It’s Halloween, and what could be more terrifying (for me) than to find myself eyeball-to-eyeball with the dreaded oral antibiotics? Not much scares me after dealing with cancer and its many-tentacled aftereffects, but these drugs certainly do make me want to run screaming from the building.
Bactrim & Minocycline, the drugs I dutifully swallowed twice a day every day for 267 days, are back. Just a quick 10-day course this time around, as a preventative measure following Thursday’s revision surgery. No big whoop, right?
Uh, not so much.
I gladly received two giant bags of IV antibiotics in the OR Thursday. Levaquin and Vancomycin are the old standbys, and they coursed through my veins Thursday morning like a herd of mighty stallions clearing the path of any wily mycobacterium that might be hanging around after last year’s post-mastectomy infection. IV abx don’t bother me one bit, but the oral ones give me the heebie-jeebies.
After puking my brains out all the livelong day after surgery, I was not ready to swallow those pills. I put it off as long as I could, and had to have a “come to Jesus” meeting with Trevor to make me get back onboard the abx train.
You would think that after taking these drugs for 267 days, a mere 10 days would be a piece of cake.
You would be wrong.
Something inside me seized up and said “Uh-uh, no way, not gonna do it.”
I couldn’t convince myself to start taking these drugs.
Trevor astutely pointed out that instead of seeing this short course as easy, my brain sees it as the equivalent of swimming the English Channel because I’ve used up my lifetime supply of mental and physical tolerance.
He’s clever that way.
I knew I had to take them, of course. I knew the risk of re-infection vastly outweighed the inconvenience of taking the drugs. But I also knew just how awful I was going to feel, and while my rational brain said take the drugs, my irrational self whined like a tired toddler way past naptime.
One dose in, on Saturday, my tastebuds were already shot. I tried to savor one last glass of champagne, to toast surviving yet another surgery and to say salud to my improved shape. But the damage had been done, and my lifetime supply of physical tolerance was exhausted. Cue the nausea, the roiling tummy, the overall puniness, the malaise, and the distinct feeling that something died in my mouth. Nothing, and I mean nothing sounds good to me. Not even Halloween candy. And I really like candy. Especially Twizzlers.
I spent the weekend feeling sorry for myself and wondering how long it will take this time to get back to “normal.”
So far no sign of the elusive “normal.”
Macy sent me off to surgery with her best buds, Froggy and Baby Snoopy. They kept me company Thursday in the triage area while I awaited the arrival of my favorite surgeon and his pack of Sharpies. The nurses who took my vitals and started my IV thought it was so cute that my little girl sent her posse to look after me. I explained that she’s only 9 but she’s wise beyond her years.
Pedey the Weasel Dog kept me company all weekend and happily obliged my sedentary schedule. He’s really, really good at being lazy and laying low, and I’m trying to take a page out of his book.
Y’all are in for a treat today. Sit down, grab a beverage, put your phone on vibrate for this, because you’ll want to read this uninterrupted. My friend David has created a marvelous original piece just for Underbelly readers. He’s enormously talented with the prose and the pen, and as if the story itself isn’t enough, the illustrations are fabulous. I think it’s terrific, and it’s a perfect recap of my cancer-versary, which I feel compelled to continue celebrating. I favor the total birthday week, so likewise I may have a cancer-versary festival for as many days as my liver can stand. IMHO, now is always the right time to pop open some bubbly (I like later, too).
Those of you who have followed my story over the last year, with all its ups & downs, will know of my special relationship with my plastic surgeon. He and I have really gotten to know each other well during my “cancer journey,” and while I tease him sometimes (and drive him crazy all of the time), I have enormous respect for him and his amazing craft. We have a closer-than-normal bond because of the post-op care I’ve needed, and he’s been there for me every step of the way: entertaining me, enlightening me, engaging me, but in the end, taking phenomenal care of me. I trust him with my body and with my life. His work is simply stunning, and I’ve seen firsthand how he can transform a cancer-ravaged, wrecked body into not just a vessel for our souls but also a work of art.
So, in honour of my favorite doctor, I give you…
The Wubbulous Dr. S
And of all plastic surgeons, I’m strictly the best.
I see your mastectomy’s left you flat-chested,
Well, my reconstructions have never been bested!
If it’s hooters you want, then it’s hooters I’ve got.
I’ll shape up your shape till you’re hotter than hot.
You want to be buxom, then buxom you’ll be—
and you’ll be the envy of all that you see!
How can I do this? I’ll try to explain,
But it may be too much for your non-Doctor’s brain.
For, once I unveil this special contraption,
You’ll be quite amazed—it’s a natural reaction.
Behold! I give you the Balloon-Boob-U-Latron,
Which will stack up your rack to the stars and beyond!
And with this little dial on the side, I can choose
Whether you will get Double-D’s or…W’s.
So step right on up and I’ll rev up the engine.
By week after next, you’ll get LOTS of attention.”
“It sounds,” I replied, “Just too good to be true,
And besides, I don’t want DD or W.
I’m happy with simply a B or a C.”
“Nonsense.” He retorted, “Just listen to me.
As I said, I’m a DOCTOR. I’m SMARTER than you.
I’ve got major degrees coming out the wazoo.
You just sit back and whistle, while I do my stuff.
I’m starting the engine. You’ve said quite enough.”
And he chose Double-J on that knob on the side.
And I sat there and whistled. That’s all I could do.
But then two hours later he said, “We are through.
Behold! They’re magnificent!” Then I looked down.
“I don’t see a difference.” I said with a frown.
