Friday, May 29, 2009
on top of every
As if i needed another project to tackle before i go under. My divorce finalized last September. But we were very lackadaisical about the paper work and the house we share a mortgage on. G insisted that he could handle the payments both before i moved out and the following months. He just recently lost his job, got another job, got fired again, and got a dwi. This has thrown a wrench in that wheel.
All i wanted to do was get the washer and dryer in the basement that my father bought us when we bought the house. He also brought the fridge.... which is irrelevant, just sayin'. With the surgery scheduled I have now entered preparation mode. As in get my life in order, get things straighted out so that everything will be easier to accomplish. Obtaining the w/d was a part of this plan. Knowing i could never get jt to carry my stuff to the laundry matte, I figured it was slightly easier to persuade him to carry stuff to the basement. Hence the text message to g informing him i'd be taking them. This comment initiated a day long argument. Ending with G threatening to move out and not pay the mortgage anymore. Leaving me with no choice but to get the house ready to sell. Oh yeah and he's not going to help at all. Great guy.
In the next 26 days.
All i wanted to do was get the washer and dryer in the basement that my father bought us when we bought the house. He also brought the fridge.... which is irrelevant, just sayin'. With the surgery scheduled I have now entered preparation mode. As in get my life in order, get things straighted out so that everything will be easier to accomplish. Obtaining the w/d was a part of this plan. Knowing i could never get jt to carry my stuff to the laundry matte, I figured it was slightly easier to persuade him to carry stuff to the basement. Hence the text message to g informing him i'd be taking them. This comment initiated a day long argument. Ending with G threatening to move out and not pay the mortgage anymore. Leaving me with no choice but to get the house ready to sell. Oh yeah and he's not going to help at all. Great guy.
In the next 26 days.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
June 23rd 7:30 AM
27 days. . .
And now I have to sell the house because greg is a piece of shit. says i need to think about his feelings. i can't even handle this today. I'm going to get my washer and dryer. . .
And now I have to sell the house because greg is a piece of shit. says i need to think about his feelings. i can't even handle this today. I'm going to get my washer and dryer. . .
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Dr. Judith 's brochure
This is the brochure from the dr. gurley office. the photos on the right are the reconstruction process. The other bitch was jsut getting bigger titties for no good reason. The first photo a month or two after the first surgery. I've been told that photo is super scary and they now have better looking temporary implants. Photo two is after the 9 month healing progress. They take skin from your hip and just make new nipples out of it. Freaking incredulous!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Jackie
called back. and is checking on availability.
F.
maybe jackie will drop the ball. and i'll be off the hook. you know these medical professionals. so unreliable...
F.
maybe jackie will drop the ball. and i'll be off the hook. you know these medical professionals. so unreliable...
Scheduling
I'm sitting here at my office desk with the St. Louis Cancer & Breast Institute, partner in caring, business card in front of my keyboard. I am trying to figure out how to schedule a surgery that is going to render me useless for two weeks and boobless for three months, nipple'less for 6. If I do it in early July, I will be ok by the time I have to start really pushing and working on the next flax show, sort of, either way I need to find a partner to help out with that show this month. (Holla at me if you can or will or want to). I'd like it to be after 4th of July because I don't want to miss that. And the next issue of delux is going to come out in August. Actually i should probably do it in June, and miss the 4th, if we are talking in the magazine best interest. . . grr. there is no time for this.
So I'm thinking all of this when I call ask for Jackie. "Hello, this Jenn Carter I need to talk to Jackie."
"Jackie?" says the line, "Is on the phone, is there anyone else you can talk to?"
No, i just need Jackie. That's the only name i got. She's going to get Dr. Gurley and Dr. Schuh on the same day for me.
"Wait, Jackie just got off the phone."
"Ok, thanks"
transfer... straight to voice mail.
wtf.
Left a message with lots of pausing inbetween my words.
"Jackie, its jenn carter, i need to schedule this .... thing.... etc"
I tried ok. Now its in Jackies court.
to jackie from jenn "not it."
So I'm thinking all of this when I call ask for Jackie. "Hello, this Jenn Carter I need to talk to Jackie."
"Jackie?" says the line, "Is on the phone, is there anyone else you can talk to?"
No, i just need Jackie. That's the only name i got. She's going to get Dr. Gurley and Dr. Schuh on the same day for me.
"Wait, Jackie just got off the phone."
"Ok, thanks"
transfer... straight to voice mail.
wtf.
Left a message with lots of pausing inbetween my words.
"Jackie, its jenn carter, i need to schedule this .... thing.... etc"
I tried ok. Now its in Jackies court.
to jackie from jenn "not it."
Sunday, May 24, 2009
back and forth up and down
I'm on a constant cycle of fuck it - schedule it- fuck it etc. over and over.
