Part 8: Back to Work and a Regular Bra
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.
I was getting along with almost everyone at work. My clients really liked me, too. I was doing some of the most challenging and interesting clinical work of my career. I was helping train and coach employees from other programs in the agency, and supervising my own was a pleasure.
And then I got breast cancer. Life can’t go well for me for too long without the universe throwing in a wrench.
I went back to work two weeks after surgery.
3/3/22
Subject: Back in the office
I was absolutely fine Monday and Tuesday, but by the end of the day on Wednesday, I was in some pain. I tend to walk up and down the halls a lot, and I walk fast. My clinical supervisor, a psychiatric nurse practitioner, warned me not to overdo things my first week back after surgery. I promised I wouldn't, but apparently I'm not as good as my word.
It wasn't anything that some Tylenol and aspirin couldn't fix. I will definitely try to stay seated more for the rest of the week, and I'll take it very easy over the weekend. It's good to be back at work and seeing people in person, though. (Well, most of them.)
A few blessedly needle- and mammogram-free weeks went by. My left breast mostly stopped hurting, and deflated until I thought it matched the right breast. No dings, divots, or craters; apparently breasts, like nature, abhor a vacuum. They fill up whatever space is left when the surgeon scoops out the malignant bits.
My right breast started hurting, tired of being compressed in a sports bra. I started wearing a regular bra. The surgical tape gradually fell off my incisions, leaving smooth, vivid fuchsia scars, not as jagged or disfiguring as I had worried they might be. I met with the radiation oncologist to find out when they would start irradiating my Frankenboob.
3/27/22
Subject: First visit with the radiation oncologist
I saw the radiation oncologist today via video. Dr. Flores was almost as optimistic as my surgeon, and explained what I can expect from the 15 treatments I'll be undergoing.
I'll have to lie face down so they can aim the death ray (death to the cancer cells, not me) more precisely and avoid hitting my heart and left lung. The main side effect seems to be dry skin on the targeted body part, and possibly a very localized tan. I might take some pictures if that's the case. I take fish oil every day so my skin is already well hydrated, but they'll give me some special lotion just in case. I had to take off my shirt and stand up in front of my computer screen, so it's just as well I was working from home.
Dr. Flores said that the fatigue some people experience during radiation therapy is best combated by exercise, which we all know I'm not a huge fan of. I have to walk about 14 minutes from the subway to the radiation lair (it's in the basement of the cancer center), another 14 minutes to get the subway into Brooklyn, and a final 7 minutes from the subway to my clinic. I hope that will do.
She told me cancer treatment is like a stool with three legs: surgery, radiation, and medication. In my case, even as a pre-menopausal/perimenopausal female with a cancer that’s sensitive to estrogen, I will have to balance on two legs. I can't risk messing with my hormones, because that's likely to have a significant impact on my mood and I need to keep this job. I think I'd honestly rather have another surgery than lose my mind.
Appreciation again for everyone's support. This has been a very lonely process. Getting to second base with a bunch of radiologists, surgeons and nurses just isn't very fulfilling.
领英推荐
I enjoyed a few more needle-free weeks and then met with the “heem onk.”
4/15/22
Subject: hematology oncologist.
Met with the hematology oncologist, Dr. Gunderson. She thinks I might not need Tamoxifen. "Can I send your breast tissue to the lab for testing?" she asked. "Sure," I said. "I'm done using it."
Once the results are in, which should take a few weeks because the tissue has to go to California (seriously? with all the cancer centers and universities in NYC, there's not a single local pathologist who can analyze my amputated breast tissue?) we'll know what my risk level of a recurrence is.
But she's pretty confident that 1) the risk level is low and 2) the risk of Tamoxifen deranging me is significant. Also, Cymbalta is known to reduce the efficacy of Tamoxifen, and I am not discontinuing the one antidepressant that actually works for me. PTSD—the gift that keeps on giving.
Unlike the radiation oncologist, PA, and surgeon, Dr. Gunderson didn't ask me to show her my scars. Pretty sure that so far, no man has ever seen them, excepting any males who assisted my surgeon on the Valentine's Day that was close to but not the worst I’ve ever had. I'm seeing my surgeon again in September, and I will continue to endure mammograms and breast ultrasounds on a regular basis.
Like cancer and all my other gynecological woes—and assorted other health problems, like bad sinuses and irritable bowel syndrome—PTSD is the legacy of my childhood abuse. It’s why I can’t risk any medication dysregulating my mood. People with PTSD are often quick to anger, which, if my experiences at past workplaces are any indication, is not good for job security.
When you’re triggered—reminded of a past trauma that still haunts you, which is usually most of your past traumas—you go from meek zero to terrifying 60 in a millisecond. Your endocrine system is perpetually primed, ready to release stress hormones in a flash. It doesn’t take much to flood you with adrenaline and cortisol. For me, that leads to fight more often than flight.
It’s okay to get angry at work, as long as it doesn’t show. If you show that you’re angry, people don’t want to work with you. Or for you. At least in social services. I think some industries are more tolerant of angry employees, as long as they bring in huge profits. It’s difficult to find a setting where a social worker can routinely bill seven or eight figures. When we blow up too often, we get fired.
I was diagnosed with PTSD at the age of 44, which—unbelievably—is around the age most survivors of child sexual abuse realize that what happened to them was abuse. Or remember it, since trauma interferes with encoding and retrieving memories; they tend to pop up unpredictably, as fresh as if the trauma happened yesterday. Since then I’ve been in therapy, learning to attenuate, muffle, or at least slow down my trigger reactions.
After seven diligent years, it was finally paying off. I was getting along with almost everyone at work. My clients really liked me, too. I was doing some of the most challenging and interesting clinical work of my career. I was helping train and coach employees from other programs in the agency, and supervising my own was a pleasure.
And then I got breast cancer. Life can’t go well for me for too long without the universe throwing in a wrench.
If you're enjoying these articles, please share!