check out the side effects sometime.  You may be appalled and surprised at the same time.

Who is Horse Doovers?

Horse Doovers happens to be me.  I am Horse Doovers.  (Proof of this would be an example of yesterday.  I was driving across the parking lot of the school where I volunteer and hear a football player bellow at me "HORSE DOOVERS!" with all the enthusiasm of, well, a high school football player who is friends with the youngest son.)

Anyway, here's a list of my qualifications and life experience so you can better know who I am.

I have taken care of the growing, care, and feeding of three sons, successfully raising them to be decent young men with honor and integrity. 

This also includes over 70,000 diapers changed, over 17,000 loads of laundry done, over 75,000 meals cooked; successful nurturing and taking care of sick children, overseeing completion of homework, volunteering countless hours at schools, arranging social interactions, doctor, dentist, and eye appointments, countless miles driven, and mediating arguments between brothers, all while managing to stay sane.  (Yes, I did the math for the diapers, laundry, and cooking because I wanted to know exactly how much I've accomplished with that over the twenty five years I've been married, although I did that math when I'd been married twenty five years, but a few weeks ago, hit twenty six years of marriage.)

I also have experience with freelance editing, writing, and love animals and coffee equally, and just as much as I love coffee, I fucking hate cancer because it wrecked my life.

Now you readers have a better idea of what I do with my time when I'm not doing SMS (Social Media Shit) on here.

You know you live in Oklahoma when--

You're driving through the middle of town and a passel of deer prance in front of the vehicle you're driving.

The same thing happens again a few days later.

You run across people who have braids down to their knees.

You find out Oklahoma is now the earthquake capital of the Lower 48 states.

(Note:  This will be a floaty post that will pop up whenever those Oklahoma things happens to me.)

2015 is gone.

Yes, 2015 is going and with it, earlier in the month of December, Carolyn.  It made my brain hurt to try to process that I won't see her posting anything on her blog now, or pictures of her beloved family that she loved and adored so much.  It made my heart hurt to know I won't see those things from her, it made my heart hurt to know that there are people in the world who value money over her life and the countless lives of others who have cancer that goes mets by not putting money into research to help people like Carolyn.

Good bye, 2015.  

Hello, 2016.  I hope you're far better and more improved in every way possible than what 2015 was.

I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

It finally happened.

One of my Cancer Bitches with mets has gone to hospice.

While sitting here crying, I tried to thank her for her kindness and friendship to me.  I'm afraid my attempt was very inept, though.

Carolyn,

Cancer hasn't won. You know why? Because I when met you and The Cancer Curmudgeon, you were both the only two women who didn't try to spew fake garbage at me and make me feel even worse about the train wreck cancer threw into my life that still hasn't left. Of all the people I tried to reach out to years ago, you and The Cancer Curmudgeon were the only two who accepted me where I was, how I felt and let me know it was okay to be where I was when I was there. That is why cancer hasn't won. You two were my original cancer bitches before there were cancer bitches because you were both willing to stick to saying it sucked and not be fake about the shit that cancer is. You gave me acceptance, and in turn, I hope to give that to others and because of that, I want to say thank you. You and Cancer Curmudgeon taught me that it's okay to reach out and someone will eventually be there, it's just a matter of finding the correct person who will understand unconditionally; I want to be able to give that to others. Thank you for your kindness to me. It means more to me than you will ever know because there's not really a way to express it adequately and for that, I am sorry.

Even though we never met in real life, I am and always will be proud to speak of your kindness to me. You have my deepest gratitude and appreciation. (And thank you, Julie.)(Julie is the person who will hopefully convey my sentiments to Carolyn.)

Much love and many hugs.

Me

Bet you thought I deserted the blog.

But guess what?  I didn't.  I happened to not be able to find my password.  Why?  Because my brain is Swiss cheese now, thanks to the year of chemo poison.

I figured out what to do.  I made a document with my passwords so this doesn't happen again because I know you people were wondering where the hell I was.

Here I am.

Flirting with the Dark--

Because it's not Halloween, I thought I'd do a post that's Halloween related just for giggles.

Are You Flirting with the Dark; Or, Are You A Closet Rebel?

Vampires.

We all know what they are on the surface.

But come a little closer and let’s delve a little deeper.  Step behind the dark veil and embrace the thoughts in the back of your mind.  You know, the ones which some people rarely indulge.

Vampires are a safe plaything, if you will.  They allow just about anyone to take a walk on the dark side or flirt with it, even if only for an hour or two via a book, tv series, or movie.

What do vampires represent?  Coming out into the darkness.  Pure, hot lust.  Need.

Who doesn't have needs?  

When I look at a vampires, I don't see something creepy-scary- must-go-stabbity-with-a-big-sharp-piece-of-wood creature in a Buffy kind of way.  I see pure, primal need and I think on some level, that sort of thing appeals to people, otherwise the stories, the books, the tv shows and movies wouldn't continue.  (Supernatural, True Blood, Underworld, Steve Barton’s Graf Von Krolock from Dance of the Vampires, anyone?)

In a way, it is darkness versus light.  Most people want to believe they are safe in the light, be it figurative or literal.  They want to believe they can watch such things as vampires in a movie or read about them in a story and then when it's over, it's over.  They can put it away or walk away from it and that makes them safe, back in the light, so to speak.  But I think that level of participation by either reading or watching lets them connect with the things a vampire represents—the darkness, the lust, the need.  (And it doesn’t even have to be October 31st for that to happen.)

