Thank goodness for emotional damage!

I had my first mastectomy on May 22, 2006 and my second on April 27, 2007. With each surgery came a lot of pain. . . except for one particular thing. As I healed (and still am at the moment), part of the process was to get the fluid that builds up, in the area that was once my breast, drained. This requires an exceptionally large needle, sort of like a straw, injected into my chest to aspirate the excess fluid that my body isn't processing like it used to. Something that always seemed to make my surgeon and I both laugh was the statement I would sort of mumble to myself at each of these post-op drain visits. I repeated the statement today for the first time in about a year. . . "thank goodness for nerve damage!" You see, because of all the nerve damage that happens during surgery, I'm left with the majority of my chest area absolutely numb. So, as this gigantic needle is inserted, I don't feel a thing. Yay for me!

Last year on this day I woke up after a pretty sleepless night. Just two days earlier I had flown to Anchorage and was being seen at the hospital for my needle biopsy to investigate the "susipcious mass" I had felt almost 3 weeks earlier. The day of the biopsy was the first truly scary day since finding the lump. Until I layed there with the radiologist poking around in my breast, looking at a screen zoomed in on the ultra sound picture, which clearly showed this ominous mass, I didn't really have a clue. It was that day that I received the most honest news to date. Not after the breast exam, not after the ultra sound, and not after the mammogram did I have any real idea about what it meant to be scared. But that day the radiologist explained, in no uncertain terms, that this was serious. When he stated that whether this was cancer or not, the lump would not stay in my body, I began to actually consider that it could be cancer. Waiting two days for the results of this test was excrutiating! But, the day after next came, and I woke up in a daze. I just couldn't imagine what I was going to hear. My appointment was in the morning and my friend Mike was there to take me and to be with me for whatever the results may be. One vivid memory I have of that day is of Mike and I walking down the hallway toward the surgery clinic and me saying out loud to him, but sort of in a way that was just talking out loud to myself. . . "this is going to be nothing, I'm sure of it. Nothing. I'm going to feel like an idiot for worrying so much." I didn't even look at Mike as I said it, but I remember seeing in my peripheral, him turning his head to me. He replied, "Yes. Of course it will be nothing."

The second I knew I had cancer was the second the doctor opened the door to my exam room. I had been waiting, for what seemed like forever, and Mike and I were doing our best to just chit chat about nothing and I was doing my best to believe with all of my being that I did not have cancer. But, then the door opened and I saw my doctor's face. I knew instantaneously that I could hope or believe all I wanted, but that this absolutely impossible fear was true. I had cancer. I am the most grateful person for getting the doctor that I got because he has been nothing but superb at every moment. Truly. Even while delivering the sickening news of breast cancer to a 28 year old girl, he was amazing. My respect and adoration for him has grown over the many visits and two surgeries we've been through, but even that day, as bad as I felt when I left his clinic, I still felt really good about him and how he treated me. I could not ask for a better doctor to have walked this last year with me. If you're reading, Thank you again, Dr. Sacco!

As I returned to the hospital today for the drain visit, I definitely took notice of the absolutely full circle moment that I was in. Just one year ago on this day I was in that same clinic in a room just across the hall feeling completely rung out. In an instant my life had been overwhelmingly altered and shattered. I remember when the diagnosis actually came out of my doctor's mouth and I turned to look at Mike and just started sobbing. I didn't really hear all the medical details that followed. Instead images flashed through my mind of losing a breast, of losing my job, of losing my hair, of being alone, of dying, of not having a clue what in the world I was supposed to do now. Sensory overload. I just cried and cried and was totally in shock.

But, today, it was different. Instead of Mike, it was my mom by my side. And, instead of tears, I was smiling. I was comfortable and aware and okay. I reminded my doctor that it was a year since diagnosis and we were able talk about how much changes in one little year. He tells me that I've done a great job and I know he means it. I question that often and still, the verdict is out on how I feel about how I've handled all of this. I wish I could be better and I just hope I never stop trying.

