We’re moving into the next block (tissue expander to implant swap surgery), which means it’s time to get back to boobs.

Which is objectively more fun to talk about than rectal cancer.

(My idea of fun seems to have become wildly distorted.)

But, because apparently it can’t be ignored, my pre-chemo rectal cancer symptoms returned the day I got back from the beach. Seeing shedding tissue and blood was not something I ever wanted to experience again. I got scared. I didn’t want to be bleeding and become anemic again before two surgeries. Also, it’s just scary. Fear doesn’t need a reason.

I put a call into my oncologist and my colorectal surgeon. Both got back to me by the end of the day. My oncologist said the symptoms weren’t unusual post-chemo. My surgeon was able to get me in for an emergency visit to take a look.

Good news: the symptoms subsided.

Bad news: I still have a tumor.

Good-ish news: my surgeon thinks the tumor is smaller than it was in the pre-chemo MRI.

Bad-ish news: nobody actually knows until the MRI.

THE MRI! 

Everyone is waiting with bated breath. 

My oncologist said, when I reported my symptoms, we could move it up! (We cannot. I need the expander out.) My colorectal surgeon wants to know what she’s working with! My breast oncologist wants to know the results and plan so she can do my hormone-blocking plan! 

We should do a livecast when I sit down with my colorectal oncologist to discuss it.

That will be July 2.

I just wanna be, like, everyone hold your horses. I cannot go any faster. I need to recover from chemo before surgery, then I need a hot minute to recover from surgery/anesthesia/the inability to lay flat before getting an MRI.

Anyway.

Back to boobs:

Herceptin Infusion

This past week was my first Herceptin-only infusion. This is the immunotherapy I’ve been getting before each chemotherapy infusion. (Remember, I’m not getting chemotherapy for my breast cancer as it’d be too toxic paired with FOLFOX. But I need this immunotherapy for a year because my IDC was HER2+. Joy.) 

I go in for the Herceptin infusion every three weeks until March 2027. It takes about an hour/hour and a half including the port-access, blood draw, and 30ish minute infusion itself. 

I had to have a chat with my body the night before as I felt her start to get anxious. I had to tell her that this is nothing like chemo. I should feel nothing. 

She didn’t really care. 

She got teary leaving the house the morning of the infusion. 

We were not interested in going back to that building.

But I did. And it was fine.

Shout-out to my bestie Lyndsay for coming with me. Turns out, even if it’s an easy day it’s still nice to have someone there. Go figure.

Breast Oncologist

I met with my breast oncologist before my infusion and in this session I got to report my new post-chemo symptoms: hot-flashes. Night sweats. I had heard chemo can put you into temporary menopause or bring it on early. I had hoped I could avoid this. I haven’t had my period since I started chemo in March and it can take months after your last chemo infusion to come back. That would likely fall right when I’m about to start chemo again. If I need chemo again. Which is determined by the MRI and my colorectal oncologist. July 2.

So, we don’t know if I’m in temporary menopause or menopause, which affects which hormone suppressing drug I’ll get. Everyone with a hormone positive breast cancer needs to go on a hormone-blocker for at least five years, which puts you into medical menopause. This is one of the many things I’m crushed by. The more I learn about menopause, the more I realize how much it can affect quality of life, sleep, mood, energy, sex, bone health, and more.

Cancer really is the gift that keeps on giving.

I may have mentioned I started HRT about six weeks before my diagnosis and I hate to say it was working—my mood lifted, energy rose. I had to go off immediately upon learning about the breast cancer. 

Anyway. So, I’ve been waking up at 3am or 4am the last several weeks super hot. Then freezing. Then hot again. Then freezing. Really makes those last few hours of sleep a hot mess. And we know what happens when you start to lose sleep—and those last few hours! The ones where the most emotional processing is done.

My oncologist recommended I try the drug Yeozah (often not covered by insurance, of course), but that I may want to wait to start it until after my surgery as we were one week out and don’t want to introduce anything new to my body.

Gotta love the dual-cancer logistics game.

In the meantime I’m just…. Hot.

