Loyalty

Posted: June 26, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

The news of our beloved Red Sox trading Kevin Youkilis got me thinking about loyalty. It’s an under-appreciated trait, IMHO, and its value tends to be most noticed in its absence.

Youk was one of my favorite players, both for his on-field production and for his feisty attitude. He spoke his mind and took the heat that ensued from fans and press who prefer their players to shut up and play. He was part of the Red Sox from 2001, and was an integral part of the roster that my family fell in love with in our early days of Sox indoctrination. I’ll never forget this little Sox fan asking me what his beloved Nomar did wrong when he was traded in 2004. This loyal fan didn’t yet understand that baseball is not just his favorite game, but a business as well, and players are commodities that are moved and used to ensure financial success. It’s a hard-learned lesson and one that removed forever a piece of my little guy’s innocence.

Despite Youk’s last name, he’s not actually Greek but this Greek girl considers him an honorary countryman. In the wildly successful book Moneyball, author Michael Lewis christened Youk “Euclis: The Greek God of Walks” and the nickname stuck. I appreciated Youk for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was his record for most consecutive errorless games at first base (until Casey Kotchman came along, anyway). He’s scrappy and intense, and as Boston Globe writer Jackie MacMullan so aptly described, “He does not look like an MVP candidate; more a refrigerator repairman, a butcher, the man selling hammers behind the counter at the True Value hardware store.”

mlb.si.com

I’m thinking he could easily pass for a crew member on “The Deadliest Catch” as well. All part of his charm. His Gold-Glove-Award-winning, three-time MLB All Star, and two-time World Series champion self will be greatly missed by this member of Red Sox nation. Upon my first visit to Fenway, a decade ago, I couldn’t understand why fans uniformly booed Youk when he came up to bat. I quickly realized they weren’t booing but chanting “Yoooooooooouk!”  I hope to see many jerseys sporting #20 when we go to Fenway in August. I’ll be wearing mine.

mlb.si.com

Is it strange to feel so sad seeing our current favorite player hugging an outgoing Sox mainstay? Is it weird to feel bereft about a player’s departure from a favorite team? Is it naive to want everything to stay the same? Sometimes loyalty brings great sadness; to pledge oneself opens one up to vulnerability. And unfortunately, loyalty does come and go. I learned this firsthand when given a cancer diagnosis.

A crisis, whether health or other, galvanizes some and chases away others. Friends show their true selves, for good and for bad. Some of the people I most expected to be there for me upon diagnosis and in the trying days beyond were the first to depart. The reasons are as varied as the people. I imagine fear is top among the list of reasons people flee when a close friend is given shockingly bad news. While everyone knows in their rational brain that cancer isn’t contagious, the proximity of a dreaded disease causes some people to distance themselves from the afflicted person. Personally, I don’t get that, as I was brought up to believe that a time of crisis is the best time to be by a friend’s side. This lesson was reaffirmed and underscored tenfold as new friends appeared on the scene in my hour of need. Y’all know who you are, and I thank you, again and again. Another reason for the exodus is lack of loyalty. My sweet mama used to tell me it’s easy to be a good friend when everything is peachy, but the real friends, the loyal friends, will be there when things aren’t so peachy. As usual, she was right.

Confucius said, “The scholar does not consider gold and jade to be precious treasures, but loyalty and good faith.” I’m not much of a scholar, but I do treasure loyalty.

 

 

Fighting from the front lines

Posted: March 22, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

I’m always on the lookout for inspiring stories about cancer: patients, survivors, battles won, valiant fights fought. This story found me, via the local newspaper last week, and it’s been on my mind ever since. I am bowled away by this woman. Her attitude is nothing short of fantastic, and her drive to make a difference in the “war on cancer” is inspiring, for sure. Because I’m juggling 4th grade homework on units of measure and a 7th grade study guide on Texas history with the usual chores, animal herding, and the ever-elusive hunt for something healthy/yummy/pleasing to 4 different palates before another weeknight at the baseball fields, I’m going to just relay this story simply and without a lot of editorializing. You’re welcome.