It's something they can't or won't further acknowledge within themselves, so they loosely connect through the media which they’ve chosen and then they can safely walk away from it, having had a very safe flirt with the dark.


And then I think for some, that lingers, making them a closet rebel because deep inside, even just a little, they sometimes wish to either be that vampire or be the one to sate that need.

Zomato, zomato and multiple linkage.

Apparently, the Urban Spoon site is no longer the Urban Spoon site and is now Zomato. We'll see how this goes with the food review thing I have going on there.  JS

My friend, Beth over at The Cult of Perfect Motherhood, posted something which I believe you, the readers, should take a look at.  It's about why she hates the pink ribbon culture and it's a damn good read.

Living With Cancer:  Collateral Damage by Susan Gubar is also an excellent read.  She talks about even though treatment may end, side effects don't always end and many are impairing.  Personally, I can cite the fucking lymphedema that flares up on occasion and makes things difficult for me and yet for many others, it's absolute fucking torture they have to live with day in and day out because it's not curable and it's not controllable for them.

I don't know how on earth I've missed Shittytittiebangbang, but I did.  Now that I've found her, I wanted to share with you all.

A molecular biologist explains how THC completely kills cancer, so maybe we'll eventually see what comes of that, like maybe more studies and it can finally be offered as a valid option in the treatment of cancer and other vile illnesses that wreck people's lives, bodies, and health.

And in other important linkage I'm sharing today, The Realm of Caring is rocking the news and education related to cannabis in the healthcare industry.

Coping with Fear of Recurrence is actually somewhat helpful in content.  I admit I was surprised when I read it because it came across as helpful in a good way.

Breaking Breast Cancer has a great post about recon related ink.

Cancer--Until You've Had It, You Don't Get It.  That pretty much says it all, I think.

What is the Real Battle Here? is another one that's an excellent read.

Breast Cancer Awareness?  Let's Get Real from The Accidental Amazon is, of course, a great read.

From JAMA Oncology (Journal of the American Medical Association) is Losing the Battle With Cancer and I think it looks like they're finally starting to comprehend just exactly what a shit storm a cancer diagnosis actually is for so many patients.

I may not post much for the month of October because there's just so much that needs to be said and I'd never be able to say it all.  JS  

The beginning of September.

Last week, I got my teeth cleaned at the dentist. The hygienist who does that is so patient with me. I have a super hyper gag reflex now because of all the throwing up I did during the year of chemo. She commented on my lymphedema sleeve, so I told her all about that. She's so nice, her mom has had breast cancer, so she actually understands me being such a flake about stuff now, but I was able to get my teeth cleaned without going into panic mode because she kept nose booping me. The dentist is a cute little redhead who has a son a few years behind the youngest monkey in school and in the same district, so we always talk football, so all of that actually went well. They love it when I come in because they want to know what I'm cooking. (Wait until I mention I cooked a smoked turkey breast in the slow cooker--I bet they haven't thought of that one yet.) The other dentist is an older guy who always speaks to me, even though I'm not technically his patient.

Anyway, yesterday, I went to the oncologist by myself. (This is a bfd for me after the cancer related ptsd thing.) I got up and baked and took at least three dozen cookies for the onc. (Basically, I went by myself because the husband lost five weeks of paid vacation when he was laid off from the other job, so now he doesn't have time he can take off for this sort of thing.)

When the oncologist came into the exam room where I was, he sat down and asked me what was going on, so I told I was in for a visit so he could see I was still as mean as ever. He said if I wasn't still mean as ever, he'd be concerned about me.

I told him I was still taking the turmeric, but wanted to know if my knees were always going to scream at me if I tried going up or down stairs or was I stuck with that. He told me I'm stuck with that.

Then I told him about the porcine thyroid supplement I'd been taking and handed over the bottle. I told him I figured he either wouldn't object or he wouldn't like me taking it. He said if it worked for me, he doesn't have a problem with it. (This stuff isn't FDA approved, but he's okay with me taking it in spite of that because it makes my energy levels improve, go figure.)

I showed him my lympedema sleeve from Solidea Medical and told him it was so much more comfortable than the other products out there. I told him I need the occasional manual drainage done on my arm but the way the laws are written in this state and with the insurance, I can't have that done because the state and insurance dictate that I be put on an anctual physical therapy regimen to go with the drainage, even though I don't need physical therapy, which is frustrating because I only need the manual drainage when my arm flares up and that could be once every six weeks or once every six months, I never know. He told me that he couldn't do anything about the hoops the state and insurance want me to jump through, although if I could find a massage place that does "light" lymph drainage work, I could try that, but the insurance wouldn't cover it.

At that point, I mentioned that the kinesio taping did quite well for pain control and that my neighbor will tape my arm on occasion and that I can easily lose an inch from my upper arm within about twelve hours if she tapes me and that taping usually lasts three to four days. He said he'd seen that but he didn't know anything about it and since I was telling him about it, he was going to look it up and research it further. Then he told me I should start a breast cancer consulting business or something along those lines since I know so much. I told him I wasn't really qualified to do something like that and that's when he said that no matter how much the medical profession knows, they don't know what it's like to be the patient and that I do know a lot.

That's when I told him I had a group called Cancer Bitches and it was pretty much a worldwide group and he thought that was interesting.

