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.

Three years ago, my breasts were amputated;

And right along with them, everything else on the entire upper third of my chest.  Nothing but skin over bone was left.  That's it.  I have nothing on my upper chest except skin over ribs.  You can fit your fingers between them--yes, that's my fucking ribs, people.

No, I'm not exactly able-bodied, nor am I disabled.  I fall somewhere in between, like maybe a fucked up body and a fucked up mind.  (No, I'm not a threat to anyone else or myself.)

I refused to be reconstructed because I wasn't interested in up to two years of multiple surgeries to have two unfeeling lumps of whatever trendy goo there is for such things eventually stuffed under my skin with the hope it wouldn't reject.  Yes, implants can and do reject, just like any foreign, or not foreign part of the body moved to do reconstruction, such as a DIEP flap or TRAM flap.  Of course nobody but the patients who have had recon issues admit there can be problems.  (There's also the factor of nothing but skin, which wouldn't hold anything anyway, be it my own transplanted flesh or implants, so it's pointless.)  Besides, do I need two lumps of faux goop to give me shape not matching where they are placed or sitting correctly under my skin or screaming "BOOB JOB" when it's obvious they're fake and don't match the rest of my body?  (So many times these implants wind up being placed badly, or they shift and don't stay where they're supposed to and there's no way to guess if they'll cooperate or not and then it's ridiculous finding a doctor who will admit it's messed up or that said implants should be re-positioned to fix them, or removed and then if the implants don't reject, they have to be replaced every ten years, it changes the game for monitoring after a breast cancer diagnosis.  Yet more surgeries.  No fucking way.)  (In some countries, women who don't want recon are given fucking psych evals.  That's so fucking ridiculous.  It's our bodies, we should have the final say, not a fucking doctor because recon isn't done to save someone's life.)

Don't believe me about the hell that is reconstruction?  Go look into reconstruction procedures and then the failures for the different kinds of recon.  Epic failures.  Let's put it this way.  I've encountered more women who are flat from failed reconstruction than who have had successful reconstruction/replacement of one or both breasts.   If I could get recon done, would I?  Fuck, no.  I'm so not interested in the tons of surgeries for it and all the potential problems that go along with it.

I still fucking hate cancer.  I still hate what it's done to me mentally, emotionally, and physically.  It is a mind fuck, I don't give a fuck who you are, trying to process it is a mind fuck.  Anyone who says they aren't concerned about it or have issues about it upon being diagnosed and at any point is, I think and believe, fucking lying. 

Am I bitter about what was done to me?  You bet.  I think it's perfectly normal for me to have issues with it and someone who claims they don't have issues at some point or another about what is or has been done to them is full of shit, to my way of thinking.  Just the whole thing of trying to figure it out, wrap the brain around how horrible "treatment" is, being horribly sick, and then realizing that it's not cancer that actually kills most people diagnosed, it's what's fucking done to them, the chemo and/or radiation, well, yeah, it's a bunch of shit to try to process.  Things never go back to "normal" once someone is diagnosed.  I cannot imagine how horrible it is to be a child trying to figure any of that shit out.

Three years out from surgery and I still refuse to allow my husband to see me without a shirt.  This is not how I want him to think of me, with two huge vertical gashes of scarring on my now concave upper chest.

Yes, I'm concave.  No, I don't like it.  I was once told by a medical person that the surgeon did a "great job" and well, let me put it this way.  That is fucking subjective.  That fucker left me with severe nerve damage, ripped everything off my chest except my skin, and he did a "great" job?  Really?  The person who told me that had both of her breasts, so it's all in perspective.  Of course she'd think he did a "great" job.  She was standing there with her breasts still attached to her body.  Mine were chopped off and to this day, I still find that questionable.  I was told after surgery there was "nothing" there, so did that breast really need to be removed, along with the other one as a "preventative" measure?   Is it any wonder I'm not more fucked up in the head over this than what I am?  Imagine fucking living with that.  Knowing you were lied to by a surgeon repeatedly, then being told there was no "sign" of "anything" when the surgery was done.  And no, the person who did it didn't do a "great" job.  He lied to me about quite a few things, to my face and he fucking lied to my husband.  I can only hope that doctor is no longer doing this to other women.  What he did was criminal and so fucking wrong on so many levels.

