Part 12: Week Three--Once more unto the breach, dear breasts!
Abigail Strubel
The ideas, views and opinions expressed in my LinkedIn posts and profiles represent my own views and not those of any of my current or previous employers.
So. Exhausted. Ex. Hau. Sted. Walking 3 minutes to the subway is like hiking the Appalachian trail. The real hike, not the euphemism. No coffee before radiation has me falling asleep in the reception area. I startle awake when the gentle radiation therapist, a small, compact man, breathes my name. Put on a gown, grab an extra for a belly pillow. Lie down and listen to the machinery whine and whir and drone in A flat.
Day 11. I slept or lay in bed all day Saturday, husbanding my energy to go to the American Museum of Natural History and lunch with my friend April. Three hours of walking around a small room filled with fluttering butterflies and a slightly larger room filled with models of sharks, separated by a brief pass through the hall of Gems & Minerals. Hardly a triathlon. But by 8 pm, I was exhausted. Five years in the salt mines exhausted. Falling asleep sitting up.
I woke up Monday morning, and I couldn’t face the triangular hustle from treatment to work to home. Two buses, three subways. I did two weeks of it, I couldn’t do any more. I needed more time to rest and heal. To relax in soft clothing and comfortable shoes, nothing binding except my supportive bra. Less time jolting on the subway and running to catch the crosstown bus. More time at home, where I can lie down between therapy and supervision sessions.
Last Friday, with my boss, I had discussed working from home a few more days and taking off Memorial Day. At this agency, if you work a federal holiday, you get double pay. My employees are big fans of this policy, and I usually come in to make sure they’re actually working. I was planning to work from home today and go in the rest of the week.
But when I got home from radiation today, I changed the plan. I told my boss and HR that I needed to work part-time from home this week (5 hours/day), and take off all of next week, please dock my pay accordingly and I’ll fill out the paperwork when I get back in the office. My boss approved. I spent today conducting remote supervision and therapy sessions, despite some connection problems with my WiFi.
Tonight, I feel so good—so relaxed, so comfortable in my body, and not tired by 8 pm—that I feel like a fraud. Like I’m slacking off. Playing hookey. Taking too much time for me. Is it too much?
I don’t think so. I haven’t felt this good in what feels like a lifetime. Was it only two weeks ago I started getting fried? It feels like I’ve been miserable and in agony forever. Tonight, my left breast barely hurts unless I squeeze it. My neck and back are almost loose. My stomach doesn’t feel great, true, but I’ve been able to eat a quantity of steak fries and frozen mango, which is also nice and bland.
I’m not miserable. I think this was a good decision. I hope my program doesn’t go to hell in a handbasket. My left breast is still much warmer than my right.
Day 12. My relief at reducing my workload did not translate to an energy burst. When I saw my doctor, I complained of fatigue, blurry vision, and nausea. According to Dr. Flores, my blurry vision and nausea are not due to the radiation, and my fatigue is “moderate,” according to her report. Her outfit did not make a huge impression on me today, perhaps because I’m utterly spent and nauseated. I could see her shoes and slacks clearly, because my blurry vision only manifests in front of the computer; I just don’t remember them. Or maybe I’m annoyed at her because I looked up radiation side effects and they absolutely include blurred vision and nausea.
Dr. Flores conceded that lying on my stomach right after breakfast could cause reflux and hence nausea. So now I have to abstain before radiation.
Day 13. So. Exhausted. Ex. Hau. Sted. Walking 3 minutes to the subway is like hiking the Appalachian trail. The real hike, not the euphemism. No coffee before radiation has me falling asleep in the reception area. I startle awake when the gentle radiation therapist, a small, compact man, breathes my name. Put on a gown, grab an extra for a belly pillow. Lie down and listen to the machinery whine and whir and drone in A flat.
After I survive the treatment, through my shirt I can feel the warmth of my left breast outshining the right. Radiation is living in my body like a fungus, like a fog. I felt some itch, for the first time, but it’s mild. The pain is back, albeit moderate. I waited until after treatment to have breakfast, but I’m still nauseated.
Seven more sessions. I worked from home today, cranky as heck. I managed not to actually bite anyone’s head off, but I was definitely snappier than usual. Impatient. I’m not sure if it’s the exhaustion or the brain fog that has me so salty.
Day 14. A tale of two breasts. One is milky, with the palest tan aureole and a nipple three shades deeper tan, but fortunately not Arizona Tan. This breast slumps a bit, pendulous but still rounded and plump. Slightly warm to the touch, silken skin. I have been told it’s very attractive by men who were trying to do more than just hit it and quit it, so I trust their sincerity.
