Recovery Room: a walk in the park.

It turned out, that the surgical recovery center was outfitted with Jim Trotters, fantastical St. Louis monument photography. I believe my room was called "A walk in the park". The photograph in my line of site, was taken on mars. But on mars they built a park. That park was very similar to forest park here in St. Louis. I didn't know that Jim Trotter had a space ship. I hope he made a safe trip back into the earth's atmosphere.

This photo was taken by my father. I think he took about 30 photos. "say cheese" didn't offer the candid response he was looking to accurately depict the situation. I'm not sure exactly what we where smiling about, but I know it was super exciting. Double thumbs up!

I'm in and out of consciousness. Over the next I don't know how many hours.

Things I remember.
My dad went to Kolh's. I told him to go to target. But it turned out ok.

Someone brought me some Edamame (i just spelled that right on the first try! shit yeah magazine) There were also fortune cookies. Mine said "the more you give, the more you will receive." I didn't know confucisous was so into oral sex.

JT slept on the recliner. The recliner was made of wood and hardness. While they where manufacturing this recliner, they called in a focus group. When 10 out of 10 people where extremely uncomfortable. The chair then received high points and was propelled in to production. I personally watched him change positions, upwards of 3 million times over the course of the 8 hour night.

The buttons that are supposed to help you raise and lower your head on the bed. Are strategically placed in the exact spot you will never be able to reach on your own.

I had some yogurt, also a fruit cup.

Jeff, MU, JT, mom and Dave where in and out.

JC was in and out.

We watched the Big Labowski with my mom. She asked what the plot was about. We really couldn't give her an answer.

The next morning, my plastic surgeon came to check on her handycraft. I was standing up, with my arms above my head, trying to pull the knots of of my tangled mane. There was some surprise in her on face at my standing upon her arrival, I knew i was supposed to be laying down, I knew i was supposed to be not brushing my hair. And I was alone for the first time in quite a while, since for some reason my party of seven had dispersed. MU and Jeff and were probably making out somewhere in an unoccupied patient room. Dave and JT were probably outside smoking. My dad probably gave JT another business card. Mom was somewhere in a grey Chevy Malibu.

Ironically, this over night stay in "The Walk In the Park" was just that. Thanks to my friends Jeff and MU, even though those bitches won't give me back my keys right now and are suspect for hair product thief. Their timely arrival on the morning of the surgery, high spirits, energy and support helped to save not only save my sanity, but also save my sanity. I would had been a anxious nervous wreck. I am now in debt a legion of hj's.

I also couldn't have made it through this day/week with out JT. He woke up historically early and stayed close enough to me for the longest periods of time over the course of the day after, night after and days of recovery at gpeeps. JT is the only the person I need to see everyday. He's my ET.

My father jumped through hoops and took lashes to the back side with my drugged out dissatisfaction. But all his efforts were executed perfectly and are appreciated. Sometimes you know, men do the right things, go figure. And as stated above, we have this priceless photo to enjoy.

My mom was there to love me. I love you too mom.

BW. I didn't want to shatter your innocence by having you too close to the situation, but your availability at the right moments was crucial.

Everybody who came to the party, or gave me a face book "notification", email, text message, cards, flowers, etc. Thank you, I was living for that feedback all week.

Its been one week exactly. I'm already considering popping into work for a few hours, but maybe tomorrow. But tomorrow I'm also going to DELUX meeting, and the Art D member meeting. . .

Whoa.

Breath.

Awakening

In my mind there was two seconds from the time they inserted the iv and the moment i woke up mutilated, immobile, tubes and wires stemming from every wound. I was padded with cotton and this antithesis of sexy tank top bra that Velcro's at the shoulders. So I didn't have that dreaded "oh my god" my tits are gone feeling. Because actually there still are some bumps there.

MU, Jeff, JT, and my Dad where there. I know i was being a bitch. The bed was poorly designed. The buttons where ill placed, and someone made the mistake of giving me a little red button that allowed me to call upon an unsuspecting nurse at my whim. I couldn't do anything on my own. And the drugs make it very difficult to speak clearly. So people say "what?" and you mumble "hand me that please." then they say "what" again. And then you have to be like "god damnit whore give me some fucking water" Ok not really but after the third time, thats pretty much what my tone insinuated.