Being concave does not make wearing foobs conducive to my lifestyle, not even the ones with adhesive, my skin doesn't tolerate adhesive.

Yes, I liked my breasts.  I had no complaints about them and neither did my husband.  They functioned perfectly feeding the monkeys when they were babies.  

Cancer is a fucking curse, I don't care who you are and where you are in dealing with it.  It's a curse, it's shit.  Three years out from a bilateral mastectomy, I'm not a "better" person.  I'm not a hero.  I'm not "normal" any longer and it didn't "fix" me in any manner.  As much as I'm certain someone will get pissy about this, I'll still fucking say it and stand by what I've said for over three years now.  Had I known then upon diagnosis what I know now, I would have walked away from the whole shitload of bullshit that cancer is, either have allowed it to take me or tried unconventional (cannabis oil) treatment that wasn't available where I lived at the time, but I would not do any of this again.  I would not subject my husband and our sons to this shit.  (And the residual financial ass raping?  Nope, that's not discussed before someone does get on this road, either, which is horribly, horribly wrong, also.)

Sure, I'm still married.  Sure, I'm still a mom.  No, I'm not the old, normal me.  That person is long gone and will never return.  It's just too fucking bad some people can't fucking figure that out.

Three years now.  According to the oncologist, I'm NED (no evidence of disease) currently.  Will I make it another year?  Will I make it two years?  Some people call this sort of thing a cancer-versary.  Personally, I dislike that and won't do so.  If that works for them, great.  I don't like it, so I don't use that particular phrase regarding myself.

I guess we'll see how far I get.  But for this afternoon, I think I need some barn time.  The horses are wonderful.  (Oh yeah, so is my husband for being willing to still get into bed with me every night in spite of how bad I look.  No, none of this are his issues with me, they're all my issues with me, so don't go thinking he's a dick, because he's not.  He's been great about this whole mess.  A couple of days ago, he kissed me on the cheek and said he was glad I'm still here, so no, it's not him being a dick.  I'm the one who has issues with me.)

Improvement? I don't fucking think so.

Sometimes people say things to me that I cannot imagine what thought in their head made them think that it was a good idea to say some of the things they do.  I mean it makes me wonder if the Bad Idea Faerie slammed a Bad Idea into their brains with her bludgeoning little Bad Idea Hammer.

Sometimes when people find out I had cancer, they give me a knowing look and say "Did that make you into a better person?" Like...I don't know, implying I was in need of improvement to begin with?  Isn't that slightly insulting to me?  I wasn't a good enough wife and mother already?  Really?  I wouldn't say that to someone, so I'm not certain why people think it's something acceptable to say to someone who has had a life wrecking, devastating illness.

I don't see how having had cancer could be useful, helpful, or cause improvement to my life, much less the rest of my family.  It ripped my health and functionality away from me, it stole a year of my life the year I did chemo because I was so damn sick from it, it physically aged me twenty years in the space of that year.  It ripped any semblance of normalcy away from not just me, but my family, also.  I'm over two years out from my last chemo of a year of that vile poison and coming up on three years from a bilateral mastectomy.  I still don't know how to function normally.  I still have days where I'm literally plastered to the recliner until lunch because I did too much the day before, but even though mentally I am under the impression I can accomplish whatever needs to be done, physically, I hit a wall and fatigue slams into my body to where I literally cannot function the next day.

How, exactly, does not being able to take care of my husband and sons like I used to make me a "better" person?  It fucking doesn't.

Having secondary lymphedema makes me a better person, how, exactly?  It doesn't.  It's a vile, horrid consequence of having lying doctors who did not fully disclose exactly how damaging what they were doing to me would be, either short term effects or long term damage.