I explained to him about the still throwing up on occasion thing that I still blame on chemo. I was finally able to articulate to him exactly what happens and said if he wanted me to go see a gastroenterologist, I would. I told him that sometimes when I start eating, I feel the top of my stomach knot up and that it's like my esophagus and stomach are on two different movements or are being uncoordinated together at the same time separately. When that happens, I take a fourth of a phenergan and if that helps, great, I keep eating. If it doesn't, I try another fourth of one to make a total of a half of one and then I can literally feel both the esophagus and my stomach relax and feel normal again. He asked me if I ever take a whole one and I started laughing and said "Sir, if I took a whole one, I'd be comatose for about six hours." He asked me if that worked for me, taking the phenergan that way and I said pretty much, so he told me that if that works for me, he has no objection to it and would I like to have more phenergan. I handed the bottle over and asked if that was okay, I wasn't dealing phenergan. He looked at the label and said he didn't think I was doing anything like that at all since the label on the bottle was over two years old, then he monkeyed around with the computer and sent in a refill to the pharmacy electronically.

We moved on to the topic of a PET scan, if that would be beneficial or not at this point since I'm coming up on four years from surgery in January. He said at one point, the risks of scans are not any longer outweighed by the benefits, so if I want a scan, he would order one for me once the health savings account total rolled over to an amount that would cover payment for the scan, or if I didn't want one, that was fine too, he was leaving that up to me. If, at any point, I feel like there's some sort of problem, he would, of course, order a scan. (Not unreasonable, I think.)

While he's wanted to see me once every three months and get me scanned once every six months, I've really stretched the time out because of the stress of anything medical related causes me. After poking and prodding on me here and there, he said he could confidently say I'm still NED and that I could come in once every six months now, but if I was going to keep bringing cookies to him, then maybe he should stick with the once every three month schedule to keep getting cookies more often.

We talked about a few more things, nothing major, but I pointed out that I'd come in by myself. He said please give his regards to my husband and I said I would. I told him I'd even managed to sleep a little bit. He said he understood this was a terrifying thing and it always would be and that people on his side of things just don't understand it like someone like me or other patients would. (Holy fuck, I'm going to try to find the best white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie recipe for this man because I think he actually gets it and really deserves it.)

I thanked him and left, feeling like I could breathe again, and not have that borderline tunnel vision, can't breathe thing going on. (I only dropped the F bomb once, ladies.)
Ran home, let the dog out, crated him again since he's a bratlet and not trustworthy to be left loose in the house while people are gone, and then went to the eye doctor. I've seen him several times because Football Monkey needed an eye exam and glasses, but I liked him and since I was somewhat familiar with him, I was okay with getting my eyes examined by him. He's great because he explains everything very well and is a personable guy with a pic of his grandkids on the wall. They call him Opa, which he mentioned is German for grandfather. I guess I'll wind up going next week to pick out bifocals. (He said I could try a higher number on the over the counter reader glasses I've been wearing, or I could get a prescription for reader glasses from him, or I could go ahead and get a prescription for bifocals since I'm slightly astigmatic, it was up to me and he'd go along with whatever I wanted to do.)

Went by to speak with the horse person about an exchange of work for the occasional riding lesson and am waiting to hear back from her about that.

To scar pic or not to scar pic? That is the question.

And here is my answer and why.

I didn't have the opportunity to find out about what other cancer patients looked like after surgery. The entire time I was doing chemo for the first six months, the word lumpectomy was spoken, reinforced, emphasized, so much so, that while the remote possibility of a mastectomy had crossed my mind, the health care people were saying lumpectomy the whole time, so of course, *I* didn't know why the hell a mastectomy had even crossed my mind once or twice. They knew what they were doing, they knew what they were talking about. They dealt with this shit every day. After all, I was *just* the patient who didn't know anything. 

Imagine my shock when I went in after the first half of chemo and was told "Time to schedule your mastectomy." like it was no big deal. I wasn't given an option, there was no actual discussion of it. Just this is what is going to happen next. Within a week, I was in to see a surgeon and things went from mastectomy to my saying (with the nurse telling me afterward the insurance would, indeed, cover a bilateral) that I would not do this again and stay sane, take them both.

As sick as I had been, as sick as I was, I just didn't have time to mentally process going from lumpectomy to mastectomy, to bilateral mastectomy. Imagine my disgust when I was told upon waking up that "nothing had been found, although four of twelve (or sixteen, honestly cannot recall at this point) nodes had been positive." Why, then, had a bilateral mastectomy been done on me, and not a lumpectomy? Why was it both ways? Some lymph nodes were positive and yet there was "nothing" in my breast? What the fuck?  Nobody would (or could) explain this.

As soon as I finished out the second six months of chemo, I relocated because of my husband accepting employment in another state. As I slowly started to recover from the ravages of what had been done to me, physically, mentally, emotionally, I began to find other women like me. Some who had had reconstruction, some who had not. Others were in the process of deciding.

In any case, I decided to start putting up pictures of my scars, generally for the month of October, that was my profile picture. I wanted people to see the reality of breast cancer, a reality that I really didn't get to find out until after it had happened to me. I still fully believe that had I seen more images of other women who looked similar to what I did BEFORE my amputations, I'd have been far more accepting of my body and what it might or would look like.  I think, I believe, I KNOW I would have processed it far better on several levels. 

Instead, I was left on my own to cope and this is such a shit storm to cope with, there's just no other way to put it. It's not like we get owner's manuals for our bodies afterward. Before diagnosis, there is "normal" and afterward, there is no across the board normal, because everything is so varied, age of diagnosis, reason--genetics, hormones, etc./lack of reason, kind diagnosed with, treatments, etc., that I don't believe anyone really, until recently, wanted to try to figure out what to do afterward to help; after all, I'm still of an age where, back in the day, this was an "old woman's disease" and it wasn't talked about.  It wasn't ever a topic of discussion for me until I was in my late 30's and an online acquaintance in another state was diagnosed.  I think this is where social media begins to come into this as a factor.  Now we're able to find and help each other.