“Of course not.” He said, “For your eyes are untrained,
But I am a DOCTOR. I’m quite largely-brained.
They’re just getting started. You’ll see. They will GROW.
Trust me. I’m the best—Dr. S—and I KNOW.”
I went home, kissed my kids, then I laid down to rest,
And when I woke up, I saw shape in my chest.
Not much, I admit, but the doctor was right.
They were growing. And kept growing all through the night.
I woke up next morning, completely in shock.
I couldn’t believe it and, quick, called the doc.
“Dr. S,” I said, “Now for the shocker of shockers.
Something,” I shouted, “is wrong with my knockers.
The one on the left’s growing stronger than strong,
But the one on the RIGHT is decidedly WRONG.”
“Hmmm. You’d better come in,” Dr. S said. “I’m fairly
Sure something has happened that happens quite rarely.”
When he saw me, he flinched. I was very lopsided.
“You have an infection,” the doctor confided.
“A mycobacterium. That is my hunch,
And my LARGE doctor’s brain knows these things by the BUNCH.
I know just what to do. There’s no need to debate it.
The one on the left…we’ll just have to deflate it.
And we have other options to give you new breasts,
But I am a DOCTOR, and doctors run TESTS.
I’ll get back to you shortly. Just wait and you’ll see.
Meanwhile, I’ll send you to deflating room B.”
So my boob was deflated, and so was my mood,
And the next time I saw Dr. S, I was rude.
“Look here, Dr. S,” I said. “I mean no trouble,
But I live inside of the SUGAR LAND Bubble.
I know you’re a DOCTOR, but I say, what of it?
You can take your Balloon-Boob-U-Latron and just shove it!”
“Tut, tut,” Dr. S said. “I expected as much.
A Sugar Land patient needs a delicate touch.
I’ve run many tests on your bodice, you see,
And the answer’s so clear for a Doctor like me.
What you need is a TRAM FLAP procedure! I know,
Because I am a DOCTOR, so on with the show!
Since you’re a non-Doctor, I’ll lend you a hand:
TRAM FLAP stands for ‘Tit Repositioning And
Moving Fat Like A Puzzle’, which quite simply means
That you’ll have to gain weight. So, goodbye, skinny jeans!
You must grow a big belly to give me the fat
That I’ll move to your boobies, to make them un-flat.
So go forth and EAT! Eat ice cream! Drink shakes!
Gobble bon bons and beignets and beezlenut cakes!
Grow the fat for new hooters. Get busy. Get LARGE.
(The fat on your ass you can keep, at no charge.)
And because I’m a DOCTOR, I must prescribe PILLS!
Pills for THIS and for THAT and for medical bills.
The mycobacterium must go away,
So you must take these pills twenty-four hours a day.
AND because this procedure is tricky as treacle,
I’ll need an assistant. Please, meet Dr. Spiegel.”
Then in walked a woman so lithe and so smart
That I almost felt jealousy deep in my heart.
So, now I had Drs. S1 and S2,
One doc for each boob. What the sam hell to do?
And as soon as I met with S1 and S2,
It became quite apparent (as things often do)
That a struggle for power was starting to brew
About which doc was MY doc,
And who was the MAIN doc,
And who would I see when this process was through?
So for weeks I ate pastries, popped pills, and drank shakes
(And martinis and beers because that’s what it takes)
Till I had so much weight in my belly and butt
That I bore a resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.
At my next appointment, they pinched, poked, and prodded,
And at last both my doctors stepped back and they nodded.
“You’re simply ENORMOUS,” said Dr. S1.
“As big as a WHALE! What good work you have done.”
Then Dr. S2 added, “Yes, I agree.
There’s plenty of fat here. Just leave it to me!”
“Excuse ME?” shot S1, “But I won’t stand for that.
YOU can assist ME, while I move her fat,
For I am a DOCTOR…”
“Oh yeah? So am I.”
And in the stunned silence, they stood. Eye to eye.
But I finally spoke up and I said, “Ugh! For shizzle!
Yes, I KNOW you’re both doctors. I KNOW you’re both wise
But it’s MY reconstruction, so shut up, you guys.
Dr. S1, you have cosmetic vision,
So, you’ll do the OUTSIDE stuff. That’s MY decision.
Dr. S2, you’re as detailed as hell,
So you’ll move my fat, and blood vessels as well.”
Then they stared at me—stunned—like the strangest of fish,
And then Dr. S1 said, “If that’s what you wish,
I will finish the outside. But YOU, Dr. Spiegel
Must make room for ME and my extra-large ego.”
“All right,” said the slightly dejected S2,
“When I am all through, I’ll give over to you.”
“And she’ll be MY patient,” shot Dr. S1,
“She’ll be mine, mine, mine, MINE, from the moment we’re done.”
“Time’s a-wastin’. Let’s do it. Get going, you guys.”
So they wheeled me to surgery, both did their jobs,
And when we came out, I had spanking new yobs!
“Well, what do you think?” asked S1 and S2.
I replied, “I’m just glad that this whole thing is through.
I have boobs, and that’s fine, but I was fine before,
I just want my LIFE back. There’s so much, MUCH more.
I want to be free, be a mom, be a wife,
Write an end to this chapter of my so-called life.”
And what happened next? Well in Who-ville they say
That the doctors’ small hearts grew THREE sizes that day.
My story had touched them. It lifted the fog
Of their arrogance—and gave me stuff for my blog.
So, thanks to the doctors—their wisdom and skills,
Their sense of perfection, and even their pills.
I’m alive. I am whole. Though my journey’s not finished,