Having to maintain a schedule of doctor's appointments and scans that do horrible things to me for monitoring to make sure the cancer hasn't returned doesn't make me a better person.  The stress level those things causes all of us is beyond ridiculous.  So few people have any sort of clue the kind of stress that puts my family and me under.  I can assure you, it does not "make" me a "better" person.

I was a helpful, considerate person who tried to do things to help other people.  Was I perfect?  No.  Who is?  Nobody.  Being sick absolutely destroyed any semblance of my old normal and functional self because now I never know how much I can do or should do.

So, if anyone out there is reading and you find yourself talking to someone who has survived the torture of cancer, please don't give them a knowing look like you think they have "everything" all figured out, drop your voice and ask if it made them a better person or tell them they are a hero because you might not get a response you would like to hear and it might involve the F bomb being dropped a few times.

Just saying.

Someone thinks I'm angry.

Indeed, yes, they do.

I am angry.  Damn fucking angry.

Why, you ask.

I'm angry at how I was treated when I was an oncology patient.  I'm angry that fucking doctors lied to my face, lied to my husband, deliberately misled and lied by omission by knowingly and intentionally keeping information from me and my husband so I/we could make truly informed consent decisions regarding my health, this includes the fucking bitch known as lymphedema.  I'm angry about the sexualization, trivialization, and trendy-ization of the disease known as breast cancer.  And...no, I don't keep quiet about any of it.

Periodically, this person tells me that they find my anger disturbing and upsetting and that I should be on anti-depressants. I've politely attempted to explain that I'm not depressed.  I'm angry.  (There is a huge fucking difference.)

I've attempted to politely explain that because I'm not willing to keep quiet about any of this, I don't pink wash, glitter, or ribbon any of this shit, that I'm speaking up for other people who are either too afraid to speak up, don't realize they can, or are encouraged to finally speak up, or decide they can speak up and verbalize their anger, frustration, etc.  Some already were speaking up, others hadn't, others will.  I AM giving a voice to those who cannot or will not speak up for fear of condemnation and harassment of others who are (grossly mistakenly) mired in the the grossly mistaken belief that cancer patients should be fucking happy, happy, happy all the fucking time.  It is a gross disservice to us as people and dehumanizes us by expecting impossibly "perfect" behavior of us.  So, if you are or have been doing this, please fucking put an end to it.

There's a game I play on fakebook and I decided to say that pinkwashing causes October to be the worst month ever and that I hate pink.  My user pic for the entire month was a pic of my upper chest, scars from a bilateral mastectomy because that's what I was told would "cure" me.  (Well, that turned out to be a lie.  I'll never technically be considered "cured" but as long as I don't need "active treatment" then yay for that.)  That picture of the vile scars on my upper chest is what breast cancer truly is as a reality, not pink ribbons.  I politely asked that people refrain from posting reminders about anything pink because the color doesn't do anything for anyone dealing with any kind of cancer.  I also stated if that bothered anyone, they could block me and I wouldn't be offended.  (Yes, I genuinely meant that because some people get into an absolute bitch snit fit when I say I hate pink ribbons.)  With a thank you, I also said people were welcome to do a search on fakebook for the Flat & Fabulous group if they happened to be a flattie or uni since lots of women don't get recon done.

I'll leave you with some things people have said to me because of my bitchitude (bitchy attitude).  (Names omitted to respect the privacy of these people who were kind enough to tell me what they felt was important to say.)

"I was a nurse.  I was a good nurse, I cared about my patients.  I fucking hate what this disease has ripped away from me and continues ripping away from me.  Please keep saying what you've been saying so maybe someone will understand better what this horrible disease does to people."

"I hate October.  All it does is remind me I had cancer and my mastectomy."

"The pinkwash is so in your face.  Blatantly so and this is something I need no reminder of.  I hate it now."

"I went through the same thing you did, so I know how you feel."

"I agree with your pink rant.  Selling pink things does not help prevent breast cancer.  There aren't even any answers about what actually causes it."

"May I share your perspective on pinkness?  You are very brave to speak up.  I have not had breast cancer, but a family member has and she feels the same way you do."