The other breast is reddened but starting to turn brown. Its nipple is the color of bark, surrounded by a slightly less swarthy aureole. It is marginally plumper than the other breast, about ?” greater in circumference, and slightly warmer. It does not like to be squeezed, protesting with a surge of dull pain. It has been pierced by needles great and small, sliced and partially eviscerated, and now suffers the daily indignity of radiation bombarding from two different angles. For the first time, more than halfway through this course of treatment, it has started to experience a new and irritating side effect of radiation therapy, “pruritis.”
That’s medical report jargon taken from my doctor’s summary of yesterday’s visit:
Overall stable left breast symptoms. Mild left breast soreness. Progression of discoloration but no pruritus. Skin discomfort continues being relieved very effectively by Aloe.
I took to the internet again and learned “pruritis” is medical jargon for “itchy skin.” Dr. Flores used those more pedestrian words during our appointment, and day before yesterday I was able to tell her I wasn’t itching. Not today. Today it feels like my breast brushed past some poison ivy. Although that’s unlikely to happen. I seldom hike, but I do so fully clothed.
The itch is worst at the nipple, possibly because nerve endings are more concentrated there. I put on a sports bra to get some of that support Dr. Flores is always yammering on about, and I am scratching over it with abandon, unafraid of tearing my skin and adding infection to injury.
Until recently, I had nothing but the warmest admiration and appreciation for my breasts. I thought they were too small until my late 20s, when I went on antidepressants and increased a cup size from 34B to 34C. I was deliriously happy with my 34Cs, and then I broke up with a bad boyfriend and my pharmacy switched me from a branded medication to generic, which gave me weeks of agonizing, jangling anxiety. I dealt with it by eating cake and doughnuts—entire boxes of Entenmann’s. In a few weeks I gained 25 pounds.
I shifted up to a 34D, and my breasts became my absolute favorite body part, by a landslide. I suppose my feet remained comely, although they shifted up a size as well. The rest of me I did not love at all. Larger breasts were the only redeeming quality of the added heft, which increased and decreased again a few times over the years. Fired from toxic jobs. Stayed in toxic jobs. Medication changes that muted or stimulated my appetite. Dating and rejection, both received and doled out; both are unpleasant, although it’s less unpleasant to reject than to be rejected. Pandemic and isolation (that one was definitely not my fault).
My breasts always felt beautiful to me, even if I would have preferred more vibrant aureoles. The left breast still is, even discolored and scarred. The scars aren’t disfiguring; I think they add character and interest. But I’m not sure how much this breast will shrink or shrivel after radiation and therapy. And I can never trust it again. It tried to kill me once, with a very sneaky (thank goodness for Brooklyn) yet somehow not aggressive tumor. It’s cost me buckets of time, money, and pain. What’s to stop my left breast from trying to kill me again, precipitating another round of needles, knives, and radiation? Without hormone-suppressing medication, I’m at greater risk of a recurrence. Even if the risk is only 3%, that’s still not 0%. I kind of understand women who have the brca1 gene deciding to pre-emptively amputate their female organs. Or people who have the brca2 gene opting for gastrectomy. Why take chances on getting breast cancer again? Just lose the breast. No breast, no cancer.
I won’t be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life to anticipate danger. I’ll be looking straight down, and to the left. When I did that tonight, I noticed that my left breast isn’t an even reddish-tan. It’s speckly, spots of deeper red against a field of rusty brown. Applying the aloe gel to the overheated surface, I hoped the cooling feeling would penetrate and soothe the itch. I hoped in vain. Now I’m just trying to keep my mind off it.
Day 15. This week hasn’t been quite a painful as last week, but much more tiring. (And itchy.) Even though I’m working from home. Thinking is difficult, and since my job is just thinking (and talking and writing, which involve a great deal of thinking), doing my job has been extra difficult. I’m yearning for next week, when I’ll only take a few meetings per day, go to radiation, and… I’m not sure what else. Probably nap and binge-watch TV. Eat more grilled salmon salads, if my nausea permits. Lie in bed and read. Get through the final week of voluntary poisoning. Rest.
I updated my support squad.
5/27/2022: Working from home this week has been very helpful. I'm still exhausted, but I'm not entirely spent. I'm thrilled to have THREE WHOLE DAYS without radiation to enjoy, and then only five more rounds of torture.
My birthday is June 5, and June 6 is my last radiation session. Ever, I hope. I don't have plans to celebrate right now, but after I recover a little, I hope to have a small get-together, where everyone can shower me with love, good wishes, and Megalodon teeth. (A girl can dream...) Actually, love and good wishes are all I need right now. That, and a moratorium on needles.
My torso looks like it belongs to two different women. One side hangs out in the sun topless and likes to get into knife fights. The other side is pallid, and leads a much quieter life. Eventually, they'll match again.
Enjoy the long weekend.