Tomorrow, I'll embark on the final major phase of this cancer "joyride". I have my reconstruction surgery. I'm having a left prophylactic skin-sparing surgery along with a DIEP flap. The tissue from my tummy (the DIEP flap) will be transferred to my chest for a brand new rack.
My love/hate relationship with Frank will end tomorrow as he's finally laid to rest. In his place will be Fancy Franks, as Hannah calls them. I'm really tempted to ask McBoobie if I can have Frank for a proper burial but I'm not sure how creepy that really sounds...
I'm excited and nervous. The recovery period isn't fun but I know this time that I'm already cancer-free. This, while significant, is basically cosmetic so that I can feel and look whole.
If one more person tells me that they're jealous of my "boob job and tummy tuck", I will karate chop them in the trachea. The way I got here sucks big donkey dongs and lets face it... I'm not going to look like a Barbie doll. Far from it. I'm hoping for a shred of normalcy. Jealous of that? Keep it to yourself, thanks.
Please pray that my doctors have steady hands tomorrow and that my surgery and recovery go as smoothly as they did last time.
Peace, love and boobies.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Strength = Weakness?
I saw a quote the other day that really struck a chord with me:
"Sometimes the person who gives you strength is also your weakness."
Whoa. Deep, right? When something life-changing happens, you tend to rely on your closest friends and/or family to help you make sense of it all. Frequently, you don't need or really want any advice or input; just an ear (well, or eyes in this technology-obsessed world).
Many times you find the one or two people in your life that just seem to "get it" - whether they shared your experience personally or knew of someone that did. They can say, "I understand what you're going through" and truly mean it. You can let your walls down and show your tears and your anxieties and fears when you'd put on your sassy brave pants for anyone else. You can speak candidly and frankly and know that they'd tell you the truth even if it was to say "I don't know whether to laugh or cry at your Mohawk!"
Is there a point, though, where you cross that line and realize that you rely on them TOO heavily? It's hard to feel like you're a burden to someone, but once you let them inside of the deepest parts of your heart, all bets are off. You've poured your heart out and for whatever reason, their niceties and genuine concern have made them a superhero in your eyes.
I have some amazing friends that have seen me through my darkest days. Some have shocked the socks right off of me. Some drifted away slowly. Did I push them away because I was too needy? Were they going through their own tribulations and just couldn't be "that" person anymore but didn't have the heart to tell me that they needed someone, too? I know that cancer made it all about ME and I apologize from the bottom of my heart for that.
I have tried my best to be a good friend, sister, wife and mother. I like to think of myself as a caring and loving person. I also know that my brain has been clouded by this cancer bullshit and I've latched onto whatever I've needed to to make me feel safe and protected. Maybe to a fault.
I guess the lesson learned is to be patient with people - whether you're the needy one or the "superhero". Let people breathe. Give yourself a chance to breathe, too. If they genuinely care, they're still going to be there. If not - it's okay.
"Sometimes the person who gives you strength is also your weakness."
Whoa. Deep, right? When something life-changing happens, you tend to rely on your closest friends and/or family to help you make sense of it all. Frequently, you don't need or really want any advice or input; just an ear (well, or eyes in this technology-obsessed world).
Many times you find the one or two people in your life that just seem to "get it" - whether they shared your experience personally or knew of someone that did. They can say, "I understand what you're going through" and truly mean it. You can let your walls down and show your tears and your anxieties and fears when you'd put on your sassy brave pants for anyone else. You can speak candidly and frankly and know that they'd tell you the truth even if it was to say "I don't know whether to laugh or cry at your Mohawk!"
Is there a point, though, where you cross that line and realize that you rely on them TOO heavily? It's hard to feel like you're a burden to someone, but once you let them inside of the deepest parts of your heart, all bets are off. You've poured your heart out and for whatever reason, their niceties and genuine concern have made them a superhero in your eyes.
I have some amazing friends that have seen me through my darkest days. Some have shocked the socks right off of me. Some drifted away slowly. Did I push them away because I was too needy? Were they going through their own tribulations and just couldn't be "that" person anymore but didn't have the heart to tell me that they needed someone, too? I know that cancer made it all about ME and I apologize from the bottom of my heart for that.