Behind the Center Doors

I wish i could remember more of the nurses names, but I can't. So I'm going continue to refer to them by description only. The Filipino nurse who called me into the back was the first to spend time with me. Take my blood pressure and all that pre-press bullshit. She set me up on the gurney.

A few things I didn't know they did during surgery:



Those blue things go on your legs. They alternate compression to circulate your blood while you're in the OR. The paper blanket with little gay blue bears on it connects to a hose (the hose previously mentioned in an earlier post I didn't want to imagine its purpose) The blanket fills up with warm air to keep your body temperature slightly higher than usual. Its sort of like a swimming pool raft.

My dad finally came back to stay with me before the hooked up the iv and knocked me out. And yep he had his camera. Starting to realize how very similar we are. In the moments before surgery I told him the story of how i got involved with art in St. Louis. I hadn't really realized how very far removed I've been from my family since my escape to college. This is perhaps the first time they've actually met me. As the me I am now, as a rebellious adult. Rather than a rebellious teenager. I'd like to think I've refined the process just a bit over that last 12 years.

D Day

I woke up around 5am. An hour before MU and Jeff were scheduled to show up and drag me out of bed.
As the day approached I had envisioned Jeff hog tying me, throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me kicking and screaming into the car. But when the witching hour arrived, there wasn't much fight left in me. Fortunately, I have these three friends, who whenever we are together, no matter what we are doing, we are partying. Laughing, screaming, yelling, making obscene jokes, laughing, did i mention making obscene jokes. The middle finger gets flashed a lot. We all find this hilarious. And as if we are going to roll out of town on the road trip of the century MU, Jeff, JT, and I pile in Jeff's car. My car gets loaded with some of the items I had thought to pack. To be picked up later on mission "get jenn to wildwood"

JT and I crash in the back seat, repeatedly singing, T.I.'s "Steady chasing the paper, Oh oh oh oh, just live your life", instead of logical conversation. We make it around the block. I forgot my insurance card. We roll back around one more time, "oh oh oh oh , just live your life...." I jump out and grab my wallet. BW is still pulling away. I press my hand to the glass of the back window, much like those scenes on life time movies, when the girl next door moves away forever from her grade school crush. This is quite possibly the end of all that business, i think, maybe, who knows confusion ensues, but is over shadowed by more important situations. And maybe I'll talk KM into "feelin it" so he can be happy."

The ride there is laced with sexual innuendoes, more laughter. Its quite a drive, mostly because of the 40 shut down. But even still, to us deep city kids, Creve Coeur is straight up out of town. We are little early, so we stop at Starbucks. Of course, I can't have anything. But Jeff and MU needed a little pick me up to make it through the rest the day after I went in, there was still much to be done.

Funny thing about cancer. Is that stereotypically, its for old people. So the waiting room is quiet. Very quiet. Very somber and grave. Until we get there. Still laughing, still joking, still singing that blasted T.I. song (boy are we annoying with that shit). But how can one freak out when they are having a little pre-operation party in the waiting room. Giggling, I approach the counter. Sign here, sign there, pay this, pay that. My father shows up in a suit and tie. With his business leather binder filled with organized information. He joins the party. Probably a little confused as to why we are all having so much fun.

It didn't take long before a tiny Filipino nurse came to the waiting room with a clip board, and my name rolled off her tongue. "Jenn Carter."

"Oh wait, everyone just went outside. I can i go say bye?" I say, as i look at her and then look outside where Jeff and JT went to smoke. They should really quite that shit.

I walk outside, hug JT, tell him I love him, hug Jeff, tell him i want to sleep with him (this is our code for I love you in our little way) I got back in hug MU, hug my father. The three party people have to get going to work and mission stage two. So now its just me. And Dave is left in the waiting room until he's called back.

One of the first things the nurse asks is, "Is this your family?"