Then there's the dumb asses who don't want to see the reality of breast cancer. There's the people who give public lip service, like one person I had to block. She would "cheer me on" publicly when I would be so "brave, putting up scar pictures" and yet she would castigate me in private messages, telling me that nobody but my husband and sons should see my scars, that it should be kept private. 

I politely thanked her for her messages and decided to tell her that I was going to keep saying and doing what I was for others to know they weren't alone. She told me I was evil when I politely told her that since she couldn't be nice, I was unfriending her. Her telling me I was evil was what put me from the unfriending mode into the block mode and I blocked her ass. Who the fuck needs that? I certainly don't. Not when I was getting tons of messages from people, other women, THANKING me for what I was doing because it was the right thing. One person saying I am a horrible person doing that, as opposed to probably close to hundreds (now) telling me that I'm doing what needs to be done? Yeah, I still believe that giving that one person the block was definitely the right thing to do. 

So, bottom line is, if by sharing my ugly ass scar pics will keep just one woman, or even a man, since men can get breast cancer as well, from having such a hard time processing what their body may potentially look like, well, then fuck yeah, I'm going to keep sharing and whoever doesn't like it can go fuck themselves. Because you know, I'm a bitch that way now and if that makes me a bitch with an attitude, then yes, I've got bitchitude and I dgaf.  JS

Since most of my readers are in the U.S.--

I decided not to adapt Britglish to my repertoire of spelling.  

*waves to Alaskan readers*  Yes, I see you people lurking up there with my bright green graph of readers illustration.  I'd have thought you were all out hunting and fishing, but maybe you reserve more reading time for when it's cold out, yes?

Anyway, regardless of what you Alaskan readers are doing, it's nice to have you reading.

Here's some fabulous linkage to share with you today.

Please Put That Can of Soup Down and Put Your Bra Back On is very well stated by Leisha, over at Cancer In My Thirties.  Yes, it's an older post, although it's put together in a way that is applicable at any time of the year.

I am Not Your Hero is from The Geeky Nimrod.  I read this and while it's true that I fucking hate being called any of the things he mentioned, like hero, strong, brave, etc., it annoys me because all I did was survive chemo.  Well, my body sort of survived, it broke my fucking brain and quality of life.  To my way of thinking, for anyone diagnosed with cancer to be called a hero, blah blah blah, they also have the very real possibility of mets, so if someone winds up with mets, does that make them any less than a "hero," in that case?  I don't think it does and it's insulting to them because it implies they didn't do all the "right" stuff to stay a "hero" for the cancer to have stayed gone.  

That said, if someone wants to stand up and say they survived cancer and that it makes them a hero, well, good for them, but you know what?  I have yet to find anyone who has had cancer or who is currently currently dealing with it who does that.  "Look at me, I'm so wonderful, I had/have cancer and I'm win automatic hero status because of it."  Nope, that's not happening with anyone I've seen/heard/run into.  It's the non-cancer people who do it to us, go fucking figure.

Cancer Curmudgeon shared this and I wanted to toss it up here for you people to watch.  Inspiration porn and the objectification of disability:  Stella Young at TEDxSydney 2014. This was awesome to watch and if you change out the word disability with the word cancer patient, well, boom, there you go.  It's definitely applicable to the whole hero/shero/rock star/inspiration/etc. blah blah blah factor that so many of us find ourselves contending with on a regular basis.

Just wanted to toss those out for you.

What have I been into?

Two exceptionally good hair days and a fabulous day with makeup in the past week, which is very rare for me.  (Thank you, Physician's Formula in buff beige.  This has fixed the steroid blush which has been fucking lingering for three years after chemo so bad that I haven't been able to correct it at all up to this point, so yay for that.) 

Lots of football time.  Lots and lots of it.  

Would like more horse time, but it's been so damn hot, it's unreal.  We had a cloud cover and some rain today, though, so that's okay.  We needed some rain.

Way overdid on the cleaning binge yesterday.  I rearranged the laundry room except the washer and dryer, tidied up the coat closet, (which is small, so I turned that into a linen closet with a cloth shoe closet organizer), managed to wrangle the laundry, clean the bathrooms, and do some other assorted stuff around here. 

There's an outstanding post over here at Cancer Curmudgeon's blog.  She's always incredibly articulate and solidly nails exceptional commentary about the stuff those of us who have been diagnosed have to contend with.  Her fearless sharing makes me feel incredibly pleased to say how awesome she is. 

Today was...interesting.  I wind up doing stuff where I'm around other people.  Consistently, I find that kids of any age have far less of an issue with how I look than adults.  Actually, I'd have to say across the board, kids have zero issue with it.  Adults, well yeah, let's just say that they seem to have problems with it and those who do fail epically at hiding it.  Their fucking problem, though, not mine.  (Although this is why horses are so awesome.  They don't care what I do or don't look like.)

Jeggings people, they're a bad idea.  This so needs to end already.  I don't care what size someone is or isn't, these jegging things should be put on a rocket and launched out past Pluto and forgotten about.

I'm going to take my bitchtastic self in there and make toothpaste now because my toothpaste is so wonderful.

So, this week is...this week, with links.