I find myself sitting staring into space friday night. I keep reading these posts, spell checking, and revisiting my cycle of thoughts. is there a difference been writing about your feelings and writing about your thoughts? because at first i had written "feelings", and thought whoa that sounds pretty lame and gay. But if I tell you what in is my head, "thoughts", thats seems much cooler. when i was writing head I typo'd and wrote "heart", instead of thoughts. I think i just answered my own questions. feelings = heart = gay, thoughts = head = cool. ok proceed.
Re-reading these blogs, puts me in a pit of despair. Tears are constantly streaming down my face as I try to focus on reality and my present company. I spent the last two nights at the lake with my roommate and his parents. JT's parents are fabulous people. They built a home together. They built a life together. And in my eyes are literally the height of personal and spiritual success. Just good honest hard working fun loving caring individuals. They make me realize what i want out of a relationship and then in turn depress the living crap out me because I can't have it. They make me wonder where the hell JT went so horribly wrong as a functioning adult.
Since the onset of this blog, I felt it necessary to put the link out there and let everyone know what is going on. I don't want to be responsible for explaining myself. I'm not really sure how i'm going to deal with the comments from people who don't know whats up. Like Alberto the moron mexican janitor at work who can barely remember my name but always makes comments about the painfully obvious. Because of this I've spoken with many people in my life very bluntly and honestly about the situation. I've gotten emails and comments sending good energy in my direction. To those people I am truly grateful. Your responses mean a lot to me so please continue, please follow along, please leave comments. I'm a "strong ass bitch" in the words of BW, but i'm not that strong and I can't do this alone. And for a minute there and sometimes still, I feel desperately and despairingly alone.
My ex husband just sent me a text message that said "i hope you die soon" wow. so far in life, that tops the charts for the worst thing ever said to me list. I'm completely in awe. Yes i was sort of short and bitchy on the phone but . wow. yeah. wow.
Last night after a fifth of vodka split between me and jt after a day in the sun, JT passed out and I got into my contact list and started calling and texting in a desperate outreach operation. I talked to my grandma for a long time. I said a about a million things you should never tell you grandmother. We decided that the week after surgery i would stay with her. Waffles and corn flakes, italian sausage, vodka tonics, penne with meat balls. I can live with that.
I find myself sitting staring into space friday night. I keep reading these posts, spell checking, and revisiting my cycle of thoughts. is there a difference been writing about your feelings and writing about your thoughts? because at first i had written "feelings", and thought whoa that sounds pretty lame and gay. But if I tell you what in is my head, "thoughts", thats seems much cooler. when i was writing head I typo'd and wrote "heart", instead of thoughts. I think i just answered my own questions. feelings = heart = gay, thoughts = head = cool. ok proceed.
Re-reading these blogs, puts me in a pit of despair. Tears are constantly streaming down my face as I try to focus on reality and my present company. I spent the last two nights at the lake with my roommate and his parents. JT's parents are fabulous people. They built a home together. They built a life together. And in my eyes are literally the height of personal and spiritual success. Just good honest hard working fun loving caring individuals. They make me realize what i want out of a relationship and then in turn depress the living crap out me because I can't have it. They make me wonder where the hell JT went so horribly wrong as a functioning adult.
Since the onset of this blog, I felt it necessary to put the link out there and let everyone know what is going on. I don't want to be responsible for explaining myself. I'm not really sure how i'm going to deal with the comments from people who don't know whats up. Like Alberto the moron mexican janitor at work who can barely remember my name but always makes comments about the painfully obvious. Because of this I've spoken with many people in my life very bluntly and honestly about the situation. I've gotten emails and comments sending good energy in my direction. To those people I am truly grateful. Your responses mean a lot to me so please continue, please follow along, please leave comments. I'm a "strong ass bitch" in the words of BW, but i'm not that strong and I can't do this alone. And for a minute there and sometimes still, I feel desperately and despairingly alone.
My ex husband just sent me a text message that said "i hope you die soon" wow. so far in life, that tops the charts for the worst thing ever said to me list. I'm completely in awe. Yes i was sort of short and bitchy on the phone but . wow. yeah. wow.
Last night after a fifth of vodka split between me and jt after a day in the sun, JT passed out and I got into my contact list and started calling and texting in a desperate outreach operation. I talked to my grandma for a long time. I said a about a million things you should never tell you grandmother. We decided that the week after surgery i would stay with her. Waffles and corn flakes, italian sausage, vodka tonics, penne with meat balls. I can live with that.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Decision time
The plastic surgery office was decorated like a spa. Purple pillows, frosted glass with inset bamboo, orchids and artwork, there was even a fancy coffee maker installed in the wall. Every one there was overly nice. A few people came in for massages. And the lady in the waiting room with me needed to stop getting work done on her face. Or perhaps she needed to have not at all. I had to drive out there from down town. I took 70. And it was scary. I'm the worst driver. really. I've driven to both coasts and still nothing, terrible, terrified.