Barb

Before my oncologist meeting and infusion I had my port access. Again, my body was not happy to be in that waiting area.

Until Barb came out and called my name.

Barb was the woman who did my first port access ever. She is a dual cancer survivor (not at the same time), who did it divorced, and used writing as a way to get through it. I felt like we were supposed to meet that day.

And maybe I needed her this day too.

She asked how I was doing and I told her I was struggling mentally. She understands. She asked if I talk to God. I told her it’s complicated but I do believe there is an order to all this chaos—which is hard to grasp these days. More on that later. She said she talks to God, and that God puts people like her and I together when needed.

I smiled. I agree.

As we were approaching the end of the access (and blood draw for Signatera) she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Our minds are our most powerful tools. I need you to get a really clear vision of what your life looks like after this. I need you to focus on that.”

You and me both, Barb.

She then told me I need to watch comedy and laugh. She recommended the Jo Koy special on Netflix. My bestie and I watched it that night and I haven’t laughed that hard in months. Maybe years.

Pre-Ops

I did my three pre-ops: meeting with my PCM to get a physical and blood work (which is insane given how watched I’ve been the last many months), the nurse about anesthesia, and my plastic surgeon Dr. H. 

I missed her! (Is this Stockholm Syndrome?)

My bestie came to this appointment too. I plopped down in the same chair I was in last time—and was in my first time in this office. I remembered that first time, two days before Christmas, when I sat in that office alone, so scared. 

Now it feels like old hat: another appointment with Dr. H. Another opportunity to sit topless discussing random things, like how she keeps her OR immaculate but lets her kids eat food off the floor.

Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow, Tuesday, June 23rd at 1pm. She told me she’ll likely be late. That tracks.

Haircut

I got my first haircut since my diagnosis and I was anxious AF. I was not interested in someone else washing my hair and seeing all the shedding. I was not interested in someone running their hands through my hair or brushing it repeatedly and seeing all the shedding. I was not interested in telling her I have cancer and maybe crying in the salon.

Thankfully I was able to tell her the news without losing it. She was great, as expected. I told her I wanted to keep my hair long in fucking protest and that I’m not cutting it until–IF–it gets really bad or she recommends I do so. She said it’ll shed no matter what: long, medium, shaved. 

So we’re gonna hold out as long as we can. 

My mom asked me how much I’ve lost. It’s hard to tell. 30-40%? 

All I know is that I hate washing my hair and having a fist full come out. 

I hate brushing my hair and having lots come out. 

I hate pulling strands off my clothes. 

I hate feeling strands tickle my arm as they fall. 

I hate all of it. 

Everything about this sucks.

Acupuncture

I haven’t written a lot about the acupuncture I’ve been doing. I’ve been going just about weekly since my mastectomy. I believe it’s really helped keep a lot of the symptoms manageable. 

“Manageable.” 

Manageable is my new least favorite word. 

I keep getting told things are “manageable”—chemo is manageable, LARS (the life-long symptoms I’ll likely have after my rectal surgery) is manageable, hair loss is manageable. 

Of course it’s all manageable. Have you met me?

I can manage just about anything.

But, respectfully, fuck managing.

Anyway. 

Acupuncture.

It’s great.

I’m currently getting free sessions through the Life with Cancer program at Inova. This week, after my practitioner put the needles in, he stood next to me and gently asked, “Do you ever think about why the universe is testing you like this?”

Every.
Single.
Day.

He asked if I had any ideas.

A couple, I responded. But none that have fully landed or that feel like THE answer.

The one thought I shared with him is that I’ve never been good at receiving. 

Receiving help.

Receiving care.

Receiving uncertainty.

Receiving love?

This process is forcing me to receive all of it, and some days it feels excruciating.

As for the rest of why the universe decided to hand me two cancers at once on the heels of a divorce?

I suppose we’ll find out on the other side.

I’m looking forward to that rearview mirror.

Maybe even more than the MRI.

---

 

To get posts sent directly to your inbox, click “Subscribe” at the top of the page.

To listen to an audio version of this on Spotify, click here. To listen on Apple Podcasts, click here.

To read other diagnosis and treatment updates, visit the archive here.