It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...October

Since tomorrow is October 1, and officially the start of "breast cancer awareness month," it seemed an appropriate opportunity to get in a little bitching and moaning (just a little.)

Facebook is full of uplifting breast cancer stories, research news, and the like - and most of the time I find it interesting/reassuring/informative/entertaining.  But the latest "news" story to make the rounds, and Facebook, is that research is showing that a mastectomy may not necessarily prolong the life of a breast cancer patient any more than a lumpectomy would have.  And the rate of mastectomies is rising in young people, fueled, we are told, by Angelina Jolie's preemptive surgery when she learned she had "THE" gene.

Having had a lumpectomy and then a mastectomy (quick history: diagnosed in 2005 with less aggressive form, lumpectomy & radiation, diagnosed 2008 with LCIS "marker" pre-cancer, diagnosed 2010 invasive on other side, ability to "save" breast uncertain) I can say that all of these stories should come with a giant neon sign that says "THIS MIGHT NOT APPLY TO YOU" and maybe a couple of Ativans with a margarita chaser.

I so don't appreciate a study telling me that the surgery and all the accompanying angst, therapy, reconstructions (I think I'm up to 5 now,) body image nonsense (in that it doesn't make sense that a person is able to literally cut out the cancer and be luckier than a lot of other people who are far sicker but still doesn't feel good about herself - it should make sense, but it doesn't; hence, nonsense) that I did BECAUSE I thought it would help, says that I made the wrong decision.

At any rate, that's how I hear it.  I hear "you silly woman, you should have really, really waited and made absolutely sure before you did this and now you can't undo it."  And almost 5 years later, I still doubt myself.  Looking back, it feels like I had to make a decision, and not take too long about it.  After all, the big thing about cancer is that it grows, and faster than normal cells.  So every day you take to decide might be another day the cancer gets to visit more exotic places in you, like your lungs ("so much fresh air"!) or your liver ("come luxuriate in the hot bile spa!")

How the hell do you know?  You don't.  You don't ever, ever know because every single one of us is different.  We eat differently, we exercise differently, our relationships are different, we stress (or don't) differently.  There are so many factors that it would be impossible to know, FOR SURE, if what I did on June 28, 2010 prolonged my life.  That stupid jerk cancer does not discriminate between people with a "healthy" lifestyle and those who like pasta, and chocolate, and bacon.

Every time I think I've handled the "hardest" part of all this (the decision? the extra surgeries? the "sleep aids?" the side effects every day I take a pill, which will be another 8 years, at least?) I find something else that is going to be harder.  I don't live in a bubble and I don't intend to sever ties with the world of social networking, or cancel my newspaper subscription, or stop watching television.  I'm the only one I have to defend my decision to.   And I have to get comfortable with it. And I don't want that to take 5 more years.

Trying to think like a SURVIVOR is hard work.