Friday of last week, barn time.  I gave the pony a manly war braid thing to get his mane pulled up off his neck because it's so long and thick.

Saturday, found out there's a lady who boards her horses at the small horse farm around the corner.  She does Very Reasonably Priced Lessons, as in VERY reasonably priced.  Score!

Sunday, laundry.

Monday, picked up trash along the fence line at the small horse farm around the corner and spoke with the lady who does reasonably priced lessons and handed out carrot bites.  Score!  

Tuesday, went to small show barn and had some social time with some of the show horses.  With the heat being as bad as it is, grooming is more of a challenge than when it's cooler, so I only managed to get one horse groomed well before I needed to leave to run some errands and pick up Football Monkey.  Still a score.

Today, well, what can I say about today?  It was strange.  Some of the people I know online have had metsters they knew who died earlier this week.  It fucking sucks.  I fucking hate it for them.  This disease fucking wrecks lives.  I also had to ponder an NCBI release of information regarding HER2+ and HER2- cancers.  Evidently, there isn't long term tracking done, so the statistics are fucked regarding how those like me are actually doing long term.  I also found out that regarding mets, what is of most concern for me is the potential of mets to my liver and brain for twelve fucking years.  Twelve.  And yes, that's going according to the statistics presented.  (Where people pull the "magic" five years out of their asses as a "safety" zone regarding HER2 cancers, I have no fucking clue, but it pisses me off.  I want to print this shit out and put it under my onc's nose and tell him I'm not stupid and that I don't appreciate not being told about this stuff.  To be fair, he's not the one who was such a dill hole to me when I did chemo, but at the same time, I'll never really trust him because he's a doctor and he probably is under the grossly mistaken impression/opinion that I was already "informed" about this stuff when I was in chemo, which I was not.)

This is a lovely post about the Mythical Cancer Warrior.  The phrase, "Mythical Cancer Warrior" reminds me of the typical over done trope (perspective) about cancer  by the non-cancer civilians.  I greatly appreciated reading this post and wanted to share it here, since my readership seems to have picked up.

I Can Pretend by the Cancer Curmudgeon and the reality of this shit.  She so articulately states what so many of us are thinking/encountering at any give time when dealing with the shit storm that cancer is.

And here's how a Molecular Biologist explains how THC kills cancer.  Gosh, you'd think using something like that to cure cancer without fucking up people's lives and wrecking their health would be, oh, I don't know, criminal, or something.  JS

In spite of the heat, today definitely falls into the category of amazing barn time.  While I managed to groom only one horse, I had the amazing experience of being on the receiving end of not one, but two hugs from two different horses.  If any of you readers are familiar with the body language of horses, you'll know that their noses are super personal space for them.  They explore with their noses.  I eat peppermints like a fiend anytime I'm around horses and once they are interested in me, I'll exhale slowly from my mouth and let them smell the peppermint.  (Yes, horses like peppermints.  I have yet to have this fail me.)

My action is rewarded with perky happy forward ears and great interest in whatever it is I'm going to do--comb, brush, and/or braid.  I visited with one horse who I wasn't going to groom today and was standing outside his stall.  He had poked his head out of the stall to say hi to me, so I started scratching his neck.  He straightened it and leaned, so I kept scratching and moved to the other side.  He leaned on me, so I reached up around both sides of his neck as high as I could get and managed to find his happy spot on his poll, up on his neck on behind his ears.  If he was a cat, he would have gone into hyper purring mode.  He rested his head on my shoulder, the full weight of it and even pulled me a bit closer.  This is like a horse hug, for lack of a better way to put it.  I felt so privileged to have gotten that sort of acknowledgement from him.  (And for continuity's sake; Score!)

I moved along to the leggy bay mare and brushed her, worked on tidying up her wild mane, and didn't even mess with her tail.  I need to work on stepping up my game on the mane and tail detangler.  The winter/spring formula is NOT going to work during the summer.  I'm thinking aloe pureed with distilled water, white vinegar, and a couple of other things should potentially work.

There was one horse I hadn't worked on last week or earlier this week, so I tackled sorting out his mane and getting him groomed.  He leaned into the brush when I was brushing his neck, so I started scratching his neck in the same place, up on the poll.  That elicited a very soft, relaxed snort and he closed his eyes.  He sighed and leaned some more, so I went in for the ne plus ultra.  Both arms around the neck, scratching his poll, and I managed to be rewarded in the same manner.  The full head weight relaxed on my shoulder and that slight pull with the head to move me a little closer to him.  Score!  

I exited the stall and closed the door.  Then I asked him if he remembered "pretty neck" and he responded with arching his neck to show me that he did.  I told him he was a good, smart boy and was so pleasantly surprised because I hadn't asked him for "pretty neck" for several months.  He accidentally learned it back in the winter in maybe five minutes with no treats involved other than verbal praise and me petting his forehead as a reward for his effort.

Horses are amazing animals.  They are intelligent and it's so easy to understand why they are exceptional for therapy.  

Avoiding the scary chickens today?  Why yes, yes I did avoid the scary chickens.  Score!

Mostly unpacked, key word being mostly.

Yes, I know.  We've been officially moved for like six weeks now.  No, I'm not all the way mostly done done, as in the house is all neat and tidy and organized because I need a bookshelf for the books.  

The other day, I cooked a beef roast in the slow cooker with about twelve ounces of beer and it turned out rather well.

I decided it was time for some colcannon, or colcanon, if you prefer that spelling.  It was amazing, of course, and definitely one of my more favorite comfort foods.