"Your perspective makes perfect sense to me, so I'm glad you've shared your thoughts."

"I couldn't agree with you more about the pink.  Thank you for having the courage to say what I've been thinking for years now."

"I agree with you completely!"

"A family member had a mastectomy years ago, with chemo, then chemo again.  I don't like pink, either."

"Big hugs to you!  I've had a bilateral mastectomy with no recon or implants.  I like pink, but I'd like to see cancer eliminated because the cures are as bad as the disease.  You aren't alone!"

"Pink doesn't do anything for me, either.  I am a breast cancer survivor.  A mammogram missed the cancer I had, it was only through the SBE that I found mine and insisted on follow up care."

"I agree with you about the ribbons for any kind of cancer.  A family member had cancer and action is what is needed.  I don't have any emotional attachment to pink, but I understand.  Huge hugs to you."

"I agree with you, I don't think pink ribbons help.  More direct action should be preferred like educating women about SBEs and their breast health overall."

"So sorry you had to endure that.  You are very transparent and brave to put up your photo for people to see."

"Keep telling people!  It's the truth!  Isn't it funny how the media won't allow opinions like yours to be shared with the general public?  That tells you something, doesn't it?  Glad you're not allowing yourself to be silenced and I hope you're cancer free forever!  Hugs!"

"Thank you for highlighting the unglamorous side of this disease, the side that sufferers have to put up with.  I commend you and send you hugs."

"Your commentary about pink is very insightful.  I'm also a cancer survivor, but not of breast cancer.  At first, I tried to be supportive and raise money, then I started doing research into what happens to the millions of dollars that people raise.  After a huge percentage of administrative costs, it all goes to feed a corrupt big pharma industry that will not support and will even suppress treatments that don't generate profits for them.  It's all about money and not saving lives or relieving suffering.  We need to take matters into our own hands by trying to be healthier with organic products, refusing GMO products that can make us sick, etc.  I hope you are cancer free.  I have been for three years.  Bless you."

"You deserve thanks for writing what you do.  It shows extreme courage!  Hopefully your firsthand knowledge will help open a few people's minds!"

"It's always such a relief to know I'm not the only one who refuses to buy into the cutesy crap on sale everywhere that doesn't do anything to help men and women suffering from breast cancer.  The big pharma industry has no interest is seeing an actual cure because their profits would decrease and we all know they don't want to lose any money."

"My best friend died from breast cancer and she didn't like pink.  Hugs."

"Your post caught my attention.  I have a friend with breast cancer and she'd asked me not to buy into all the pink stuff on her behalf.  She's asked that we donate to MBC.  Stay strong!"

"I read your post and I applaud your candor and your courage.  Thank you for your honesty."

"I feel the same way.  I cared for family members who died from cancer and there was no support for me.  I think you're brilliant.  Stay strong.  Hugs."

"You are a true trooper and I'm glad you're my friend.  I lost a sister to cancer.  Be strong."

"Hi.  I wanted to leave you a message and let you know I love what you have to say and that you're not alone in how you feel."

So, let's tally that up.  One person who thinks I have a shitty attitude and...twenty-seven who agree with me and believe in what I'm saying.  I think I'll take that twenty-seven over that one any day of the week.

Kinesio taping is good, I think.

Self-explanatory post title.

Secondary lymph-fucking-edema.  It's the vile thing that keeps on giving, because of breast cancer surgery. Uncontrollable and un-triggered random arm swelling, pain, numbness, severe surgery caused nerve damage, and neuropathy from chemo are all constant in any combination or at any given time, although the chemo induced neuropathy seems to affect my feet worse than my arms.  I have sleeves I wear, which do help with some of it and then Streak (the neighbor) has kinesio taped me for it just so we could see if that would actually help or not.  The first time she taped my arms, the swelling in both arms went down by an inch in each arm in twelve hours.  The compression sleeves are medical grade and supportive, but the kinesio taping flat out stops the pain, so I really like being taped, although I can't wear the tape constantly.  And I refuse to eat painkillers for this shit, so constant pain is something I have to live with, unfortunately.  I also have two sports grade compression shirts I wear which do help somewhat, as do the sleeves, which are something different.  The kinesio taping seems to help the most, though.  I'm debating on informing the consult person who will be taking notes on me ahead of my surgery that I will be taped for my comfort and that said tape better not be fucking removed.  It's for my comfort.