MU matter of factly explains, "We're her BFF's"

"Did she really just say that?" JT smirks.

Yeah, so um, they are like my family, labels aren't important. I slip through the swinging door, and everyone but my father heads out the front doors.

Nurse turns to me and says "Is he in a band?"

"Ha, no." I shake my head because this is common misconception. "He should be though, huh, but he's an artist. Similar, but without the band."

JT BW AND JC go to the pool.

I had been trying to go the pool for the past three days. For starters, its hot as bloody hell outside. And for more obviously reasons: I wanted to get wet and bask in the sun one last time. My new fitness center is in the first level of an overpriced apartment complex. There is a quaint but absolutely sufficient outdoor pool. If you go in through the front you can pretty much bring in whoever you want through the back gate.

We all woke up fairly early. Enjoyed some freezer pops. For some reason JT boiled a couple of eggs and pulled out some left over salsa and chips from the party the night before. JR woke up and I was reminded of his burlesque performance just a few hours earlier. For a moment there in my morning haze I had forgotten about it. JT and I polished off the rest of the beer in the fridge. I finished the bottle of wine in the the condiment door rack. JT kept magically coming up with PBR's. (they were in the cooler) And we rocked out to some whitesnake, journey, def lepard, a few other awesomely bad 80's hair bands as we got ready for the pool. BW graciously decided to join us. You never know with him, he's always got to run off and do something less fun than our typical J-days. But, turns out his trunks were in his car. We all three piled in my wagon and headed to the pool. Rocking out to the new Cage album. JT and I pretty much have all the words memorized. So BW was assaulted with our singing as we made the trek to union and lindell. Cage makes me drive fast.

"Are we in some kind of hurry?" BW exclaims in the calmest possible voice.

"Yep. its hot as fuck" JT and JC say in unison. Then go back to screaming "Its like god opened the sky and handed you directly to meeeeeee, i know it sounds crazy but so is life, i'm sinking...."

We enjoy the water, the hot bitches, the happy inner-tubed children as long as we can handle it. Since it was about 2 by this point and no one had really eaten. We decide to get out dry off and go to Guidos, a fantastic spanish italian spot on the shaw in the hill. In no position to be frugal as I assumed over the next couple of weeks I'd probably not be spending much money, we order calamari, caprese salad, vodka tonics, and that that expensive italian beer JT likes to drink. BW got a couple of Heinekens, and more carbohydrates than JT and I had consumed in the last month. We are the only people in the place, so are allowed to wild out as we saw fit.

"You know you have to spend the entire day with us, don't you." We both say to BW.

"Huh?" as if he didn't know.

"Yep." another unison JT JC response.

BW sighs.... But submits to our day of fun.

One hundred dollars later, and a twenty dollar tip, I sign my name, and declare that having to bf's is fucking expensive. A joke that is funny because its true.

We head to the apartment. Where JT takes his mid J-day nap. And BW and I decide to go take care of a few things in his new shit hole apartment. (ok actually its really really nice, my jealously is through the roof, and I can't move in to the extra units, one because JT won't move to cherokee, and two because then i'd feel way on the stalker side.)

Big skip in the details here.....

Fast forward to us hearing his neighbors rocking out on drums and guitars. BW's neighbors are the two hottest lesbian chicks. Period. In all the world. LS is an amazing painter (with work in LAIC) and her partner stephanie rocks it on the drums, but also the guitar. They switch on and off. Just moved in from Chicago. Knowing I wasn't going to be able to hang with them and forge our new lifelong friendship for a few months, I immediately pounded on the door. They offered us wine and a little bit of green party favors. And we hang out long enough to convince them to rock it out again for a few. "We haven't played in month's, we're just warming up." LS modestly says. Shut up bitch you know you kick ass. Damn.

Some how we convince them to come back to my place because i've got a friend stopping by and they were out of cigarettes. So we caravan to QT, BW grabs some keystone (asshole) and we show up at my place to find my friend SV whining on the deck with JT. I spend some time feeling up SV's rack, she pisses off the chicks, which was actually quite hilarious, and as 11:59 approaches (my expiration date) I put down my last beer for a month. Say bye to the ladies, and pull BW to bed, leaving JT alone to see if he couldn't tap SV's ass. (he didn't by the way, she's impossible to penetrate).