My mother is pushy and keeps talking over me and for me. And refuses to fucking google the situation so she has some god damned background information. Maybe I should buy her a book.
i dont know how to start the explanation.
There are three surgeries.
First. They hack off both boobs. (i have to do both because otherwise one will be fake and one will real. And this will not look right. plus there is a chance that cancer will develop on the right side. and either way they have to reduce it. because they don't even make implants as big as mine.) A temporary implants are inserted. Flat at first. I have to spend the night in the hospital. 3 months will pass and they will gradually fill them up to stretch the skin. 3 entire fucking months right in the middle of the summer. When its hot as fuck and there is no way to hide anything.
second they put in the implants. 3 more months of healing.
then she slaps on some nipples.
when its done they will look amazing. never sag.
but they will have no feeling.
at all.
ever.
i don't think i can go through with this.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Plastic
Today, later, this afternoon I have an consultation with a plastic surgeon. Things are moving too fast. I want to get through the summer before I get sliced up and and laid out. Fall sleeves, sweaters and hoodies seem more appropriate for this sort of thing.
I invited my mother. This whole thing seems to be bothering her more than me. Plus I'm a terrible listener.
Starting to think about the positives of having smaller fake breasts....
here's what i got so far...
jump ropes
trampolining
pogo sticks
jogging
cuter cheaper bras
tube tops
spaghetti straps
I'm also designing a tattoo to cover the scars.
Its still fuzzy in head. But something about a peacock feather, cascading flowers, a metal plated bra thing (xena-esk maybe) with rivets. I want to be urban, modern, graphic, but feminine, I want to look like a warrior. I need help designing. big time. but its one of the only things thats really making it ok in my head.
When it comes down to it, i realized that to the outside world things are going to seem fucked up. But for me its always been the time infront of the mirror alone where I gather most of my self worth. Loosing that confidence and being faced with a horror show is not something I can mentally deal with. It must be transformed into artwork. And I must use this opportunity to transform the rest of my body to match. I'm hitting the gym every day at lunch. Starting a little slower than i'd like but things are tender and moving my arm and bouncing are sort of painful. I'd like to loose 20 lbs before the surgery. I'm drinking these juices called Naked. They are delicious! And there seems to be an endless variety. Also considering those meal replacement shake things. . .
I invited my mother. This whole thing seems to be bothering her more than me. Plus I'm a terrible listener.
Starting to think about the positives of having smaller fake breasts....
here's what i got so far...
jump ropes
trampolining
pogo sticks
jogging
cuter cheaper bras
tube tops
spaghetti straps
I'm also designing a tattoo to cover the scars.
Its still fuzzy in head. But something about a peacock feather, cascading flowers, a metal plated bra thing (xena-esk maybe) with rivets. I want to be urban, modern, graphic, but feminine, I want to look like a warrior. I need help designing. big time. but its one of the only things thats really making it ok in my head.
When it comes down to it, i realized that to the outside world things are going to seem fucked up. But for me its always been the time infront of the mirror alone where I gather most of my self worth. Loosing that confidence and being faced with a horror show is not something I can mentally deal with. It must be transformed into artwork. And I must use this opportunity to transform the rest of my body to match. I'm hitting the gym every day at lunch. Starting a little slower than i'd like but things are tender and moving my arm and bouncing are sort of painful. I'd like to loose 20 lbs before the surgery. I'm drinking these juices called Naked. They are delicious! And there seems to be an endless variety. Also considering those meal replacement shake things. . .
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
mirror
today for the first time i realized if i hold my arm above my head in the mirror naked you can a see the lines they removed. they look like inverted tree branches running the length of my outer breast, stretching wider towards the nipple. I'm starting to realize that i'm already damaged and forward towards complete transformation is where i'm going.
some times people say "that chick, she's drive or die." ride or die? its some gansta influenced statement I'm too white to comprehend. But whatever it is. yeah. do or die. live or let live. all or nothing. its all i know.
an object in motion remains in motion.
some times people say "that chick, she's drive or die." ride or die? its some gansta influenced statement I'm too white to comprehend. But whatever it is. yeah. do or die. live or let live. all or nothing. its all i know.
an object in motion remains in motion.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
wow'd out
Something has happened to my ora. I had a ridiculous weekend. Something is extremely maternal is associated with being the only female in a group of talented but hopelessly tragic group of men. I don't know how i got so far away from where i was two years ago. but I am somewhere very near living in a commune of male artists. And all i want to do is help them, feed them, make art with them, help them succeed, feed them. This weekend was very near nirvana. A complete and total surrender to every visceral primal nature urge.
Maybe its the pain pills. or the vodka.
But weekend aside. I had a coworker very clearly state he was interested today. I think i'm radiating some sort of sexually intense vibe. I can't control it. I want to ride it long and hard. Experience every single opportunity of pleasure with my natural breasts. Before I am forced to augment them. I have a bitter confusion towards women who willingly alter there natural self. I can't conceive undergoing such extremely for the sake of vanity. Here I am faced with life or closer to death. And even still. I ponder if its worth the price. my visit to the plastic surgeon website didn't calm my tribulations.
