Wow, the last several days have been fucking brutal. There is no other way to put it. I am still trying to process all of it.
It started off with the appointment with The Oncologist™.Here is what we know for sure:
- I have triple negative, inflammatory breast cancer. This the breast cancer associated with the BCRA1 and BRCA2 genes. Which means I am eligible for genetic testing and so are my female relatives under the age of 60. It is optional for me to get this testing done. I have not yet decided. Of course, my biological family will want me to do it because it’s important to them. For me, this is not the basis upon which I wish to form a relationship. No decision at this time from me.
- I need(ed) 2 tests to determine if my cancer is curable or incurable. I’ve had one test and so far, it’s good. One yet to be booked. I am cautiously optimistic. But I know my body and it doesn’t usually do things the easy way. I will wait until Tuesday to hear about the booking of this test and then I will be on the phone.
- I had the bone scan on Thursday. I was promised the results by The Oncologist™ on Friday but I called after 12. He doesn’t work Friday afternoons. He never told me that. He said he would tell me on Monday. I started to cry because I did what he told me to do and now I have to go the weekend without knowing. He got the results and called me back in 5 minutes. I do not have cancer in my bones. Ya bones! Nice to see you’ve got my back.
- I noted on some blood work done by the The Oncologist™ that I have low tumour markers. I hope that means something.
- The Oncologist™ asked me if I could pay privately for a liver CT. I said yes. He then dismissed as an alternative as they probably couldn’t accommodate my weight unlike the public system that has to take all comers. What a fucker is all I can say. Dangle something in front of my face and then pull it back because I am fat? I have had a CT scan successfully in the past.
- He told me I was going to be hard to treat because of all my medical conditions and medications. Like this is my fault? None of them are related to my weight. They are almost all auto-immune diseases and most are historic and long resolved. And my 20 medications. Like, fuck off, man.
- Then he says I am going to have trouble with surgery and makes a motion to indicate my breasts.
- Then there was the ‘hand’. I think it’s the The Oncologist’s favourite thing. Every time I tried to ask a question or say something he’d put up his hand like I was a fucking 3 year old who needed to be shushed.
- I completely understand why Angelina Jolie had her breasts and ovaries removed (which is next by the way).
- Here’s is what The Oncologist™ doesn’t know is that I am one fucking tough woman. I wrote a successful gaming application from hospital bed with no immune system, I quit smoking cold turkey, I worked for a decade with severe ulcerative colitis, often with up to 20 bowel movements per day and not being able to eat. I worked in one of the toughest environments I have ever seen all while being bullied and mobbed.
- I had great training. I grew up in Cecile’s house. She gave daily lessons on how to absorb causal cruelty without reacting.
- I am stoic, I will probably be one of the most stoic patients he has ever had.
- These are the facts. The emotions behind it all are still processing.
- And through all of this, our pharmacist has been my hero. She gets me what I need by harassing our doctor now nicknamed The Stone (more on her at another time).
I just had to get that out so that should I feel the need to explore those emotions I will know their trigger.
Right now, we are focusing on the good news. My bones are clean. I just need the liver CT to be clear and I can beat this.
Please ignore typos and errors. I can only deal with this stuff for a limited amount of time.
Who shall remain nameless as he is a fat-shaming bastard who lacks to dangle carrots in front of your face and then yank them back because you are too fat. This will all become evident.
Some of her favourites were poking my stomach and saying that I needed a cookie like I needed a hole in my head, or if you don’t hurry up I am going to leave you, or how can you need the bathroom that much? And on it goes. I can survive The Oncologist’s slings and arrows.
Days since breast cancer diagnosis: 29