The last Harrah.

Grammar disclaimer: I'm on valium and davarset. So this is a bit difficult.

I'm writing this post operation since the last week has been a crazy whirl wind of activity and emotion. The morning started with me waking up extremely angry at BW. I Told him to get the fuck out of my house, then had a panic attack on the back deck, then laid down in the shower for ten minutes. Then regaining my sanity sightly I burst into JT's room. "Get up!" I scream, "We're going to breakfast." He moans and turns back over. "Get up we are going to Rooster they have over 20 types of bloody marys." Boy do I know how to get that dude out of bed. So after some stumbling and grumbling we both drag ourselves out to my car and headed to Locust street where i had planned to meet several of my college Lacrosse team mates.

Knowing you're going to be down and out for several months is a great incentive to do all those things you say you'll do but don't always follow through with. So when a few of my colleges buds showed up to the Large and In Charge and we said we should go the the park and throw around, damn it we were going to the park. And when I found out Julie Whitman was in town and that we should all go to breakfast, damn it, we were getting up and going to breakfast. Even if it was at 9 in the morning and I was having a party in a couple of hours.

So Rooster on Locust is a cool spot, there are cocks everywhere. Right up my alley. Unfortunately, I was terribly hungover. And after a bloody that i loaded up with tobasco and rooster sauce, I threw up at the table. I was really subtle about it and no one noticed. JT even yelled at me for stealing his napkin. So breakfast was not so good, but it was good to see some old friends. Next headed to the store to haphazardly throw some food and beer into the cart at a puling attempt to feed the party goers. Cantaloupe, watermelon, chips and salsa, colt forty five (because it works every time), a thirty pack of highlife (because its the champaign of beers), and a pinky swear not to buy any hard liquor, and a giant bag of ice.

After we got back the crazy J's, jt and jc started the party. A couple of hours later some people showed up. Aliah and Eddie Holman, my gansta "boss" coworker and her recently obtained husband (the luckiest man on the planet in my own opinion) show up with a big brown bag of wing stop. Followed by the Weavers. And then Emily, a beloved ex co-worker now with child who husband just made it into the FBI. She'll be leaving town soon. After the early arrivals, I sort of lost track. The main high light of the evening was JR's lap dance in stripped man panties. I don't have any photos of that. And didn't remember until i was reminded in the morning while enjoying a mid-morning freezer pop.

I tried to burn my bras. But bras of these days are made out of synthetic materials. So they don't really burn. They just sort of melt. Which doesn't really have the same feminist impact. I just ended up ruining my favorite popcorn bowl.

There's many more photos of the party. Most of them involve boobs. Go fucking figure huh. They aren't on my camera. We'll post those later, when I get back home.

Xrays and Blood work

Woke up this morning at the regular time. Sat half way up and squinted towards the alarm clock. A floating red blur gradually sharpened into fuzzy numbers. 6:57. boo. I drag myself out of bed. Say "bye." And head down Kingshighway, the only road I ever drive all the way from Page to Gravois, back and fourth over and over.

This habitual journey switches my brain into auto pilot. I got home, got dressed, brushed my teeth, let the the dog out on the back porch, yelled box a hundred times, until balla scurried into my room jumped on bed, shut the door to my bedroom, and headed down the stairs to my car. Just like every morning I pulled out of my parking spot, turned left on to klemm, right on magnolia, right on tower grove, veer right on to vandevender. I see my boss on the way in at the high way left turn lane. Sometimes I stop here to get on the high way. But since she was there, and i was headed straight to work, I thought I'd use this opportunity to see which direction was faster. I get stuck at quite a few lights and behind a few left hand turners. But still get there right as AH is dropped her heeled foot to the cracked and littered asphalt. Pretty much a tie. I head to the elevator, hit 3, say hi t to the receptionist, to stacy, to Ah, sit down, start my computer, eat a granola bar, check my email, open this blog to proof read last nights entry, and then look up at the calender.

