It’s been years since I’ve been a fan of roller coasters.
Some people love that stomach-dropping sensation. The anticipation as you climb higher, the twists and turns, the sudden plunge when you least expect it.
Personally, I think I’ve had enough of that particular amusement park experience for one year.
And unlike a real roller coaster, this one doesn’t come with a choice to get off.
I am ready for a nice, leisurely carousel.
Preferably with pretty horses, cheerful music, and absolutely no surprises.
Unfortunately, life apparently has other plans.
My Dad recently faced some health challenges that frightened me. It’s his story to share, not mine, but I am incredibly grateful that his doctors seem to have found some answers and the medications are helping.
After losing my Mom this year and facing my own cancer diagnosis, I find myself holding my breath a little more often when the phone rings.
I know life doesn’t come with guarantees. I’ve always known that.
This year has simply made that lesson impossible to ignore.
And I have to admit…
I’m getting a little tired of the refresher course.
Three weeks ago, I had my first Zometa infusion.
For those of you who haven’t earned an honorary medical degree from following this blog, Zometa is a medication that helps strengthen bones.
Anastrozole, my daily estrogen blocker, can weaken them.
So apparently one medication creates a problem that another medication gets to help solve.
It’s a fascinating little system.
The infusion center was inside the hospital, with several small treatment spaces separated by curtains. Each had a large, comfortable-looking recliner for the patient and a decidedly less luxurious chair for the companion.
Clearly, the interior designer knew who was getting the IV.
I also knew that many of the people sitting in those chairs were there for chemotherapy.
That realization gave me a moment of pause.
I felt incredibly grateful that chemotherapy hadn’t been necessary for me, while also feeling a little apprehensive about being there at all.
The nurse settled me into my chair, which reclined and even had heat. She tucked a warm blanket around me while Garrin took his place in the less glamorous seating accommodations.
Then came the IV fluids, anti-nausea medication, and Zometa.
And holy cow, were they cold.
I asked the nurse about it, and she explained that even room-temperature fluids feel cold entering your body because they’re so much cooler than your normal body temperature.
Interesting.
Another piece of medical trivia I never expected to collect.
She also assured me that Zometa was generally well tolerated.
Excellent!
I went home feeling pretty optimistic.
Apparently, my body had not attended the same informational session.
By that evening, the aches began in my legs.
Then they spread.
And spread.
Until it felt as though every joint, muscle, and bone in my body had filed a formal complaint.
My head hurt.
I had chills.
Then a hot flash.
Then chills again.
Apparently, my internal thermostat had completely resigned.
Sleeping was nearly impossible.
It reminded me of a particularly unpleasant vaccine reaction, except this one decided to settle in for an extended visit.
Four days.
FOUR.
At some point during my misery, Garrin reminded me that I was basically a werewolf growing new bones.
That made me laugh.
I mean, I’ve always thought it might be fun to have supernatural powers.
I just imagined something a little more glamorous.
Flying, perhaps.
Invisibility.
The ability to eat Christmas cookies without gaining weight.
Instead, I apparently chose bone regeneration with full-body aches.
Not exactly the superpower I had in mind.
Thankfully, by day five, the symptoms were gone.
I’ve heard the first Zometa infusion is often the worst.
I sincerely hope that’s true.
My next transformation isn’t scheduled for another six months.
Plenty of time to prepare for the next full moon.
The following week brought my six-month follow-up with Dr. Fortes, my breast surgeon.
She’s one of my favorites on the medical team.
But apparently even having a favorite doctor doesn’t prevent my anxiety from showing up for an appointment.
My nerves seem to have a standing reservation.
During our conversation, Dr. Fortes noticed the PET scan request Dr. Varghese had previously placed in my chart.
She seemed surprised by it.
Another medical opinion that helped reassure me about the decision I’d made not to pursue the scan.
A little relief.
I’ll take it.
Then came the physical exam.
Dr. Fortes felt the swollen area under my left arm.
It had been there since shortly after my mastectomy, and Plastics had previously referred me to occupational therapy for what we believed was a seroma—a pocket of fluid.
It had even gotten smaller with therapy.
I explained all of this.
Dr. Fortes listened and assured me she believed me.
But she also explained that she needed an ultrasound to confirm what it was.
Because there was a possibility it could be cancer.
And just like that…
The roller coaster dropped.
No warning.
No seatbelt.
Just that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She explained that she couldn’t clear me for my upcoming reconstruction surgery without checking it. And if it turned out to be cancer, they would likely address it surgically.