Chisa Echendu had her eye on a doctorate in medical research from Baylor College of Medicine, right here in good ol’ Houston. The 32-year-old Nigerian native had every intention of spending her career in a lab, peering into a microscope and solving medical mysteries.

But then the doctor became the patient as she found a lump in her breast in 2006. At age 26 and halfway through her molecular virology doctorate, Chisa was diagnosed with breast cancer.

“I didn’t think it was serious,” she said. “I was 26, I didn’t have a family history. I was busy in the lab, busy with publications.”

Cancer, however, has no regard for one’s schedule, plans, hopes, or dreams. Chisa learned this first-hand. After her diagnosis, Chisa’s professors suggested she put her studies on the back burner while she faced chemo, surgery, and radiation. But Chisa said no. She was determined to make sure cancer didn’t steal everything from her. She remained resolute in her goal of finishing school, and her attitude is inspiring. She said, “I didn’t want a pity party, I just wanted to be like everyone else and take care of my business. People go through more challenging things in life. I had hope to get well, good resources, good physician tools. Some people are worse — without anything — and they just keep going.”

Instead of feeling sorry for herself or asking “why me?” Chisa not only pushed through the endless parade of problems one confronts with a cancer diagnosis, she refocused her goal. After enduring endless doctor’s appointment, multiple body scans and medical tests, chemo brain, recovery from surgery, and fatigue from radiation, Chisa decided to get out of the lab and fight cancer from the front lines as a radiation oncologist. So after 4 years of med school, she will take on another 5 years of training to help others on this wretched cancer “journey.”

Being a young breast cancer survivor filled Chisa with “more of a sense of urgency” in pursuing her goals. “I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. There is no time to complain or make excuses. Like everyone who goes through difficult times, you gain more strength, a sense that you can accomplish anything you want to do.”

With 2-year-old twin daughters at home and a lot of schoolwork ahead of her, Chisa is proving that she can indeed do anything she wants to do. What an inspiration.

Cupcakes

Posted: January 23, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

No, this post isn’t really about cupcakes. Sorry. It’s about a funny shirt and stupid people.

I wore this shirt to the gym on Friday and then to run errands afterward. I meant to write about it then but was busy being the hostess with the mostess and am just now getting to it. Anyhoo, the shirt:

My friend Jodie sent it to me in the midst of my cancer “journey” and I howled with laughter. I wore it proudly after my mastectomy and before reconstruction, when my chest was flat as a board and very conducive to easy reading. I wear it proudly now after reconstruction, and will continue washing it on delicate and hanging it to dry in hopes of prolonging its life.

I usually get a comment or a sly smile from my fellow gym rats when I wear this shirt, but Friday I encountered two older ladies who didn’t appreciate the humor. The first one looked at me and tsk-tsked then told her friend how inappropriate she thought it was to make light of such a serious situation. She wondered aloud why our club doesn’t have a strict dress code.

Really??

You know me, I couldn’t let it go. Just couldn’t turn the other cheek and walk away.

I said excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear (not that she was trying to be discreet in her criticisms) what you said about my shirt. I’m curious what exactly about it bugs you? She replied that she thinks it’s disrespectful for people to be flippant when they know nothing of the disease.

Oh boy.

I pointed out as nicely as I could (which probably wasn’t really all that nice) that I do indeed know something of “the disease.” She looked a bit surprised when I told her that I myself had breast cancer and am proud to be a survivor. I like the fact that people in the gym who don’t know me see my shirt and realize that cancer survivors can get on with life. I’ve had several people tell me that seeing me at the gym is inspiring to them, and on days when they’re struggling through their workout, they see me hitting it hard and decide to step it up a bit. After all, if the girl who had cancer can do it, they can, too.