I have tried my best to be a good friend, sister, wife and mother. I like to think of myself as a caring and loving person. I also know that my brain has been clouded by this cancer bullshit and I've latched onto whatever I've needed to to make me feel safe and protected. Maybe to a fault.
I guess the lesson learned is to be patient with people - whether you're the needy one or the "superhero". Let people breathe. Give yourself a chance to breathe, too. If they genuinely care, they're still going to be there. If not - it's okay.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
A Caregiver's Story...
Hi! Remember me?
Following is a guest post by Cameron, whose wife has battled mesothelioma. This is his account of what it took for him to be a caregiver.
Caregivers play such an invaluable role. I couldn't have done it without my rockstar, Matt, and my awesome daughters. They need support as well.
Enjoy Cameron's story.
How I Learned to Be My Wife's Cancer Caregiver
Malignant pleural mesothelioma were the three words that we heard on November 21, 2005 when my wife, Heather, was diagnosed with cancer. I immediately assumed the role of caregiver in her life, but I had no idea what I was doing. This news came three months after my daughter Lily was born. Instead of sharing our first holiday celebrating with our new daughter, we were spending it with family figuring out how we would get through a battle with cancer.
After the diagnosis, our lives were chaotic. Heather and I worked full time prior to her diagnosis, but now she was not able to work. I could only work part time while caring for her and Lily, and I had numerous other responsibilities that I didn’t think I could handle. Between my wife’s doctor’s appointments, trips to Boston to meet with a mesothelioma specialist, taking care of my daughter, and making travel arrangements, I was overwhelmed, and my thoughts began to race.
I tried to remain positive through this whole struggle, but often my fears and anxieties would get the best of me. Sometimes I could help but picture the worst, Heather passing away and me being left a broke widower raising a daughter who would never really know her mother. I was in utter despair, and some days I would lie on my kitchen floor and bawl uncontrollably. However I never allowed Heather to see my fears, despite having these moments of weakness. I always did my best to remain strong in her presence.
I don’t think I could have done it without the help of friends, family, and even strangers. They offered everything from comforting words to financial assistance. We advise all cancer patients to accept any help they can get no matter how big or small. I learned the hard way that there is no room for pride in a fight with cancer.
Being a caregiver is stressful and full of uncertain days. It was the most challenging experience that I have ever had. Some days will be difficult, but no matter how hard it gets, you can never walk away from it. During the difficult times, just use all of your resources to help you remain sane. Above all else, never, ever give up hope, and always keep fighting for the one you love.
After Heather’s surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, it took many years for life to return to normal. It was the most difficult struggle of our lives, but today Heather is cancer-free, and has been for seven years. Mesothelioma is no longer a part of our lives. We hope that by sharing our story of success over cancer, we can help inspire others in there own battles to never give up hope, and to always keep fighting.
Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance
http://www.mesothelioma.com/blog/authors/cameron/
Following is a guest post by Cameron, whose wife has battled mesothelioma. This is his account of what it took for him to be a caregiver.
Caregivers play such an invaluable role. I couldn't have done it without my rockstar, Matt, and my awesome daughters. They need support as well.
Enjoy Cameron's story.
How I Learned to Be My Wife's Cancer Caregiver
Malignant pleural mesothelioma were the three words that we heard on November 21, 2005 when my wife, Heather, was diagnosed with cancer. I immediately assumed the role of caregiver in her life, but I had no idea what I was doing. This news came three months after my daughter Lily was born. Instead of sharing our first holiday celebrating with our new daughter, we were spending it with family figuring out how we would get through a battle with cancer.
After the diagnosis, our lives were chaotic. Heather and I worked full time prior to her diagnosis, but now she was not able to work. I could only work part time while caring for her and Lily, and I had numerous other responsibilities that I didn’t think I could handle. Between my wife’s doctor’s appointments, trips to Boston to meet with a mesothelioma specialist, taking care of my daughter, and making travel arrangements, I was overwhelmed, and my thoughts began to race.