Spent quality time with the monkeys when College Monkey was off work for two days in a row.  Best way to do that quality time thing?  Star Wars.  Yes, I raised them to be SW nerds.  It's a wonderful thing in the insanity of this day and age to be able to commune around the tv and discuss all the fun stuff that's SW related and speculate on the upcoming movies.

Football Monkey wanted to know who The Phantom Menace was.  I told him it was Jar Jar Binks.  He asked me if he was really supposed to believe that.  I said yes.  Jar Jar Binks was The Phantom Menace.

Anakin Skywalker is still a whiny bitch, always has been, always will be, except for Little Kid Anakin.  He was tolerable.  After watching the other SW movies (the originals) also, I can safely say that Luke definitely inherited that trait.  Even when the originals came out, I can definitely say that as warped as it may sound, I preferred Han to Luke, even though my cousin told me Han was "too old" for me to prefer.  I liked the idea of Han and Leia, the fangirl in me was so pleased to find out in the SWEU (INSERT GRATUITOUS SPOILER ALERT HERE) that they eventually got together.  Woot.  Han and Leia.  Awesome sauce!  (ETA:  I'm not a professional movie critic, I just like to make opinionated comments on my blog sometimes.  JS)

One of our cats resembles an Ewok.  I want a Chewbacca because then I could tell people I have a Sasquatch for a pet, even though I don't speak Shyriiwook.

On a weather related note, cooler weather is headed our way.  The geese are returning from Canada.  The Children of the Fur have been acting differently this week.  The Ewok looking cat has been super bouncily energetic, so that must mean cool weather is on the way.  This would be a good thing.  The black cat has also been on the spazzy side of energetic, so I'm thinking he will also appreciate the cooler weather.  (Now that said, keeping him out of the fireplace should be a challenge since he seems to like walking around the back of the fire screen.  Glass doors shopping at a home store, here I come, since I don't want the cat to injure himself.)

The amount of laundry I'm doing is down to one load every other day.  I'm not joking about this.  It's a glorious feeling!  The reason for that is A--ginormous washer.  B--it washes a load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  The dryer takes a few minutes longer to dry, but talk about the time I spend on laundry being minimized!  It's amazing!

So, the husband changed jobs.  Just when that was going on, I got a call from the oncology office and was told by the nurse "You have to have your appointment changed.  The doctor won't be in that week."  No, I don't HAVE to change my fucking appointment, because *I* never made the appointment to begin with, so yeah, ever so glad you decided to call me about it.  I have clearly and repeatedly stated I make my own appointments.  (If any of you readers have had a shit storm diagnosis like cancer or something devastatingly similar, you will appreciate making your own damn appointments for yourself because YOU know what's going on in your life at any given time and what your schedule/potential schedule is/could be.)  

The way it works for me is this way.  (And yes, this HAS been discussed with the oncologist, and was, in fact, his idea.)  I don't just randomly go in, see him, get orders for a scan handed to me, get get scanned, and then go back to him to get the results.  In regards to that, I think he's being reasonable, which I don't have a problem with.  Why pay for two office visits when the scan order can be faxed to whatever facility is doing the scan and then just pay for a single office visit to get the scan results from him?  Yay for the common sense factor of this oncologist--I do have an appreciation for that.  (No, that's not actual sarcasm, that's me being serious--I actually do appreciate him having discussed that with the husband and me.)

Not only that, with the job change came insurance changes, so I don't even know if the medical facility where my oncologist is takes this kind of insurance, if this insurance pays for the scans I'm supposed to have, and if the place that does the scans takes this kind of insurance.  (And I'm supposed to see the oncologist, according to what he said, once every three months.  I stretch it out closer to once every six months because I turn into this terrified, excessively stressed out insomniac who can't eat without getting sick any time this even comes up with a visit to the oncologist and/or scans.)  I know, right?  Like it's not stressful enough without having to deal with freaking insurance shit?  ZOMFG, already!

(To make it all much worse though, when the local office where my husband was employed was shut down, he lost five weeks of paid vacation.  That meant he could take off to go with me for scans and oncologist visits.  Now?  He has to work like holy fuck, a week to earn four hours of paid time off.  Now he won't be able to take off to go with me to get scanned or visit the oncologist.  I know you're probably thinking I should grow the fuck up and put on my big girl panties, but fuck, you know, any time there's a visit to the oncologist, once diagnosed, there's always the potential for Bad News.  No, that's not me looking to borrow trouble, that's just the fucking reality of a cancer diagnosis.  Once diagnosed, there's always the potential for it to return FOR ANYONE.)

I'm acquainted with some metsters and have communicated with some of them for around three and a half years now, and some are the #PINKISNOTACURE people, some aren't, but yes, I have a point to this, and that is mets.  How many of you have had it discussed with you when you were first diagnosed?  Like specifically something along the lines of, "You've been diagnosed with breast cancer.  Whatever is done to you to fix you, you need to understand there's always going to be a possibility of mets.  That is the reality of this vile disease."  

There was a discussion recently on my CB group about some things that aren't always discussed with patients.  Things like actually explaining the sort of breast cancer someone was diagnosed with, a prognosis, and...dare I say it?  Mets being a part of that discussion.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Mets.  It was certainly not discussed with me.  I'm not fucking making this shit up.