But Judgemental Lady didn’t see it that way, apparently. See, she thought there’s no way I could be a cancer survivor because I’m too young. Women my age don’t get breast cancer, she says.

Let’s just say that she got a bit more education on that topic than she might have wanted.

I informed her and her friend that according to the American Cancer Society, nearly 20,000 breast cancer diagnoses a year are delivered to women younger than 45. That my breast surgeon has performed bilateral mastectomies on women younger than me. That my OB-GYN — who diagnosed me — recently diagnosed a women who is 27 years old. That young women with breast cancer fight a different battle than their older counterparts, for many reasons: facing more aggressive cancers and lower survival rates, (hopefully) battling the beast for more years than we’ve been alive, a lack of effective screening for women under 40, being underrepresented in research, having young kids at home, dealing with fertility issues, enduring early menopause, and struggling with serious body-image issues being among the more egregious.

No charge for the lesson, lady.

I set her straight and went on about my business. While waiting in line to return a coat that was too small for Piper (yes, little piggies do need a coat, even in Houston), a lady told me she liked my shirt.

Oh, really? How refreshing.

She went on to ask if it was a fundraiser for cancer. I had to think about that for a minute, and while I was trying to figure out what in the sam hell she meant, she started blabbing about a bake sale her kid’s school did for cancer. She thought my shirt referred to a bake sale! Now that’s a new one.

I explained that no, it’s not a fundraiser and it’s not a bake sale, that I myself had breast cancer. She still looked puzzled, so I spelled it out for her: “cupcakes” is a euphemism for breasts, and mine “licked cancer” by defeating the wily beast that was laying siege to my body. I guess technically my cupcakes didn’t lick cancer, but my surgeons did by amputating said cupcakes, but that seemed like more detail than the conversation warranted. She smiled at me in the manner one would smile at a deranged lunatic on the loose and scooched her shopping cart back a little bit.

I don’t care what the general public thinks; I love my shirt and will continue to wear it proudly. Judgemental old ladies and bake-sale zealots be damned.

 

2 friends

Posted: October 14, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Two of my friends got the dreaded call from their OB-GYNs after their routine mammogram. The call that makes you sweat. The call that makes you wish you’d refused to pick up the phone. The call that makes you wonder how the person on the other end of the line can be so calm when you’re freaking out. The call that sets in place a chain of events that have the power to change your life forever.

How ironic that out of all the women in the world, and out of all the women I know personally, and out of all the women I consider friends, two of them got the call. On the same day.

It stinks.

It’s not fair.

I don’t like it.

But that’s the reality of breast cancer.

It’s indiscriminate. It cares nothing for age — both of my friends are under 40. It cares nothing for financial status. It cares nothing for how well or how poorly one treats one’s body. It strikes old and young, wealthy and struggling, health nuts and McDonald’s junkies. That’s the reality. There’s very little rhyme or reason to it. It’s a crapshoot.

I’ve said it before and will continue saying it: I’m so sick of cancer.

The reality of any kind of cancer is shitty. I can’t think of a better word for it. Any cancer is shitty. I speak of the shittiness of breast cancer because that’s the one I know, but I certainly don’t think it’s the only cancer that is shitty. Just a disclaimer and an affirmation that all cancer is shitty. And proof that I really like using the word shitty. And shittiness.

There is of course a good chance that both of my friends will escape breast cancer’s grasp. I’m hopeful that the follow-up ultrasound/MRI/biopsy shows nothing. Calcifications, fibroids, dense tissue, cysts. There are lots of things it could be, and the rate of false negatives is something to hang on to in these situations. The National Cancer Institute puts that false-negative rate at 10 percent. I’m hopeful. “False-positive mammogram results can lead to anxiety and other forms of psychological distress in affected women. The additional testing required to rule out cancer can also be costly and time consuming and can cause physical discomfort,” according to the NCI website. Really? Ya think?

