I have to share something with you. I stared at my boobs last night. I did. I was putting cream on my nipple {which is only something you can get away with saying when you are nursing or dealing with breast cancer} and I was checking out my new rackage. And I have to tell you… air bags, fun bags, whatever kinda bags you wanna call ’em, are actually kinda nice looking. And this is coming from a girl who only really liked my boobs when I was 7 months pregnant three times over. The point in me telling you this is not to tout my temporary ta tas. It’s to help you understand that I am not a woman scorned over the loss of a physical part of myself. I’d much rather lose my breasts 100 times over than my heart, soul, or mind. Who am I kidding? I lost my mind years ago.
So why am I telling you about rubbing my breasts? Do you remember the fact that they used to sell cream you could sell to rub on your buds to make them grow? Am I the only one who remembers this? Well, I sorta feel like I’ve morphed back to 1996 Ashli who paid daily attention {okay, multi-daily} to the status of her breasts. Because I have to rub a vat of lotion on Mr. Righty about 84 times a day to keep it “moist” {and yes. I hate that word as much as everyone else}. And I most def currently check the air in the tires more than I even did while nursing — which is just hilar. I mean, at least I’m alone most of the time so when I’m rubbing the folds of the baggies in my boobies, no one really has to watch. This is just one of the few hilarious parts of this whole cancer situation. What are the others? Well I’m thrilled you asked.
1. Burnt bacon nipple
I was chatting it up with Doc Johnson regarding my “belly-button-nubbin-nip” which I’ve now started to refer to as “burnt bacon boob” and I said, “I mean, look at it. Doesn’t it kinda look like it is gonna fall right off? Like I might lose this nip?”
“You might lose part of it,” he said. Like, NDB, Ashli, half your nip might slip and that’s cool. By his lackadaisical response, I am left to assume that my nipples are akin to an earthworm or my liver and will simply regenerate should something drastic happen to my plastics. But for now, mama’s bearing the burnt bacon bits daily and hoping that papa doesn’t mind the copious amount of rubbing of Silvadene that happens on the regular. Because even though my nip has no burn, baby, burn… apparently it takes a heavy duty wound cream to keep the nippage.
2. C Diff and my derriere
I’ve talked a little about c diff or clostridium difficile and I think it’s time that you and I arranged a heart to heart. Or a fart to fart, as may be more appropriate in this situation. C diff is essentially what happens when the good bacteria is stripped away from your gut and the bad bacteria takes over. Then, you are almost, quite literally, up shit creek. Without a paddle, I suppose.
I’ve now had C Diff three times, all after taking antibiotics — once for neutropenia {severely low white cell counts}, once for strep throat, and once for my current breast cellulitis that is causing the bacon boob. I will tell you that I missed the C Diff boat ONCE after an antibiotic pre-surg. I guess that was just a fluke. Because it’s back on the bum, once again.
So, to infectious disease, I go. And why is this funny? I mean, first of all, it’s sort of funny that I’m 34 and going to infectious disease for C Diff because they initially told me that it more generally wreaks havoc on “the elderly”. But the other reason it’s funny is because I can guarantee we are gonna have a discussion again about a little treatment aptly named a fecal transplant. Which is what? It is when they find a donor, generally a fam member… in my case, likely my darling husband. They make them poop and collect it in a “hat”. Put the poo in a blender of some sort {I like to picture a magic bullet} and mix it up. And then, in the fashion of a colonoscopy, they shoot the poo up into my gut-a-roo, and let the good flora do it’s thing, growing into my tummy. I mean. This. This is called testing your vows, people. And as I’ve said, I’ve long referred to the buns as an out-only business door soooo… there’s no way my husband thought this was his way in. I know. TMI. But, truth. That’s all I serve here.
Another, and likely, first, option, is for me to get a six week course of another antibiotic called vancomycin. For some reason this reminds me of one of the dudes on Ghostbusters. Also, it is hilarious to me that in order to battle the use of antibiotics, I have to take an antibiotic. But — or rather, butt — if I can dodge having to take it up the poop shoot, I am all in on the antibis.
3. One nip, two nips, red nips, blue nips
Sooooo… I haven’t explained the whole sentinel node biopsy thing as of yet and I feel as though now is as good of time as any. When I got the sentinel node biopsy done, it was to determine if there was cancer in the lymph nodes. And, amazingly enough, there is quite the remarkable way of determining this these days. They put you under, and they inject your boobie with a blue dye. The dye actually contains radioactive tracers in it. The dye then drains from your breast, down to your lymph nodes, in the same fashion as cancer cells would trickle down from the breast to the lymph system. The dye then turns the “head lymph node” blue and also, heats up any lymph nodes that are likely diseased.
Then, a couple days post-lymphectomy, you pee out the blue dye.
Yes. That is true. Again. All. Truth.
4. Where the Wildebeest Is
I just need to once again recall the time of the Wildebeest {aka ma ma ma my sceroma}. A sceroma popped under my pit, remember? And it was hairy due to my fear of shaving it. And it started to look so much like a third boob that the Mr. contemplated drawing a faux nip on it. But then, they drained it, I got my first JP, Carl, and we moved on from the Wildebeest without a recurring issue. Thanks be to God.
5. Air bags on the Brehm
If you have been around me since surgery, there’s about an 85% chance you’ve seen my boobs in full form. There’s also about a 92% chance that I’ve made you poke at them through a shirt. Because air. I seriously can’t even say it enough. It is quite a strange sensation to have boobs that feel like $3 bouncy balls from the Target cage.
My boobs. They are currently prime for a circus act. Between bacon nipple and the air-filled fun, I am serious, they are quite the scene. And yet. I love them. Because they are mine. And they are a part of all that I’ve been through so far. The physical part — those changes — are much more worth laughing over than the emotional toll of it all.
Next up, trips to the gas station to fill ’em up. Okay. Not the gas station. But I will start getting fills. To make the skin stretch. And while I am currently filled with 400 ccs of air, they will exchange that for 400 ccs of saline and then, over a bit of time, add in about 100 more in each boobie bag. It’s pretty fantastical.
So, in the words of Samantha Jones, “Cancer is hilarious…” at least I think that’s how she says it. And sure, it’s not actually a funny thing to get/have/live with/die from cancer… but it does make for some great stories. And some very funny situations that I never ever could have made up in my wildest dreams. In most cases, there is a silver lining. And for me, with cancer, it’s been the goodness and the humor. And some days, those two things are the same.
Because, as I always say {even though they are not my words}, every single day may not be good but there is something good in every. single. day.
