I feel like cancer can get a bum rap. I mean, sure, it’s angry cells attacking your body. And it ravages whomever and whatever it wants. It doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t send a note saying it’s coming for a stay. It simply starts taking over and decides it is the boss. So yes… I suppose, it is a bit of a villain.
But often, what is really the worst part of cancer is what has to be done to combat it. Because they have to put toxins in your body to oust the intruders. But if you’re me, you are okay with the toxin situation because if you find breast cancer early enough, it’s often “curable” these days {thanks to research. treatments. protocols. toxins. and on and on and on}. And it’s the treatments that can take someone like me, who felt perfectly healthy at diagnosis, and turn you into a sick person.
A person without hair.
A person with no tastebuds.
A person with crappy immunity.
A person who is physically weaker.
A person who pees their pants.
What?!
Yep. A person who pees their pants. And this, my friends, is where it’s gonna get reallllll personal up in this blog so consider this your: if you can’t stand the heat, “get outta the kitchen” warning.
……….
“I think I want to get botox,” I said to my husband as we stood looking in the bathroom mirror, my face scrunched up taking stock of my 11. He gave me a look back like, wha? Because I have long been the gal that’s like, “I am great with whatever people wanna do for themselves but I am good with aging gracefully.”
But then, cancer. And I no longer feel like I’ve aged gracefully. Or that I will magically revert to that.
“It’s just…” I continued, “I have a Peter Pan Man cut. I have these porn star boobs with always nipped out nipples. I can’t wear a bra because I have a severe sunburn. One breast is bigger than the other. I have had an infection which causes raging diarrhea 4 times in the last 7 months. And I completely soaked the front of my jeans the other night at the school carnival when I had a coughing fit. Oh, and I have the single furpit sitch. I just. I just don’t feel sexy.”
“Well, I think you’re hot.”
My husband. Always so sweet to me. Because I truly believe that even with all this going on, he still thinks I’m sexy. In fact, I can confirm this based on the activities that have continued over the last 9 months {which, FWIW, you will have to buy my book to read about. Because I determined I can’t write about sex after babies, and sex during cancer and such, for free peeks. I just can’t. If I’m gonna be that real, I’m gonna need to be making some guilt money off of it.}
But anyway, this complaining about my appearance is so not my M.O. I mean, not my post-25 M.O. Especially not post-babies or diagnosis because after babies, I felt beautiful because I had had babes and after diagnosis, I wasn’t about to make one complaint about my body or my appearance… heck, a little saddlebag stuff ain’t got nothin’ on cancer killing my boob, right? So of all the things I’ve complained about through my journey, my appearance… the losing of the hair, the weight fluxuation, the boobs becoming fake… these are not things I’ve been concerned with or consumed by. Because, well, cancer. It makes me feel ridonculous to complain about a little thigh jig. Or just not feelin’ that hot. Because I’m just so gosh darn thankful to be ALIVE.
But then. The recent events have sort of taken sexy back. Or away. Or shall I say, butt then?
Because guess what happens from chemo? Your estrogen plummets. You know, the hormone that makes you all frisky and lubed up. Wellllll, that sort of peaces out like a girl scout. Which, actually, is good for me because my cancer is partially fueled by the big Estrogen-gal. So I’m mostly like, forget you. But, well, guess what lack of estrogen can do? Thin out the walls of your Girl Friday. And guess what thin walls can mean? Less bladder control. And guess what less bladder control means? Pants peeing central.
Like seriously full-tidal wave-Old Faithful in ma pants at the school carnival. I even pointed it out to my friend and she was like, “eagads, woman!” I mean, not really that. But a similar reaction to the fact that it looked like I spilled a half bottle of Hee Haw on my hoo ha.
So, what’s a 34 year old gal to do? Get rubber sheets and where them around like a skirt, right? Oh. Maybe not. Sport one of the Littlest’s size 5’s? Or perhaps even just a pull-up from the Middlest’s night stash would do? Actually. I’m not so sure that would hold the “thar she blows” situation in. Luckily {or perhaps that’s the wrong word to use} I am not the first person to encounter this issues. This tends to also be a problem for post-menopausal women and women who had issues due to childbirth or pregnancy. So now, instead of wearing a post-birth maxi pad floatation device every day, I am sporting one of these beauts.
Because, cancer.
And if you’re curious… After much debate, I started with size 2. Because I didn’t want to start with size 1 and feel like I was a walking River Runs Through It should it not handle the daily deluge. And I def didn’t want to start with 3 and have it not work and feel like I was dealing donning a hot dog down a hallway, as the saying goes, so I started with 2. And it’s just fine. I may go down to 1. We’ll just have to wait and pee see. And of course I’m doing Kegels like it’s nobody’s biz. Like, right now. And right now. And just a second ago. And right now. Well, you get the picture.
After all my treatment is done, I will go to a vagina specialist and they will help me not have to wear Depends for life. Apparently this is a common issue, as stated previously and so there are allllll kinds of fixer uppers for a flappy Friday. And guess what one of the options for treatment can be? Botox in your vaginina. Seriously. So I think that’s what got me thinking about Botox. I mean, I can’t possibly have more wrinkles on my face than in my mothership, right?