That’s ok. Both of my friends can take the costly, time-consuming, and uncomfortable aspects of the additional testing. It’s the anxiety-causing aspects that are hell. The thoughts that run through one’s mind between receiving the dreaded phone call and getting the additional testing can make one crazy. Then there’s the infernal waiting period between the additional testing and receiving results. It’s a wonder we’re not all stark-raving maniacs popping sedatives every hour on the hour.

This is the reality of breast cancer.

Even when it hasn’t struck, when it’s a mere possibility instead of a certainty. Even when it hasn’t infiltrated your life for real, it has the power to mess you up.  Way before actual diagnosis, the reality of breast cancer is harsh and unrelenting. And guess what? Even after “getting through it” in terms of receiving the dreaded phone call, having the additional testing done, hearing the actual diagnosis, making the decisions necessary, and undergoing surgery and/or treatment, it’s harsh and unrelenting. Coming to grips with one’s new body. Dealing with the mountains of paperwork and bills. Keeping abreast (haha) of the latest research. Deciding what lifestyle changes to make or not make. Navigating the psychological fracas. Coming face-to-face with mortality. Moving through the treacherous stages of emotional distress. Facing the ever-present prospect of recurrence.

This is the reality of breast cancer.

One of my two friends fell victim to crappy insurance. She had some symptoms that caught her attention months ago but waited to get it checked out until the new, better insurance took effect. Even in the suburban bubble, where affluence reigns, insurance hassles prevail.

Which leads me to remind everyone to please take a few seconds out of your day to vote for The Rose in The Pink Well Challenge that I mentioned yesterday. The Rose helps women who don’t live in an affluent bubble get access to the breast health care that can make a real difference in their lives. If you’ve ever spent one second thinking how lucky you are to have whatever version of insurance you have, this is your chance to give back. If you have no insurance and you’ve spent more than one second worrying about that, this is your chance to help others in the same boat. If you have great insurance and have never had a health worry, I don’t want to talk to you right now but you can still help. 🙂

It’s easy to help, but time is running out. Click on The Pink Well Challenge link above or right here, click “VOTE NOW,” enter your email address, check your email for the access-granting link (do it now, not later because I don’t want you to forget), click the link, scroll down to charity #137, enter “10” in the box on the far right, and submit. Tell your friends and nag your family members.

And keep your fingers crossed for my two friends.

Amy’s take

Posted: October 10, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , | 7 Comments

Hi,

It’s Amy H this time.  Guest Blogger, yet again.

Now before you get all worried that something has struck Nancy down or she’s in a morphine haze, puking or both as is the usual case when I blog for her, let me tell you that she is doing just fine…thankyouverymuch!

I have the distinct and unique pleasure of accompanying Nancy on her visits to the famous (or infamous?) Dr. S.  Just very recently, one of “our” visits happened.  Nancy & I connected the day before just to handle logistics.  Here’s the texts so you know how we figure stuff out:

Me on the day before:  “S at 2right?  Lunch?”

Her: “Yes!!  What works for you?”

Me: “Amy p wants to do lunch. you want to pick me up at 1245 and go get that good salad at the brew house?”

Her: “Perfect. Amy P meeting us there?”

Me: “I’ll tell her to”

That’s the extent of our conversation until she rolled in at 12:45 to pick me up…..in the Fiat…just sayin’….but with no top down….I should have picked up on the mood….

Hey, how are you??

“HORRIBLE!!!!” and then Nancy launches into a tirade that you won’t believe about her morning.  I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that things didn’t work out the way they played out in Nancy’s head for that morning, and not because she had unrealistic expectations. THEN she gets a text meant to alert her to some bad business. It was a nudge of sorts, to ask “have you checked this out?”…. again, not going into details except to say that there was a certain “liberty” taken which shouldn’t have been taken….and it affected Nancy….  Let me add that it’s just one of those “times” for Nancy.  And I don’t mean “time of the month,” just one of those times where there seems to be no one who understands the “journey” that Nancy has been on.  She feels alone.  So, the little, everyday, bad times are just the tip of the iceberg.  And then her frustrations with the cancer “journey” make themselves known through the everyday occurrences of her life.  She does such a great job holding things together and then some everyday, seemingly miniscule inconvenience is like the prick of a pin on a balloon.  Just so you know, it’s not an overreaction, mind you, because each of these events is definitely cause for frustration, it’s just that these frustrations allow her the liberty to vent when she typically holds it together.  Does that make sense?