Honestly i started this blog project smugly, with the hope that this ordeal wouldn't last long.
thinking i could abandon this blog. leave the "story" uncompleted, truncated, abbreviated.
But in the back of mind I had a feeling that things weren't going to end up ok easily.
Nothing has ever been easy. Nothing should ever be easy.
But somethings you have got to wonder if there isn't an easier way to end up somewhere.
Last night I looked over my blog I started over two years ago. For a while there, I did a good job photographing and documenting, so if I scroll through quickly it illiteracy appears as if my life was flashing before my eyes. Such an exercise cases oneself to evaluate. What started as trivial entries about nothing turned into critiques of events and artists. Which turned to my postings of my own art. Then postings of art events i've been to. then events i've conceived and curated. Mixed in with all the people I've grown close to over the past two years. This segment of my life is a snowball. And in the center is the nothing i had before everything. Married stale bored and angry being point A. Me now being point B, full time job taking up too much of my time, Delux's creative director, Flax Gallery director, artist, freelance designer, and just generally being jenn carter.
I can honestly say that my breast size has nothing to with any of this a to b improvement process.
But then there has been the 15 or so years of development that lead me to be. And nothing has impacted my general experience and interaction with the world more than having very large breasts. Even so, Reduction rarely crossed my mind. And I had settled into wearing two bras and lots of hooks. Given up tube tops and string bikini's, strapless dresses and spaghetti strap tank tops. because thats just the way things are. That's just the way i was. And for all my issues with self image, when i come down to it there is a certain amount of confidence, 3 d cups full actually, that lie with in my "rack". And as my illustrious ex husband, Greg Carter, puts it, "Jenn can't loose her breasts, they are all she has."
Maybe its the pain pills. or the vodka.
But weekend aside. I had a coworker very clearly state he was interested today. I think i'm radiating some sort of sexually intense vibe. I can't control it. I want to ride it long and hard. Experience every single opportunity of pleasure with my natural breasts. Before I am forced to augment them. I have a bitter confusion towards women who willingly alter there natural self. I can't conceive undergoing such extremely for the sake of vanity. Here I am faced with life or closer to death. And even still. I ponder if its worth the price. my visit to the plastic surgeon website didn't calm my tribulations.
Honestly i started this blog project smugly, with the hope that this ordeal wouldn't last long.
thinking i could abandon this blog. leave the "story" uncompleted, truncated, abbreviated.
But in the back of mind I had a feeling that things weren't going to end up ok easily.
Nothing has ever been easy. Nothing should ever be easy.
But somethings you have got to wonder if there isn't an easier way to end up somewhere.
Last night I looked over my blog I started over two years ago. For a while there, I did a good job photographing and documenting, so if I scroll through quickly it illiteracy appears as if my life was flashing before my eyes. Such an exercise cases oneself to evaluate. What started as trivial entries about nothing turned into critiques of events and artists. Which turned to my postings of my own art. Then postings of art events i've been to. then events i've conceived and curated. Mixed in with all the people I've grown close to over the past two years. This segment of my life is a snowball. And in the center is the nothing i had before everything. Married stale bored and angry being point A. Me now being point B, full time job taking up too much of my time, Delux's creative director, Flax Gallery director, artist, freelance designer, and just generally being jenn carter.
I can honestly say that my breast size has nothing to with any of this a to b improvement process.
But then there has been the 15 or so years of development that lead me to be. And nothing has impacted my general experience and interaction with the world more than having very large breasts. Even so, Reduction rarely crossed my mind. And I had settled into wearing two bras and lots of hooks. Given up tube tops and string bikini's, strapless dresses and spaghetti strap tank tops. because thats just the way things are. That's just the way i was. And for all my issues with self image, when i come down to it there is a certain amount of confidence, 3 d cups full actually, that lie with in my "rack". And as my illustrious ex husband, Greg Carter, puts it, "Jenn can't loose her breasts, they are all she has."
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Surgery Number Two
My second surgery I scheduled for 10 am. This allowed me to get my roommate up in time to ride out to Ballas with me, saving me the trouble of involving my father and sparing my mother the 45 minute drive from Cottleville to Tower Grove.
Unfortunately the three of us made for an awkward group.
Things are always easier when you know what to expect. However the switch in out patient surgery centers seemed like a down grade. This building had several functions and things were immediately confusing. I was confident that if we followed the signs that said surgery center then we'd eventually find our way. My mother however thought it was necessary to continue to ask questions every time we passed someone who might know where we were headed. And maybe i was a little drunk still. I didn't mean to get trashed the night before but things just worked out like that. And more than drunk on alcohol was i drunk on memories from the night before spent with my current obsession. Forcing my way over to his place allowed me something pleasant to focus my thoughts on as I lay in the post opt bed watching the iv drip antibiotics into my veins. And for some reason he was extra special that night.