But why oh why did I say butt up there? I know. That’s what you’ve been thinking about as I’ve been blabbering about incontinence. Well, because… colonoscopy.
Yep yep yep! I just got signed up for an exciting trip to “Cleanse your colon Land” where nobody wins and everyone poos. WHY A COLONOSCOPY? I know that’s what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. It has nothing to do with cancer. Well, except that the very first time I had chemo, my counts drop drop dropped. Do you remember? I was neutropenic {read: my white counts were below 100}. I was admitted to the hospital. And I didn’t leave alone. Because the hospital is a breeding ground for all sorts of little buggers waiting to wreak havoc on unassuming patients like myself.
So I brought home a little parting gift dude named c. diff {thanks again to my hilarious friend, Jamie, for gifting me a C. Diff Microbe. It’s just fantastic}. And what is c. diff? Clostridium Difficile essentially means the good flora {bacteria} in your tum tum gets grown over like weeds taking over a beautiful field. And when this happens, it makes you have a shit ton of diarrhea. Literally. A shit ton. Like days into weeks of loosey dooseys. That smell like sewage. And if untreated, can make you realllllllly ill. Lucky for me, I got it at 33 instead of 83 as it can pose a greater risk to the elderly. But it’s still pretty bad ass. And I mean that in the not nicest way possible. BAD ASS. That’s what it gives you.
So here’s the poop: I’ve been on four rounds of meds to try to kick this little shitter to the curb but it just keeps busting my rear. So, what’s my next option? No. Not a probiotic or giving up gluten. But thanks for that advice. No no. My option, which offers a 90% success rate of never having a cheeks-parting-explosion- show due to antibiotics or otherwise issssssssssss: A fecal transplant.
I’ll give you a second to read those words. Fecal. Transplant. Fecal meaning “stool” or “poop” or “turds”. And transplant meaning “taking from someone and giving to another”.
Ya. No joke here.
So… on Monday, Adam and I took all three boys to a GI Specialist at Nebraska Medicine. Why did we all go? Well. Because. You know, the family that goes to the doc together can always talk together. Just kidding. We all went because do you know who the best donor is of fecal matter? Your co-habitant. AKA MY HUSBAND. That’s right, people. I discussed this briefly here and talked about it on Live Chat but it’s come to the point where, my husband is being tested to see if he is a sufficient and safe donor of poo. For me.
Yes. The fecal matter from his body will be transplanted into mine.
So he had to leave a deposit. And get blood work. To make sure he doesn’t have the HIV or the Clap {which is going to lend to a greater discussion should this come back to be true} or any other things that make him a less than ideal candidate. Because I need the pristine poop for this procedure. Ass-uming all is well, then, in a few weeks, I will go in and the same day, he will again, poop in a container. And then I will have his poop transplanted into my stomach via colonoscopy. Yes. They will shoot his poop up my shoot. Annnnnd for the first time ever, my husband will get to get in my back door. And I’m pretty sure that’s not how he ever imagined the scenario going down. {I would normally apologize that that was TMI but this blog post pretty much rocks the world off of TMI sooooo… sorry, mom.}
I mean, if we don’t stay married, this is gonna get reallllll awkward. Because he is gifting me his gut sludge, peeps. But thankfully, I think he’s planning to keep me around for awhile. Which is fun because every time he says that I’m full of shit, I can say, “Yeah. Yours.” OR if he thinks I’m being shitty, I can say, “I got it from you.” And of course if he thinks I’m an asshole welllllll…
Okay, I digress.
But it’s too hard not to make jokes about it. Because if you take it all too seriously, you’ll drive yourself nutty bananas. And I don’t need to add that to the list of stuff to deal with. But I do share this part of my journey because these are not unique complications to my cancer sitch. A lot of people going through treatment experience side effects like these or worse. And per the uzh, I want to be as authentic as I can as I live my journey {and yes, I asked my husband before I wrote this. And I read him the post first. I do have some modicum of decorum}.
So, bladder and bum are being tended to, not due to cancer but as a side effect of it.
But after we’ve done the transplant and the cervical {or whatever} Botox, then, I’m bringing sexy back. Peter Pan hair and all. In fact, you all better watch out. Because when I think of someone who oooooozes sex appeal, well, I think of me.
Here’s the good news … two sessions of radiation left next week. 6ish sessions of Herceptin infusion. And shoring up this side effect stuff. And then, I take a breather for awhile until my next surgery {the reconstruction} with regular checkups and monitoring and a maintenance drug.
But the best news of all is that I’ve been feeling like me lately. But not just me. A happier, free-er, less stressed, not exhausted, more present me. And I think that even if I don’t find her very sexy, I really like this girl being here again.
Because that’s the real thing. Life is always going to be changing. Some days, you’ll be full of shit. Some days they’ll be shit everywhere. And others, you’ll feel so happy, you wanna pee your pants. But all the others in between, you just need to be happy to be alive. And that. Well. That I definitely am.