So, we meet Amy P. at lunch.  Anything to drink?

Nancy, “I’ll have a beer.”

Well, alrighty then, twist my arm, I wouldn’t want you to drink a beer all by your lonesome at lunch time.

Hey, we’re sort of in a hurry so we are going to order, too.

Nancy says, “I’m not hungry, I’m just going to go with my beer.”

Amy & I echo, “What? We could have cancelled lunch if you  had already eaten….”

Nancy emphatically replies, “NO!! I need this but I’m just not hungry!”  We had a great girls’ lunch — talking about things, some everyday, some not so everyday.  Most people would look at our easy banter from afar and not realize that at times we were discussing surgery, doctors, treatments at other times carpool, dinner prep AND Nancy’s horrible morning.

We say adios to Amy P. then we head over to see good ole Dr. S!  We are greeted, as usual by Marcy & Brenda, Dr. S’s employees who have become our friends over the past year or so.  Brenda is ready for us to come back to the exam room and calls “Mrs. Hicks?” with a casual smile and ushers us out of the waiting area.  Brenda only uses formalities when other patients are in the waiting room.

Nancy always scoffs at this address when Brenda does that saying, “Puh lease, Brenda, really? It’s Nancy!”

I point out, “Nancy, you know she only does that when there are other patients waiting. Brenda needs to keep up the professional appearances!” (As an aside to the Dr. S. camp blog readers, Brenda is always professional, as is Marcy.  It’s just nice knowing that there’s a familiarity that allows them to give Nancy the comfort of addressing her by her first name.)

Brenda hands Nancy the not-so-customary white paper gown.  What happened to the fancy blue paper gowns?  Things are slightly amiss.  Brenda turns to leave with a chuckle and a twinkle in her eye, knowing Nancy well and her need for the familiar in this still unfamiliar medical world.

Marcy walks in, really to say, “Hi” but with Nancy’s thick file in her arms as the excuse to peek in. “Hey, how are you?” We all exchange pleasantries that seem simple on appearance but truly are fraught with more meaning.  We’ve shared more than the burden of Nancy’s “cancer journey,” and the four of us relish these stolen moments to catch up on each other’s lives outside of Dr. S’s presence and all under pretext of the “patient’s visit.”  I write this so you know how most of the office visits to Nancy’s caregivers go.  They become her friends.  They are the fabric of her life now, too.  Not just mere staff.  She’s concerned about them, bakes cookies for them, inquires about their families, knows their birthdays.

In strides the good Dr. S.  “Hi, Nancy!  How are you?” he asks with a big smile. This is the 4th visit in a row that it is apparent he is in a VERY good mood!  Nancy has barely had time to let us get her into the paper gown–opening to the front.  Marcy quick steps back to the front desk and Brenda steps out of the way in the exam room. Good, he’s on time and we won’t be late for carpool.  He knows how much she hates to wait, and I certainly am glad we didn’t have to resort to slipping a note under the other exam-room door to tell him to hurry up, as we have been known to do.

Nancy replies to his greeting, “I am having a TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY.”  (She really didn’t say that but he got the point.)

“Why, Naancee?  Why are you having a bad day?” (sorry, not sure how to put his accent in there.)

I intercept this one, “Well, such and such happened and then something else.”  I actually used the actual incidences.

Then Nancy interjected, “About that something else……” as she discussed in more detail the latest angst of the day.  It was a bad day, mind you.