The first nurse we encountered was overly chipper. To the point where she was just rude and clearly disingeniuous. Her shiny face and dark purple lipstick didn't help either. She spoke with a tone that implied "get the fuck out my office and go wait in the hall" but actually only said "Please go out to the waiting area and we'll be right with you" The second medical professional was not much better. For whatever reason they ask you what your profession is. For lack of a better term I scrawl down designer. Which to the HGTV watching, couch populating crowd automatically points to interior design. She asks "do you ever dream about being on HGTV??!!" Um not really that sort of designer lady... "Ohhh" disappointment washes over her face " i thought you were the type of designer that designed colors." huh, no, um what does that fucking mean... anyway. Moving on. Please. Just bill my account ok lady and send us back to the waiting area.
Justin escapes, promising to come back at 1:15, over come with the strange environment and tension from my mother who is clearly pissed that i'm still... well drunk. I don't think she noticed me being stoned. Or if she did, couldn't quite put her finger on the problem. Plus i'm pretty sure the overwhelming smell of booze probably covered that up pretty good. My new iphone kept me busy until rude nurse number 3 came to take me into surgery prep.
Through the doors they direct you to a small changing room. Give you a plastic bag, a plastic cup to piss into for a pregnancy test, and a gown built one size doesn't fit anyone. I'm having a hell of time with the gown. Snaps were missing, the little tie thingies didn't line up. At first I had it on backwards, then turning it around I couldn't get anything to close up and tie or snap to ensure some sort of decency. I told the nurse I'd rather walk around naked. She didn't get the joke and said i could if i wanted but then after an awkward moment, helped me tie up. Followed by a 10 minute struggle where i managed to dribble out about 3 drops of pee. Sure I wasn't pregnant, as I've been sex free for more than one period at this point, the process seemed pointless. I stopped drinking last night at 1:15. I was supposed to stop drinking at 12 am. But I got carried away. Then looked at my clock, said oh shit, and put the beer down. (I lied to everyone that asked when I last ate anything) Needless to say by 11 oclock the next day i was dry.
Apparently you're not supposed to eat or drink before surgery because if you happen to throw up what is in your stomach you can drown yourself.
I asked. I was curious.
Despite the annoying lack of privacy in the center, the nurses behind the scenes were far less nasty than the hags up front. I got a lot of "oh honey, you're so young" and she wrote something on my chest. Which later turned out to be the word "yes". This again was to ensure the doctor operated on the correct side. But later when I discovered the word I found it particularly amusing. Enough so to take a photo with my fancy new phone.
I don't remember the operating table from the first go around. I think because they gave me some injection that caused me to forget. But with my downgraded center I wasn't given this luxury. This time, I clearly remember being wheeled into the OR. The bright light above the table, this vacuum hose thing that i can't even imagine what it might be for (well yes i can, but i'm not going to think about it) The transfer to the or table. I then drifted off to sleep thinking about rolling around in bed with bw. Thank you for that, it was a lovely moment dude. I guess it was my happy place. A place i want to go back to, but can't at my own will due to extreme aloof'ity of said person. BlaH!
Before I went in to the center I developed this extreme craving for chicken wings. Unable to eat that morning this craving became an overwhelming and intense desire. As soon as i woke up from the anesthesia I engaged the nurse and my mother in a 10 minute conversion about chicken. After this it was then decided that we had to go to Hooters. It was after all just around the corner. And how very poetic.
Unfortunately the three of us made for an awkward group.
Things are always easier when you know what to expect. However the switch in out patient surgery centers seemed like a down grade. This building had several functions and things were immediately confusing. I was confident that if we followed the signs that said surgery center then we'd eventually find our way. My mother however thought it was necessary to continue to ask questions every time we passed someone who might know where we were headed. And maybe i was a little drunk still. I didn't mean to get trashed the night before but things just worked out like that. And more than drunk on alcohol was i drunk on memories from the night before spent with my current obsession. Forcing my way over to his place allowed me something pleasant to focus my thoughts on as I lay in the post opt bed watching the iv drip antibiotics into my veins. And for some reason he was extra special that night.
The first nurse we encountered was overly chipper. To the point where she was just rude and clearly disingeniuous. Her shiny face and dark purple lipstick didn't help either. She spoke with a tone that implied "get the fuck out my office and go wait in the hall" but actually only said "Please go out to the waiting area and we'll be right with you" The second medical professional was not much better. For whatever reason they ask you what your profession is. For lack of a better term I scrawl down designer. Which to the HGTV watching, couch populating crowd automatically points to interior design. She asks "do you ever dream about being on HGTV??!!" Um not really that sort of designer lady... "Ohhh" disappointment washes over her face " i thought you were the type of designer that designed colors." huh, no, um what does that fucking mean... anyway. Moving on. Please. Just bill my account ok lady and send us back to the waiting area.