I tried to remain positive through this whole struggle, but often my fears and anxieties would get the best of me. Sometimes I could help but picture the worst, Heather passing away and me being left a broke widower raising a daughter who would never really know her mother. I was in utter despair, and some days I would lie on my kitchen floor and bawl uncontrollably. However I never allowed Heather to see my fears, despite having these moments of weakness. I always did my best to remain strong in her presence.
I don’t think I could have done it without the help of friends, family, and even strangers. They offered everything from comforting words to financial assistance. We advise all cancer patients to accept any help they can get no matter how big or small. I learned the hard way that there is no room for pride in a fight with cancer.
Being a caregiver is stressful and full of uncertain days. It was the most challenging experience that I have ever had. Some days will be difficult, but no matter how hard it gets, you can never walk away from it. During the difficult times, just use all of your resources to help you remain sane. Above all else, never, ever give up hope, and always keep fighting for the one you love.
After Heather’s surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, it took many years for life to return to normal. It was the most difficult struggle of our lives, but today Heather is cancer-free, and has been for seven years. Mesothelioma is no longer a part of our lives. We hope that by sharing our story of success over cancer, we can help inspire others in there own battles to never give up hope, and to always keep fighting.
Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance
http://www.mesothelioma.com/blog/authors/cameron/
Thursday, March 14, 2013
A year later, I'm still standing
A year ago today, Matt, the girls and I were on our way to Alabama to see my sister and my mom. About two hours into the drive, I got a call from my nurse practitioner that changed my life - and the lives of those closest to me - forever. While she didn't have all of the path report results yet, she confirmed my biggest fear... I had breast cancer. Motherfucking cancer. A year later, I'm still standing.
I started an aggressive chemo plan on April 5, 2012. I lost all my hair (yep, even there). I lost my energy. I lost my ability to focus and remember things. My hands and fingers ached from the chemo-caused neuropathy. I never lost my wit or my undeniable charm. (Snicker.) A year later, I'm still standing.
On September 17, 2012, I had my right breast removed. Cut off. Amputated. I had a crazy milk jug-feeling tissue expander sewn into me and some lovely bruises and scars that earned the nickname, "Frankenboob." I had drains that looked like testicles coming out of my side. The bruises faded, the drains came out and Frankenboob's scars have healed quite nicely. A year later, I'm still standing.
I began 6 weeks' worth of radiation treatments on October 15, 2012 that left me with Texas fried skin. I was crunchy, burnt and peeling and experienced the worst fatigue since chemo. I still have some darkened areas of skin, but it's pretty much back to normal now. A year later, I'm still standing.
In 39 days, on April 22, 2013, I will have my final reconstruction surgery to give me new, cancer-free boobies (and a flat tummy to boot!). It'll be a longer recovery than the first surgery and I may be hunched over while my incisions heal, but you know what? I'll STILL be standing.
All of the things I've experienced in the last year have made me a more determined person. I'm stronger than I ever knew I could be. Cancer couldn't take that from me.
Fuck you, cancer. Fuck you where it hurts. You smacked me around and tried to make me tap out but guess what...
I'M STILL STANDING.
I started an aggressive chemo plan on April 5, 2012. I lost all my hair (yep, even there). I lost my energy. I lost my ability to focus and remember things. My hands and fingers ached from the chemo-caused neuropathy. I never lost my wit or my undeniable charm. (Snicker.) A year later, I'm still standing.
On September 17, 2012, I had my right breast removed. Cut off. Amputated. I had a crazy milk jug-feeling tissue expander sewn into me and some lovely bruises and scars that earned the nickname, "Frankenboob." I had drains that looked like testicles coming out of my side. The bruises faded, the drains came out and Frankenboob's scars have healed quite nicely. A year later, I'm still standing.
I began 6 weeks' worth of radiation treatments on October 15, 2012 that left me with Texas fried skin. I was crunchy, burnt and peeling and experienced the worst fatigue since chemo. I still have some darkened areas of skin, but it's pretty much back to normal now. A year later, I'm still standing.