Dr. S slipped into exam mode, eyeing Nancy’s reconstructed body with a critical gaze.  I am amazed at how Nancy’s body continues to heal.  It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve last seen her in all her glory and the “17 inch scar–and I’ve measured it!” looks like the crease that your underwear would make on your tummy if it was too tight.  Really amazing.

Dr. S. steps back, looks at this, palpates that, getting a figure on how he’s going to finish the masterpiece.  He mumbles to himself and has me hold a hand mirror so Nancy can peer at his intended adjustments. She didn’t even want to look, but we made her.

As an aside, he mentions that he has had “two messages from us.  One from you.” Indicating me. “And one from her.”Indicating Nancy.

“When did I message you?”

“You know, you were going to meet me in Denver!”

“Huh?”  Come to find out our good doctor has misinterpreted his messages.  Nancy and I are planning to attend one of his local conferences on the fat transfer process and he thought I was meeting him at his recent Denver conference.  Yeah, right.  I’m a stay at home mom.  I don’t have the time or the budget to be hopping around attending the fat transfer conferences of fancy schmancy plastic surgeons outside of the Houston area!  And besides, I’d only texted him that one time when he was in New Orleans and I had a restaurant recommendation for him–which he took my advice on, I might add….

He quickly changes gears, “So, Nancy, you know…about this bad day….”  He then goes in, and with the gentleness of a long-time friend, conveys to Nancy what I’ve long known are his feelings. “You know, I could not have done the work I’ve done, if you were the type of patient who didn’t do her work.  I have been able to stand by you KNOWING that you were going to do your homework and do what I asked you to when it comes down to what matters.  You have allowed me to do my best. You know, Nancy, this day is just a bad spot, and that situation is just a situation.  If you allow it to control you then you have ultimately lost control and that’s not the Nancy I know.”  He went on to wax philosophical about a situation with a former patient and also his insight on the infection that Nancy had.  But ultimately it was the highest compliment that he could have ever paid her.  I was struck by his gentleness, sincerity, kindness and, dare I say it? Love.

In the midst of this conversation he had been commenting on her skin and I agreed with his assessment.  Dr. S doesn’t think he’s going to have to cut  and stitch an area on her revision because Nancy’s skin is so resilient.  He will just make some adjustments internally and that’s it, no cuts necessary.  Her skin will adapt.  Nancy will adapt.

I look back and Nancy’s eyes give her feelings away.  All the talk about how good the newly constructed chest looks was too much. It was the tipping point in this already-terrible day. ‘YOUJUSTDONTUNDERSTAND!!!!’ these eyes are shouting, and nearly overflowing with the tears that are threatening. “That’s easy for you to say with you both sitting over there without all of THIS going on!”  indicating her body. She actually verbalizes this. It’s a statement and a challenge. She adds that if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was looking at Dr S’s masterpiece-quality work on someone else’s body — anybody’s body but hers — she too would say it looks great. But it’s her body, not someone else’s. And no matter how good the masterpiece is, it’s never going to be the same. She has had ENOUGH of this day!  I know enough to steer Dr. S’s attention from her so she can blink her tears away without him seeing her angst.

He finishes the conversation with another compliment about her resilience and strength and then tops it off with a decision on a final revision date.  Oh Happy Day!  A FINAL revision date!  Did he say final??

We wrap up the visit with some yada yada yada and signatures over surgery paperwork, scheduling our next visit—Marcy kindly penciling us in so we can make it out again next time for carpool.  Marcy confiding to us in a whisper after we inquired about her. Nancy making some smarty pants remark about how she’ll cry in front of Dr. S over her dead body.  I called her on that one, “Oh yeah?  You nearly did it today!”

“Could you tell?” she quickly inquired with concern.

“I could….but not him.”