Justin escapes, promising to come back at 1:15, over come with the strange environment and tension from my mother who is clearly pissed that i'm still... well drunk. I don't think she noticed me being stoned. Or if she did, couldn't quite put her finger on the problem. Plus i'm pretty sure the overwhelming smell of booze probably covered that up pretty good. My new iphone kept me busy until rude nurse number 3 came to take me into surgery prep.
Through the doors they direct you to a small changing room. Give you a plastic bag, a plastic cup to piss into for a pregnancy test, and a gown built one size doesn't fit anyone. I'm having a hell of time with the gown. Snaps were missing, the little tie thingies didn't line up. At first I had it on backwards, then turning it around I couldn't get anything to close up and tie or snap to ensure some sort of decency. I told the nurse I'd rather walk around naked. She didn't get the joke and said i could if i wanted but then after an awkward moment, helped me tie up. Followed by a 10 minute struggle where i managed to dribble out about 3 drops of pee. Sure I wasn't pregnant, as I've been sex free for more than one period at this point, the process seemed pointless. I stopped drinking last night at 1:15. I was supposed to stop drinking at 12 am. But I got carried away. Then looked at my clock, said oh shit, and put the beer down. (I lied to everyone that asked when I last ate anything) Needless to say by 11 oclock the next day i was dry.
Apparently you're not supposed to eat or drink before surgery because if you happen to throw up what is in your stomach you can drown yourself.
I asked. I was curious.
Despite the annoying lack of privacy in the center, the nurses behind the scenes were far less nasty than the hags up front. I got a lot of "oh honey, you're so young" and she wrote something on my chest. Which later turned out to be the word "yes". This again was to ensure the doctor operated on the correct side. But later when I discovered the word I found it particularly amusing. Enough so to take a photo with my fancy new phone.
I don't remember the operating table from the first go around. I think because they gave me some injection that caused me to forget. But with my downgraded center I wasn't given this luxury. This time, I clearly remember being wheeled into the OR. The bright light above the table, this vacuum hose thing that i can't even imagine what it might be for (well yes i can, but i'm not going to think about it) The transfer to the or table. I then drifted off to sleep thinking about rolling around in bed with bw. Thank you for that, it was a lovely moment dude. I guess it was my happy place. A place i want to go back to, but can't at my own will due to extreme aloof'ity of said person. BlaH!
Before I went in to the center I developed this extreme craving for chicken wings. Unable to eat that morning this craving became an overwhelming and intense desire. As soon as i woke up from the anesthesia I engaged the nurse and my mother in a 10 minute conversion about chicken. After this it was then decided that we had to go to Hooters. It was after all just around the corner. And how very poetic.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Re-entry
It wasn't called re entry. but I kept saying it wrong every time the nurses asked and so now its engraved in my memory.
quick recap of current state in rewind mode: vicodin colt 45 pedicured toes chicken wings operating table weird rude and unattractive nurses big wade of money spent on seriously huge and sort of kickass art work extreme hangover learning curve on iphone bw induced depression confusion period of self proclamation. fine. he slays me. but its working so, like, yo u know, good job, you win, i loose, and i'm not even trying to play a game this time.
more lucid thoughts to follow in the .... future.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Making mom cry
The name "ductal carcinoma in situ" has three parts:
* "Ductal" means that the cancer started in the milk ducts.
* "Carcinoma" refers to any cancer that begins in the skin or other tissues (including breast tissue) that cover or line the internal organs.
* "In situ" is Latin for "in its original place." This means that the cancer is non-invasive: it hasn't spread into any normal surrounding breast tissue
The first surgery was last week. Dr. Schuh is supposed to be one of the best breast cancer doctors in St. Louis, I keep hearing from around the grape vine. I don't really like her because she has long hair. But always tucks it under her white lab coat so that it appears like she has shoulder length hair that is curled under like a bob. Well that, and she keeps giving me these annoying diagnostics.
At the surgery center, i suppose they are really careful about not operating on the wrong thing. So every time someone comes in the room they ask you three questions. 1. what is your name 2. what is your birth date, 3. which side are they operating on. I struggle to not say "if you guys don't know then we're both fucked."
During the biopsy, they placed a tiny marker in my right breast to let the surgeon know where start removing. On the day of the surgery they used some Novocaine and injected a needle that they then threaded a wire through. Then removed the needle. Leaving the wire connecting the marker and trailing out of my skin. Then they taped the wire down, strapped me into the gurney, iv, chit chat, followed by a memory erasing injection. The surgeon was then supposed to follow this wire to the marker, remove the suspect tissue, then close everything back up. They then take the tissue and send it over to the hospital. The hospital then sends me a bill for a couple hundred dollars. Some where in between there they examine the tissue and decide everything is not right. The cancer cells needs to be contained in the sample taken. But it seems that in my case there are more cancer cells running along my milk ducts of an indeterminable number.