I was told the breast cancer I had was not hormone fed or driven, as some doctors say.  (I also wasn't told I would need a bilateral mastectomy done.  The entire fucking time, it was "Lumpectomy, lumpectomy, just a lumpectomy, nothing more.  Mastectomy won't be necessary, blah blah blah."  While I understood that a mastectomy might be necessary and the thought crossed my mind, everyone and their fucking brother said LUMPECTOMY.  That.  Was.  It.  

So, yeah, you can imagine the fucked-up-ness of my brain when the fucking oncologist said "Oh, I'll call the surgeon to schedule you for your mastectomy."  What the ever loving fuck all?!  Seriously?  A fucking mastectomy?  After how many months of you saying "just a lumpectomy" and nothing more?  FUCK.  So yeah, when I went to the surgeon, I said "Take them both, I will not fucking do this again and stay sane."  Yeah, I have the feeling he made me pay for the statement because he did a radical mastectomy on me.  I was lied to about that, also.  I was told it would be modified and only breast tissue would be removed.  I fucking woke up with nothing more than skin over ribs from a massive amputation on my entire chest.  Modified, my sarcastic ass.  Is it any fucking wonder I have fucking huge trust issues with anyone medical now?  (That said, Streak does have a friend who is a doctor and I'm okay with being around her because I've never seen her in doctor mode, I've only ever seen her in mom mode in tee shirts, blue jeans, and flip flops.  That, I'm totally okay with.)

Anyway, I was not given a "prognosis."  I was told if I did "treatment A" then I had an XYZ % chance of being alive in X amount of years.  If I did "treatment/protocol B" then I would have ABC Z%Z chance of being alive in Q amount of years.  The percentage between the two "options" and I use that word loosely because I didn't get to make that decision was something like a miniscule amount of maybe two percent.  When that was what I was told, it was more like "This is what you should do." without giving the husband and I an opportunity to really discuss it.  It's ridiculous how it was explained/not explained.  

At best, it's an info dump that would make any patient's head explode because of the kind of diagnosis it is, but when these medical people tell patients "I'll give you the information I think you need to know.  Any questions?"  then how the ever loving fuck all are people supposed to even know what the fuck to ask?  They aren't.  Or is that the whole point?  I can say that more than once, I would ask a specific question and be completely ignored, so what's the fucking point of asking?  Not much of one, is there?

Mets was NEVER mentioned.  The cancer emperor has no clothes?  So that's how it works?  If mets isn't mentioned to the patient, then it must mean that it won't happen to the patients who aren't told about it.  Seriously?  That kind of mentality really fucks the patient over, because it's dismissive of the importance of educating the patient about what's going on with their body.  It's basically the same shit as "Oh, you're breastfeeding your baby?  You'll never get breast cancer."  

I'm fucking serious, people.  I had more than one doctor say that to me when the monkeys were wee little critters.  That's why the shit storm diagnosis that breast cancer is came as such a huge fucking shock to me.  I wasn't aware I had any risk factors going on for breast cancer, other than I had breasts, which evidently IS a risk factor for anyone since men have breast tissue, also.  What probably did it to me was the DES I was subjected to when I was in utero, but it kind of doesn't fucking fix anything related to any of this and it sure as fuck doesn't fix the fact that anytime I would tell a doctor I was DES exposed, it was ignored. 

Why bother even making the effort to fucking communicate with medical people?  They're obviously more educated than the average patient, so they must know more even though they aren't the ones living in these bodies.  What the fuck ever.

I'll get the fuck around to finding out insurance coverage shit when I'm damn good and ready, probably not until after school starts next month.  At this point, one way or the other, it doesn't matter.

I suppose I'll be trying to cram in as much time feeding carrots to horses before the scan, after the scan, and before the visit to the oncologist.  That's the only way I'll be able to deal with the amount of stress my brain will be trying to contend with.

Here's an exciting update!

I'm digging out from under boxes from The Great Moving House Adventure (All two blocks of it--yes, you read that correctly--we moved two blocks.  LOL), although slowly, I'm still trying to get stuff sorted and organized with the unpacking.

A few weeks ago, there was an incident online which I won't even dignify with commenting about, other than to say lesson learned and after nearly twenty one years on the internet, I will remain as neutral as Switzerland.  JS  

Cancer Bitches is growing by leaps and bounds!

Cookies, I've created new ones with using my base recipe, white chocolate chips and raspberries.  People jumped on those like crazy.  Some even made it to Oklahoma City, although I think more of my lavender cookies made it there than the raspberry ones, but that's okay.  My cookies are traveling!  Next up, miniature blueberry lemon cream cuppy cakes!  (Yes, oh yes, there will be foodporn!)

The Children of the Fur like the new house.  I've acquired a couple of small baskets and they really like laying in those for some reason. 

I love living where I live.  I was out and about to pick up Football Monkey this week when I stopped by a shop in town.  At the shop next door to where I was going in, there was a man and a woman, each with a rather large blanket, running around the parking lot.  They were chasing a ginormous rooster that's evidently been running all over town for the last two weeks and nobody can catch it.  I hope they caught it because roosters are chickens and chickens are scary, although I have to say it was pretty fucking entertaining to see people chasing a rooster in town.

People are trashy.  I picked up trash from the fence line earlier this week at Mr. K's around the corner.  People are seriously trashy.  This wasn't stuff that was blown around by the wind because you know, Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain.  This was people being too fucking lazy to ditch their trash properly and tossed it out the window.  A porn mag, seriously?  Beer bottles, water bottles, sports drink bottles, empty cigarette packs, paper soda cups.  But a porn mag?  What a fucking I can't even come up with something creative enough for that shit.