Xrays and blood work, eight thirty. Oh. yeah. woops. Call my favorite surgery scheduling nurse, Jackie, "Hey, Jackie, Jenn Carter, here, so i totally flaked on the appointment, can you fit me in?"

Drugs and medical apparatuses

6 drains that get emptied, measured and recorded 3 times a day.
pain pump (3 days)
Ibuprofen
Valium (fuck yeah)
Dramamine
Peri Colace (so you can poop on all these drugs)
Darvaocet N100
Percocet (oxycodone)
Amoxicillin Clavulanate (antibacterial)
Mupirocin (Ointment)

Ten Minutes Ago at Home: a tiny slice of j3

“Yeah that could be,” Jeremy says as he paces through the hallway.
“well.” He pivots and races back through to the kitchen.
“yeah” stands still in front of the tv and scratches his head
“your right.”
Pause while other is talking....
“But by far no arrests have been made.”
another long pause with lots of pacing.
“ok “
Word from the speaker.
“Alright thanks dana.”

Click on the phone.

With out missing a beat “well dana tells me that they got a call from some black guy, wrong number. Dana was thinking maybe they got the number from my laptop. I don’t know what would a bunch of seventeen to twenty two year old guys do with a computer that only had half a cord.” Pondering on that for a moment, then continues, “The enterprising criminal would have tried to extract some information.” And making one more pass to the hallway and back. “Who knows maybe they are sitting on it.”

“Yeah sure,” I say as I look up, its hard to type he’s talking so damned fast, I wonder if should ask him to repeat the last line, so i could be sure get it right. But I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that i was typing his words.

“If you're a pawn shop owner and some kids bring you a lap top and they give them a certain amount. Have you ever been to a pawn shop? I wonder if they do sell lap tops at these places? The motivation is to acquire something valuable for no work.” Jeremy then enters the bathroom.

Beautiful, calm, silence falls over the apartment.
I can hear the birds outside and my own thoughts in my head again.

15 days.

Nearly two weeks. I feel like I'm in limbo. "Purgatory is the condition or process of purification in which the souls of those who die in a state of grace are made ready for heaven." (wikipedia)

I've gotten most all of the craziness out of my system. And for the first time feel like maybe I do have someone to support me. And actually realizing that maybe I don't have one single person, but instead have everyone.

What are those things called at airports that are basically a flat escalator. You can either walk and go super human fast, or stand still waiting for the belt to carry to closer to your destination. My belt goes on forever like an infinity pool. Atmospheric perspective blur and fade the distance. Currently in my head, the reality of it all doesn't exist. As I move slowly towards the scheduled day, I can no longer feel anything about it. Playing a psychological game with myself, I try to focus on the negatives of these stupid breasts. I start to hate them. I resent their implications. Not just for being filled with inevitable cancer, but for being the source of attention for so many years and getting me in all sorts of trouble. Part of me wants them gone now, as soon as possible.

more morbidity

WORDS aren't working for me today.

21 days

I woke up this morning sure it was Wednesday the third, not tuesday the second.
SO it is as if I gained a day. Thank god.

I have this vivid image of my breasts sliced off and laying in a trash can. I keep thinking about their upcoming fate. I'm not sure what the standards of medical disposal are. But in my head they are whole and tossed like wobbling frisbee-orbs into a thick black trash bag a few feet away from my body. I see them they land on top a holocaust scene of discarded appendages.

I wonder if they would freeze them for me. Or put them in a doggie bag for me to take home like my family used to do with the fried chicken from Romines. I could buy a small casket for them and hold a memorial service. Bury them and place a head stone that reads "Here lies Jenn's Breasts, more to come, but not just yet."

I morn their death already.

sorry for the morbid post, i just can't get that image outta my insane head.

My right nipple

is screaming making me painfully aware of its upcoming demise.

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.

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. . .

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!

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...

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."

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.

Tonight

I can't. I won't. This is over.

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.

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. . .

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.

Wow'd out The painting

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."

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.

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.

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.