I know she was doing exactly what a good doctor should do.
I know she was being thorough.
But knowing that didn’t make those words any easier to hear.
I could feel the fear taking over my face.
I’ve never had much of a poker face.
Apparently, cancer hasn’t improved that skill either.
Dr. Fortes could see how upset I was and apologized for putting me through another scare.
Garrin, thankfully, was thinking more clearly than I was.
He asked if the ultrasound could be rushed.
She agreed.
And then she left the room.
And I cried.
Not because I fully believed it was cancer.
But because I was so tired of having to wonder.
So tired of another possible problem.
Another test.
Another stretch of waiting.
Another reminder that even when things seem to be going well, fear can come rushing back without an invitation.
I wanted so badly to be done with that feeling.
For the next couple of hours, I waited for the phone to ring with an ultrasound appointment.
Fortunately, they were able to get me in that very same day.
And even more fortunately…
I received the results while I was there.
Benign.
A fluid collection.
Just as we’d hoped.
No evidence of cancer in the area they examined.
I don’t think I realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until I heard that news.
Garrin and I were incredibly relieved.
Another monster that turned out to be much less frightening once someone turned on the lights.
Dr. Fortes offered to have the fluid drained if it was bothering me.
And believe me, the idea of making that little lump disappear was appealing.
But drainage comes with its own considerations, including the possibility of the fluid returning.
After everything this year, I’m not particularly interested in signing up for unnecessary complications.
So I’ve decided to leave it alone for now and focus on reconstruction.
Most importantly…
Dr. Fortes cleared me for surgery!
My pre-op appointment with Dr. Pittlekow is December 15th.
And in just a couple of months, these expanders should finally be getting their eviction notice.
I am more than ready.
In other supernatural news…
Apparently, I’m also becoming a vampire.
I recently realized I can no longer feel my heartbeat through my chest the way I used to.
It’s a strange sensation.
Or rather, lack of sensation.
After a mastectomy, nerves and sensation can be affected, so this isn’t entirely surprising.
But it’s still one of those odd little changes that catches me off guard.
I mentioned it to Garrin.
And since he loves vampires, I suppose this gives me a few extra points in his book.
First, I was a werewolf growing bones.
Now I’m a vampire who can’t feel her heartbeat.
At this rate, I should have a starring role in a supernatural television series by Christmas.
Although I do have a few questions.
Do I get eternal youth?
Extraordinary strength?
An impressive wardrobe?
Because so far, this supernatural transformation has involved aching joints, hot flashes, and a lot of medical appointments.
I feel like I may have gotten the discount package.
Still…
If being a vampire means I get to live a very long time, I’m all for it.
And speaking of Christmas…
My favorite time of year is almost here.
After everything this year has thrown our way, I am especially looking forward to the holidays.
I’ve already ordered our Thanksgiving turkey and all the fixings.
This year, it will just be Garrin and me.
A quiet Thanksgiving.
And while there will certainly be people missing from our table and moments when the year feels especially heavy, there is still so much to be thankful for.
My dad is doing better.
My ultrasound was benign.
My reconstruction is on the calendar.
And I’m still here, planning Christmas.
Soon the house will be filled with trees, twinkling lights, ornaments, and all the little things that make the season feel magical.
Anyone who knows me understands that I don’t exactly believe in decorating a little for Christmas.
More is more.
And this year?
I intend to enjoy every single bit of it.
Of course, with reconstruction scheduled for December 28th and lifting restrictions afterward, there’s a very real possibility that the Christmas decorations will remain up until Valentine’s Day.
I see no problem with this.
Why should twinkling lights have an expiration date?
Perhaps I’ll just add a few hearts to the trees in February and call it a seamless seasonal transition.
Problem solved.
This year has brought more twists and turns than I ever imagined.
Some have been frightening.
Some have been painful.
Some have made me laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.
And some have reminded me how quickly life can change.
I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the unexpected drops on this particular roller coaster.
But I am learning to appreciate the moments when the ride slows down.
The good test results.
The laughter with Garrin.
The comfort of family.
The anticipation of Christmas.
The simple pleasure of looking forward to something.
I can’t control every twist in the road.
Or every drop on the roller coaster.
But I can choose to celebrate the stretches where the scenery is beautiful.
And right now, I’m looking forward to a house full of Christmas lights, a quiet Thanksgiving, and a new year with fewer medical adventures.
Preferably no more surprise monsters.
Unless, of course, they come with eternal youth and a really fabulous wardrobe.