Up side?  I had carrots with me and was nicely hugged, nudged, and loved on by the horses who wanted carrot bites.  (Yes, horses can hug a human if they use their head and neck the correct way.  It's pretty awesome to be hugged by a horse.  It's probably like petting a sea turtle, dolphin, or elephant.)

Now that I've unpacked probably 3/4 of the way, I want to go back over to the small show horse barn and start grooming again, even if it's only once a week because of football going on right now.  (Note to self to avoid the scary, rabid chickens there.)

Speaking of unpacking, I found my horse cookie recipe.  This is awesome because I have peppermints and carrots and molasses and oats, so I can make horse cookies.  How fucking awesome is that, readers?  Pretty fucking awesome!

And speaking of finding my recipe, I stopped off at the local library to see if they had any interesting books available for sale.  Let me tell you, I walked out of there after having paid one USD with five books, two of which were amazingly spiffy recipe books!  I've got a wealth of new recipes to monkey around with in the kitchen and spent only twenty cents on each book!  I am sofa king awesome!

I've acquired more twit followers than I can shake a stick at, all over the world in all kinds of varying fields, and the same goes for my pinterest boards, although pinterest is now wanting to charge for paid pins, so I'm not too sure about that yet.  We'll see how that goes.

There's a crochet project I'm working on, which could turn out to be interesting, if it works.  

Recently, there was a discussion about advice for flatness.  Of course, there was a comment made about breasts not defining us as women--there always is one of those.  And of course, I had plenty to say about that shit.  I said I felt like my breasts did define me as a woman because they helped make me appear to be more feminine and they were part of what made me a woman and I hate not having them now.  If anyone feels like their breast did define them as a woman and that was ripped away, that's normal.  One person said she hadn't thought about it from the perspective of if someone didn't like being flat.  It opened up the conversation enough to where I was able to tell her I got so tired of seeing the fake platitude crap about yippee-skip-acceptance that I started the Cancer Bitches group.  If someone is having a bad day, and it happens to everyone, they're allowed to say something there in a safe space instead of being told to suck it up and wear the pink ribbon because yay, gtfoi, pink ribbons and shit.  Nope, if someone's having a shit day, they can cry or vent or rage in a safe space and will be given kindness and respect and now she's a Cancer Bitch.  (No, we aren't always going to agree with each other about everything all the time, but that's part of being a mature adult, being able to discuss things with others, even if it's not always something everyone will agree about.)

Change what you can't accept or accept what you can't change.  I can't fucking change how much cancer fucked me over in a multitude of ways.  It fucking happened and I can't fucking change that and I sure as fuck refuse to accept it.

You're now returned to your regularly scheduled mundane blog reading.  I know you all missed my bitchtastic bitchitude here since I haven't updated recently.  I'll try to get that regular updating thing sorted out.

House moved and

Currently dog-sitting for T Sparkle Snickerdoodle Dog.  So far, the cats are not impressed.  He'd go up to them and be nose to nose with them and they wouldn't do anything, but when I put him in his crate in the laundry room, so I could post this, they got bent out of shape and their fur was sticking up and they got all pouty.  You can follow me on the twit machine for images of #childrenofthefur, if you're interested.  And yes, that includes T Sparkle Snickerdoodle Dog while he's visiting this week.

Moving went quite well, all things considered, and am now attempting to unpack.  It seems like the more I unpack, the more I'm behind on laundry and cooking.  The more I try to catch up on laundry and cooking, the more behind I get on unpacking.

Wait.  I have a new washer and dryer which I've named Boba and Fett.  Boba washes a ginormous load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  Fett dries same washed ginormous load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  I guess I'm not really behind on laundry any longer, as much as it is I'm behind on folding and putting away.  And unpacking, of course.  

The house is beautiful, I'd love to give a huge shout out to the lovely lady who got us into this lovely custom built house, Dustina.  That's a link to her newly current neck of the woods and those look like lovely homes, also, but I do like mine!  

I think it's safe to say

I finally have a direction in which to point the finger of blame over the cancer diagnosis.  My mother was given a drug when she was pregnant with me that was/is a synthetic estrogen and endocrine disruptor.  It caused/can cause clear cell adenocarcinoma, along with other various types of cancer.

DES.  Diethylstilbestrol.

Does cancer start in the womb?  Breast cancer risk at age 40 and older is two and a half times higher in DES exposed women than women who were not exposed who are the same age.

Maternal DES exposure during pregnancy causes an increased risk to both the mother and their DES exposed daughters.   (Given the fact that males can also get (male) breast cancer, I have to wonder, how many of them were DES exposed in utero?)

DES and Bisphenol A are estrogen-like endocrine disruptors.  Exposure in utero alters a tissue expression of something called EZH2, which is associated with tumorigenesis.

Invasive in ductal HER2+ breast cancer is what I had.  In this information, numbers are broken down to give more insight into exposed versus unexposed numbers.

Mayo Clinic led team identifies Master Switch for cancer causing HER2 protein.  A mutant protein would be used for this.  Of course, I find this of particular interest since I had HER2+ breast cancer.

Just wanted to share that with you readers out there in case someone was needing some further research information while I work on packing for The Big Move.

(And if you're so inclined, please go check out the Bressante Kickstarter page.  It's a very worthy project to help women like me acquire custom made foobs (fake breast prostethics) to wear.  After the crap those of us breast cancer people go through, we should have these available to us, so this is a great invention that I'm hoping will gain some much deserved and much needed attention.  Thank you.)