Breast cancer wrecked my life, my health, my emotions, and my thought processes.  I cannot ever say enough shitty things about it or the fact that in thirty years, there's not a cure for any of it.  I don't care who you are or what you were diagnosed with, what was done to you to "cure" you and what is done to "monitor" you are all things that have more than sufficient health risks so that anything questionable that happens to your health now, you better wonder about how/why it happened.  After all, money can't be made "fighting" breast cancer (or any other kind) if there is any "success" with "curing" it.

Did I mention this little gem?  http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/257008  Because, you know, zero "medicinal" value, right?  It's the closest possible thing there could be for a cure and yet it seems like damn near everything possible is done to keep it away from people.

Evidently, the HER2+ breast cancer I was diagnosed with back in 2011 was inexplicable, and so is this aneurysm.  I know what's going to happen.  I'll be taking this blood thinner for the six months I was told I'd need to take it because of this stent and coiling aneurysm fix.  Fine.  I'm willing to bet there will be another reason "found" that I'll suddenly "need" to remain on it.  The blood pressure medication, I get it.  Blood pressure issues aren't generally reversible.  The aneurysm fix is supposedly a "fix it and forget it" option. We'll see how that goes.

On to the cats.

Apparently, The Fat One (Sweetie) cat only drools when she purrs.  Why this is, I do not know.

The Fat One (because Sweetie is fuzzy and looks fat even though she's really not fat) and The Smooky One (because Boo is all black and "spooky looking, hence the Smooky word) are what the darlings across the street who belong to Streak and Mr. Streak. (They, (Streak and her family) happen to have a dog named Sparkle who I dog sit for on occasion.))

The Smooky One (Boo) can purr, does purr on occasion, but he doesn't realize he's supposed to do this very often because he is too busy chasing balls around.
Sweetie is also called The Fuzzy Manatee by the males of the family. I've taken to calling Boo by the name Goblin Cat since he likes to reach under doors like a goblin would.

Good news is, ground breaking on the house build is slightly less than a month from now. (No, I haven't posted about that. I wanted to wait until I knew things would be lined out and closer to ground breaking before I said anything.

Bad news is hospitals are for sick people and I am not sick, but I have won a not all expense paid stainless steel stent, multiple platinum coil repair to a stupid aneurysm in my neck Wednesday morning. Supposedly this is the fix it and forget it version of repair. The worst news is, I am going to be stuck in ICU at the pleasure of my doctor and however long he decides I should remain in there. I will likely go batshit crazy. No phone allowed, no laptop, and likely no internet access. I am wondering if he will take peanut butter cookies as a bribe to let me come home.

In "honor" of this month.

Breast Cancer

© 2013 by K.Lowry

The scraping scalpel leaves no flesh,

Doctors claim poison and mutilation are best.

I will not be reconstructed

Just because my breasts are busted.

My body is scarred, my health will never heal

Cancer is a lifelong deal.

It nipped, then ripped, and then it ravaged,

Leaving so many of us feeling savaged.

Scraping scalpel, stabbing needles,

Regardless of critics or those who wheedle,

I will not, will not be reconstructed

Just because my breasts are busted.



Who?

K.Lowry

©2013

I stand before a mirror and what I see

Is someone I do not know looking at me.

Averting my gaze, I try to hide from my reflection.

To no avail, it is far from perfection

Who is this person looking at me?

I am her, but she is not me.

Who is that person, why is she there?

Why it is that I just cannot seem to care?

She doesn't know of who I am, nor I of her.

Yet we are the same person, dual in nature.

Holes and punctures, scarred gashes on my chest,

My mind is now never at rest.

No matter how much that person looks at me and is there,

And I wish she was not.

I am her, but she is not me.