On the way home I could not even convey to Nancy how she is so right.  We aren’t in her place.  We truly DON’T understand–even those of you on your own “cancer journey” can’t really understand her unique “journey.” I hate that she feels so alone at times, probably most of the time. But we are here.  Trevor, her kids, you, me, all of us.  Even Dr. S.  And we all love her.

Sausage casing

Posted: September 8, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: , , , , | 6 Comments

It’s been 2 weeks since my revision surgery; the good news is I’m healing. The bruising that I subjected y’all to seeing is much, much better thanks mostly to my stellar lymphedema and massage specialist, Tammy. She did some manual lymph drainage on my bruised areas Friday, and by Sunday the bruising was almost gone. For real. The bad news is that the healing is ongoing. Why is that bad news? Because I’m impatient, man, and I’m ready to be done with this stage so I can get back to my regular life — albeit temporarily, in between revisions — and pretend to be a normal person who’s not affected by cancer.

Yes, I know, I’m far from normal. And yes, I know I’m waaaaaay affected by cancer. And furthermore, I know it’s never over. But I’m impatient nonetheless.

In addition to being an impatient patient in general, I’m so super ready to be done with this latest round of healing for two rather large reasons: it’s perfect weather for tennis, yet I can’t play; and I’m sick to death of the compression garment.

This is what mine looks like — although that’s not me in the photo; it’s someone from googleimages. My garment, which I refer to as sausage casing, comes up higher beyond my waist and goes down lower. It’s basically a thick fabric (mostly spandex but way thicker than workout clothes) with a 4-inch-wide waistband that sits just under my newly plumped breasts and ends mid-calf. It has a zipper on each leg that extends from mid-thigh to the top of the waistband, and multiple hook & eye closures under the zipper. Lovely, huh? I’m not sure which is worse, the fact that it is HOT or the fact that I have to wear it 24/7. It’s still summertime in Houston, with highs in the mid-90s. The sausage casing is not a warm-weather accessory. Both of those facts are sucky to the nth degree.

What’s the purpose of the sausage casing, besides an instrument of cruel & unusual punishment for the unlucky recipient of random gene mutation that causes breast cancer in an otherwise healthy 40-year-old woman? That’s a question I’ve pondered a lot over the last 14 days. The last LONG 14 days.

The theory is that the sausage casing reduces movement of the skin that’s been traumatized/sliced & diced/sucked out/reallocated, et al. Ideally, the skin needs to stay in a compressed state and it needs to avoid any unnecessarily movements, because unnecessary movements can affect internal wounds and get in the way of healing. The garment also decreases swelling and promotes the flow of blood and lymph fluids, working to move the yucky stuff (blood from the massive bruising and other toxins) out of the body.

That’s all well and good, but let me tell you people, the sausage casing is not comfortable. Not one bit. It’s HOT (did I mention that??) and while the spandex helps it look and feel sleek and soft, it’s still thick and tight. It also irritates the back of my knees when they bend, and sometimes it bunches up like old-lady pantyhose and has to be yanked and tugged back into place. I try not to do that in public, but sometimes I can’t stand it. The damned thing is snug enough that one spot on my right hip is caved in (see the right hip area in the photo above). Yep, caved in. And yes, it can be permanent. Dr S was a little concerned about it during my visit yesterday, and if he’s concerned, so am I. He had a solution, of course, but I’m still a bit concerned. His solution? Extra padding, because the sausage casing isn’t enough to deal with. So now, in addition to the sausage casing and its bulky zippers, I have a wad of soft cotton stuffed in the casing, between my caved-in skin and the second-skin of my garment. The wad of cotton shifts around a bit, so I’m constantly having to adjust it to make sure it stays between me and the point of the garment that is caving me in. This means that I’m not only yanking and tugging the sausage casing, I’m reaching in over the waistband to rearrange the wad of cotton. I know, it’s mesmerizingly attractive, right? Stop the ride, I want to get off. Enough already.

I guess it could be worse — I could have the sausage casing on my face:

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