In 39 days, on April 22, 2013, I will have my final reconstruction surgery to give me new, cancer-free boobies (and a flat tummy to boot!). It'll be a longer recovery than the first surgery and I may be hunched over while my incisions heal, but you know what? I'll STILL be standing.
All of the things I've experienced in the last year have made me a more determined person. I'm stronger than I ever knew I could be. Cancer couldn't take that from me.
Fuck you, cancer. Fuck you where it hurts. You smacked me around and tried to make me tap out but guess what...
I'M STILL STANDING.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
No more Grammi-locks!
I finally decided to color my hair back to "Nancy" brown. Sure, the grey was lovely and all but for God's sake... I'm only 42. The next person that said, "oh, you should keep it" was going to get a chop to the trachea. Really? I'm pretty sure that not ONE of my friends that are around my age would dream of letting their hair go grey. My own mother is 62 and her hair is still colored! I'm glad that they were being kind but come on...
The lack of maintenance was a great but looking like Matt's frumpy sugar mama cougar was not. Yes, I'm vain like that. Now I just look like his little dorky brother. Even better.
I love when people ask if I'm going to keep it short. Um, do I have a choice? In the six months since it's been growing back, it's still only about an inch and a half long at its longest. Even if I let it grow back to the shoulder length I had previously, it would take a couple of years. Ain't nobody got time for that!
I really do like having short hair. I can get up, take a shower and get all dolled up (yeah, I snickered just typing that) in less than 30 minutes. That's fan-damn-tastic. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night messes up my hair. My hair is like the fucking mailman sans the goofy socks and attitude.
Just like my boobs, my hair certainly doesn't define me but having post-chemo shorty short grey hair made me feel like I was still in transition mode. Now I feel - and think I look - like I got this 'do on purpose.
Look out... The old Nancy is peeking out!
The lack of maintenance was a great but looking like Matt's frumpy sugar mama cougar was not. Yes, I'm vain like that. Now I just look like his little dorky brother. Even better.
I love when people ask if I'm going to keep it short. Um, do I have a choice? In the six months since it's been growing back, it's still only about an inch and a half long at its longest. Even if I let it grow back to the shoulder length I had previously, it would take a couple of years. Ain't nobody got time for that!
I really do like having short hair. I can get up, take a shower and get all dolled up (yeah, I snickered just typing that) in less than 30 minutes. That's fan-damn-tastic. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night messes up my hair. My hair is like the fucking mailman sans the goofy socks and attitude.
Just like my boobs, my hair certainly doesn't define me but having post-chemo shorty short grey hair made me feel like I was still in transition mode. Now I feel - and think I look - like I got this 'do on purpose.
Look out... The old Nancy is peeking out!
Saturday, March 2, 2013
This is me.
Tomorrow, 3.3.13, is Triple Negative Breast Cancer Day. I refuse to celebrate this cancer. I choose to celebrate life.
This is my right breast now. It's scarred from a mastectomy. It's darkened from radiation. It's unnaturally shaped and uncomfortable from the expander within.
We need awareness for cancer of all kinds - not just breast cancer. As I always say, be vigilant. Listen to your body. You're your own best advocate.
Praying for a cure.
This is my right breast now. It's scarred from a mastectomy. It's darkened from radiation. It's unnaturally shaped and uncomfortable from the expander within.
We need awareness for cancer of all kinds - not just breast cancer. As I always say, be vigilant. Listen to your body. You're your own best advocate.
Praying for a cure.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Mud!
I love my sister! She organized and participated in a Dirty Girl Mud Run this past weekend. Their theme is breast cancer awareness. There's one in Houston this coming October that we want to sign up for! Fingers crossed that all of my incisions are healed by then!
Check them out! www.godirtygirl.com
You know it's a good time when you get mud in your teeth!
Xoxoxo, Jenny. You're the shit.
Check them out! www.godirtygirl.com
You know it's a good time when you get mud in your teeth!
Xoxoxo, Jenny. You're the shit.
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