So Dr Schuh is laying this all out for us with a crude cross section illustration a week later in her office. She has two recommendations. The first being a mastectomy with a plastic surgeon on site to reduce my left breast and insert an implant to the scooped out right side. The second option being a second procedure same as the first. Taking more tissue this time, probably leaving me with a gaping whole of a breast. Then if "successful" I will follow this with 6 weeks of monday - friday radiation. A commitment that really just makes me angry.
I ask "Well what if, option 3, I do nothing at all."
My mother gasps and begins to grow red in the face.
The doctor looks at me blankly, as if no one has ever asked such a ridiculous question.
I push further " Ten years? 5 years?" I'm good with both, no need to live forever. "Less than five years?"
She looks up, as my mother is starting to loose control of her emotions. "Not even, she says, the cancer is contained for now, but in less than two years, it will begin to spread rapidly through your body." then stands up to reach for some tissue for my mother who now has entered Joan of Arch mode. Offering her own 52 year old breasts to her god in place of my life I am so nonchalantly throwing under the bus.
I'm thinking that this whole process is going to end up costing me thousands of dollars, destroying the lifestyle I know and love, and thus extending my life by many years but now they are years filled with self doubt, years of hiding my chest from the mirrors I once stood in front of admirably, years of sex with shirts on if sex was even in the cards at all, my phantom right nipple longing to be caressed and sucked. I look at the cards in my hand. And really for a moment consider walking out. Talking my money and buying a plane ticket. Spending the next "less than two years" in some tropical remote location soaking up sun, and blowing all the bronzed muscular locals I could find.
And now my mother is full blown ballin'. And not the kind with gold chains and a bank roll. I have no choice but to make the next appointment. Schedule another surgery. At least I'd get more vicodine. And I drive home, down 270 bumper to bumper at 5pm on monday evening. But I don't cry. I think about dinner, about stopping for a block of Romona cheese and a bottle of medium grade wine i won't share with my roommate.
An attempt at documentation
There's been a lot of thoughts running around in my head. I'm not a writer but I wanted to try and get them down during this whole progress. I'm starting a bit late. Already many mammograms and one surgery into the damned thing, but you got to start somewhere, so I'm going to try and play catch up for a minute here.
Early December, I go to the gyno to renew my birth control prescription. A routine enough procedure. I like my gyno,late 40's maybe, tall dark, not Teen Pop sensation good looking but certainly easy on the eyes. For some reason I've always preferred male doctors. Especially when it comes to looking at my vagina. I suppose, really if you think about it, as a (sightly overactive) heterosexual sexual women, I'm pretty damned comfortable with a man peering between my spread thighs. Going through his normal series of check ups, he thinks he feels something in my left breast. And thus begins the ordeal.
I have an intense aversion to the medical industry. I don't like tests, I don't like xrays, the waiting rooms, the white coats, and always get in some sort of scuffle with the pharmacy counter at walgreens. So it took me a month or two to even make an appointment.
Hung over and probably extremely stoned I drug myself into metro imaging for my first mammography experience at the tender age of 29. Annoyance in my voice and attitude all over the place, I was strung through the procedure of breast torture.
Each time looking deeper and squeezing harder, contorting my upper body into variously positions as a 190 lb non english speaking nurse pressed against my body and pulled my breasts into various shapes and angles. Its as if they are made of silly puddy and we were transferring the sunday comics onto the underside.
The mystery "lump" my doctor thought he felt turned out to be nothing. The left breast, the bigger stronger, healthier of the two was given cancer clearance. The submissive right breast just along for the ride, suddenly and unexpectedly became the target of concern. Not a lump, something you could have only seen on the xray. They've found calcification! 98% percent of the time these things are nothing.
But the odds are never in my favor.
I do most of my crying in the car. On the way home from these procedures. When i'm alone, and I can turn the music to 10. By the time I arrive home I've conceded to death, dry my eyes, say "yo whats up" to my vagabond artist freeloading houseguest/roommate, and head towards the beer in the fridge. A serum that medicates but hardly solves any problems.
More appointments, more tests, a biopsy, a very purple boob, and then a phone call on a weekend morning while i'm spread out on my down comforter enjoying the sun beaming through my front window. I'm a terrible listener. Ad the phone to the equation and divide by news you don't want to hear anyway. And you get very little actual information out of the phone call. From it I took: I'm fucked. Something about stage 0, and lots of "its so good we found this now" Followed by a when do you want to schedule the surgery.
Surgery? WFT. no. thanks, I'll pass.
So I ignored shit for as long as possible. Fighting off phone calls from my father, mother, and grandmother, insisting I tell them more details and "push" to move things forward. I stopped answering most of their calls. And learned that about the impressive guilt involved with letting a call from your grandma go straight to voice mail.
So the thoughts in my head sort of goes as follows.
Fuck this.