As you know, I've had quite the roller coaster ride with my emotional state. From fear to anxiety, to joy and hope, to anger, sadness, surprise, anticipation, disappointment. I've felt every possible emotion in a way I never knew I would/could. And, I'm certain there is more to discover in my emotional self. Two of the overwhelming feelings have been sadness and loss. . . which to me is grief. Usually one thinks of grieving as something related to death. But, I know that grieving happens with any loss and my losses that came along with getting breast cancer are still too huge to really digest. Although, I am well aware of the grieving process, as it is one of the primary issues I deal with in my work, I was not prepared for my own grief process. I've always sort of worked with grief under the stages identified by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. It is 5 stages that many people know of and use as a basis in supporting and understanding someone who is grieving. These stages are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. I guess I have always thought of grief as somewhat of a pattern. That these stages were things that most people were going to feel at some point. Not that they necessarily went in order, but that they would be experienced in the process, with Acceptance hopefully being the end. I now feel like an idiot for ever thinking that grief was anything predictable. I now strongly believe that there is no script for this process. Grief happens in its own way for each person with a whole range of "stages" or emotions. I still think that these 5 stages are helpful to think about, but I have also been cracked wide open to the reality that there is a lot more to it. Getting over a loss is slow, hard work and as much as I know this, it somehow never stops surprising me how difficult it actually is. I try to remember that for all I've lost, I now have room for so much that I never otherwise would. I try to visualize myself waiting with open arms for all the things I never even imagined would bless my life. Once in a while it works.

In the past year I have shed more tears than I ever imagined even I could. I've felt so scared and alone I would have rather not been alive, and I've dug myself out of the darkness just to find my way right back in too many times to count. I have also experienced so much love and support from not only my loved ones, but also complete strangers. And today, as I reflect on it all, I feel numb. Not the deadness inside that I once felt, but just numb. In a way, I feel dried up, with no more tears to shed. I don't feel overwhelmingly sad or alone and I don't feel like I'm in the dark. But, I feel numb. Its not particularly good or bad, it just is.

As I went through this day as normally as possible, I couldn't help but notice a bright spot. As painful as this year has been, and as painful as this day could have been, given the significance of a one year anniversary of a life turned upside down, I was okay. I was numb. I have been chuckling to myself with a certain familiar thought. . . "thank goodness for emotional damage." You see, because of all the emotional damage that happens during the first year after a cancer diagnosis, I'm left with a huge majority of myself currently feeling numb. So, as this gigantically terrible anniversary appeared, I didn't have to feel a thing. Yay for me!

I know that must sound strange to some people. But, its true and at this moment, numb is not only okay, but is something I appreciate. Its a time for very objective reflection if nothing else. I realize that I have a choice to either avoid my feelings and pain or to face them and seek healing and growth. I choose the latter. I have been choosing it and I will continue to.

March, 2006 I had just returned home from a month travelling around Honduras with just me and my backpack. This was the first day I returned home, still full of excitement and energy from my trip, yet, struck by how good it felt to be back and how beautiful the sunrise was from my front porch.


March, 2007, I'm snapping a photo of something very different, but still very good. My brand new hair. . . the hair on my head, my eyebrows, and even my eyelashes, were at last making a strong enough appearance, 4 months after the end of chemo, to take notice of.


The funniest thing about these two photos for me is the fact that as huge as the outside changes are, they don't begin to touch what the inside changes have been. Someday I hope to be able to put it to words.

My mom leaves in the morning to return to Idaho, after being here for the past 10 days to help me with my surgery. She has a plate that is piled high and yet she dropped it all to be here again with me. Thank you so much sweet Mama. Purging some of these thoughts here on this blog has finally put me to rest somewhat. Time for some sleep so I can wake up in time to get my mom to the airport.

I don't know the quote exactly, or who said it, but the quote for today is. . .

You can't get where you want to be without leaving where you are

I love quotes and would really enjoy hearing some of your favorites. Leave me a comment with something that inspires you, makes you laugh, think. . . or whatever.

With Love,

Sasha