Its my right to do nothing.
I'm divorced. have no kids. The only guy i actually want to hang out with is either retarded, or wants nothing do with me.
No one will ever want me now.
I need to loose twenty lbs and get a chin job, not waste money on a problem that is not even bothering me.
Fine I'll call the damn doctor.
I just want to get this over with so everyone stops asking about it and fucking telling me they are there for me. When actually how? Are you holding me at night saying everything is going to be ok, and are you lining up men who are into mastectomy scars to fuck me after all this is said and done. Are you helping me with the endless bills that are being pushed through the mail slot every after noon. Are you making my roommate sober up and get the fuck off the couch and make some money so I don't have to cover his half of the rent. I think no. no. you are just saying that shit to make yourself feel like you are a caring individual. so fuck off.
Of Course you can't say that. You have to make it seem like things are going to be okay. And you can't tell them you'd rather die than loose a nipple. Or endure the pain of massive reconstructive surgery. I'm strong, sure. but not that strong. And my weakest points are braided very tightly with my body image. My breasts are somewhere around a 34 F. They have driven and defined my personality and the world's perception of me. For good or bad. for my entire life.
Early December, I go to the gyno to renew my birth control prescription. A routine enough procedure. I like my gyno,late 40's maybe, tall dark, not Teen Pop sensation good looking but certainly easy on the eyes. For some reason I've always preferred male doctors. Especially when it comes to looking at my vagina. I suppose, really if you think about it, as a (sightly overactive) heterosexual sexual women, I'm pretty damned comfortable with a man peering between my spread thighs. Going through his normal series of check ups, he thinks he feels something in my left breast. And thus begins the ordeal.
I have an intense aversion to the medical industry. I don't like tests, I don't like xrays, the waiting rooms, the white coats, and always get in some sort of scuffle with the pharmacy counter at walgreens. So it took me a month or two to even make an appointment.
Hung over and probably extremely stoned I drug myself into metro imaging for my first mammography experience at the tender age of 29. Annoyance in my voice and attitude all over the place, I was strung through the procedure of breast torture.
Each time looking deeper and squeezing harder, contorting my upper body into variously positions as a 190 lb non english speaking nurse pressed against my body and pulled my breasts into various shapes and angles. Its as if they are made of silly puddy and we were transferring the sunday comics onto the underside.
The mystery "lump" my doctor thought he felt turned out to be nothing. The left breast, the bigger stronger, healthier of the two was given cancer clearance. The submissive right breast just along for the ride, suddenly and unexpectedly became the target of concern. Not a lump, something you could have only seen on the xray. They've found calcification! 98% percent of the time these things are nothing.
But the odds are never in my favor.
I do most of my crying in the car. On the way home from these procedures. When i'm alone, and I can turn the music to 10. By the time I arrive home I've conceded to death, dry my eyes, say "yo whats up" to my vagabond artist freeloading houseguest/roommate, and head towards the beer in the fridge. A serum that medicates but hardly solves any problems.
More appointments, more tests, a biopsy, a very purple boob, and then a phone call on a weekend morning while i'm spread out on my down comforter enjoying the sun beaming through my front window. I'm a terrible listener. Ad the phone to the equation and divide by news you don't want to hear anyway. And you get very little actual information out of the phone call. From it I took: I'm fucked. Something about stage 0, and lots of "its so good we found this now" Followed by a when do you want to schedule the surgery.
Surgery? WFT. no. thanks, I'll pass.
So I ignored shit for as long as possible. Fighting off phone calls from my father, mother, and grandmother, insisting I tell them more details and "push" to move things forward. I stopped answering most of their calls. And learned that about the impressive guilt involved with letting a call from your grandma go straight to voice mail.
So the thoughts in my head sort of goes as follows.
Fuck this.
Its my right to do nothing.
I'm divorced. have no kids. The only guy i actually want to hang out with is either retarded, or wants nothing do with me.
No one will ever want me now.
I need to loose twenty lbs and get a chin job, not waste money on a problem that is not even bothering me.
Fine I'll call the damn doctor.
I just want to get this over with so everyone stops asking about it and fucking telling me they are there for me. When actually how? Are you holding me at night saying everything is going to be ok, and are you lining up men who are into mastectomy scars to fuck me after all this is said and done. Are you helping me with the endless bills that are being pushed through the mail slot every after noon. Are you making my roommate sober up and get the fuck off the couch and make some money so I don't have to cover his half of the rent. I think no. no. you are just saying that shit to make yourself feel like you are a caring individual. so fuck off.
Of Course you can't say that. You have to make it seem like things are going to be okay. And you can't tell them you'd rather die than loose a nipple. Or endure the pain of massive reconstructive surgery. I'm strong, sure. but not that strong. And my weakest points are braided very tightly with my body image. My breasts are somewhere around a 34 F. They have driven and defined my personality and the world's perception of me. For good or bad. for my entire life.
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