As Close as Humanly Possible

So.

I have a tentative timeline for my surgery. My new doc is amazing: kind, intuitive, and smart. After a breast exam, we talked some about the type of mastectomy options for me.  Her goal as the surgical oncologist is to reduce my risk of breast cancer by taking as many breast cells (tissue) as possible. If she removes my nipple, my risk of developing breast cancer drops to 1-4%. Then the plastic surgeon builds me new fake boobs and everyone lives happily ever after. Unless that sneaky 1% of cells manage to regenerate.

Hey, it's been known to happen.

I am beyond happy that I waited the three months to see her instead of sticking with her creepy counterpart.  Doctors often seem to forget what a huge decision and sacrifice these surgeries are.  I really wanted someone who understood what I am giving up: breastfeeding. All feeling in my "breasts." 6 weeks of movement during recovery. And don't forget real breasts and nipples, whoa. To treat this as if I'm shopping for a handbag or something is a huge, huge, huge insult. The other doc propped his feet up, for goodness sakes.

Anyhow. I've got to get as close to my goal weight as possible before the surgery. Today's second go at Bridge to 10Kwent okay. I realized that I have the same feeling about this as I did when I first (secretly) started Couch to 5k: scared that this will whip my azz. Scared people will watch my black azz and boobs jiggling down the street and snicker. Yeah, sometimes I'm self- conscious like that.

{dress- jcrew; belt, scarf- anthro}

 You see, this distance 4 times a week would make me an honest-to-goodness runner.  A runner-runner. And that label would mean more work, more training, more effort. As with C25K, I am worried about giving up before I've started.


Y'all know I'm not going to lie to you. I have been smaller before, done this before.  These days I'm trying to make sure I don't have to do it again.  If I start a rigorous training program and don't make it through, I fear the failure will send me tumbling backwards.


That feeling again: can I do this? Am I strong  enough for this?


xoxo,
13

Sexy Secretary. Um, Not Really.

So.  Recently, in my pics, I can tell I am losing weight.  Even though the scale isn't really moving, other things are shifting.  

earrings- anthro

And the reason the scale isn't really moving?

I am eating like shit.  Since C25K, I have been hungry.  At first I thought it was thirst (which, to some extent, it was), but I feel as if the normal meals I've been hanging onto for this whole journey aren't cutting it anymore.  Thing is, I can't pause weight loss.  I still have more to lose- doctor's orders. 

cardi- jcrew

I have really good willpower, so I know something else is going on here.  I'm going to make sure I'm getting all 4 cups of veggies in my plan and eat a bit more fat to see if that calms the raging monster that is my stomach.

belt- h&m

Thanks to everyone who commented on the surgical oncologist (including two comments that were visible via blogger, but not actually on the blog! Weird!).  I called to see the other one, and they refused to schedule me since I'd seen Rat Face.  I escalated it to the division director, who has basically ignored me, I'm sure hoping that I'll settle down and go away. More calls next week will determine my next move...though I do really want to stay at the University Hospital, so I may just have to suck it up. 

top, skirt, earrings- anthro

xoxo,

13

Monster Post: Old Genes/New Jeans

I have hinted here and there about some health issues that were astir last month. I debated whether to share them on the blog, but realized that I need to.   Looooong story short, after over a decade, a doctor finally shook her head over my family's remarkable susceptibility to cancers and had me tested for a gene. 

My mom, dad, both grandmoms, aunts, three great- aunts, and uncles all had cancer, many of them related cancers.  But the most crushing was my older sister's, because she was young.  She died of the rarest form of breast cancer when she was only a couple of years from the age I am now.

Nothing, nothing has ever impacted me more than my sister's death. Nothing. 

So when this incredulous doctor suggested I test for the breast cancer gene, I leaped at the chance.  I have felt since my sister's death that my breasts were going to kill me young too. The results took a month.

Though I was negative for the BRCA (BReast CAncer) genes, the doctor is still treating me as a high risk case.  Which means 3 MRIs  + 2 mammograms per year that would detect, not prevent, breast cancer; chemoprevention drugs that risk my fertility and would likely put me into early menopause (and still reduce my risk by only half); or-- a big "or"-- cutting both breasts off.

I've opted for the "or," as it provides the lowest risk for my ever getting breast cancer (down to 1 percent).

Please--I am not putting this up for sympathy, or readership, or anything like that!   In effect, I was so shocked that no doctor recommended this test for my family until now.  In my research, I learned that African- Americans are referred the least for genetic counseling.  We are also the group more likely to die from our diagnoses of breast cancer.  See why I am less interested in detection?  My parents live in constant terror of their cancers returning. I would rather prevent.

I study gaps in knowledge among groups, and realized the irony early on.  How could I not have known?  My parents are as educated as I. My sister was a nurse. We read the news, follow studies, and don't miss our check- ups. And no one thought that with 3/4 of the folks  in our clan dying from *related* cancers that oh, maybe- this- is- hereditary!  And what's more...how could I be silent about something when silence has only hurt us?

It makes me want to go to fucking med school.

So my body is changing now, as I lose weight, but will be changing some more in the near future. I'll meet with a breast surgeon, a plastic surgeon, and select implants.  I am scheduled for my first  breast MRI next week, and I'd be lying if I said I weren't scared.  

In the meantime, I have a new reason to get into the best shape of my life.  

So while we're on the subject of genes...here's a preview of some jeans I can change:

Anyhow, I'm still me. Still working, collecting data, eating right and oh, yeah, that running thing. 

Still having fun with clothes, cooking for Lovebug, visiting friends, eating good food, and loving my life. 

My life. I have vowed to hold it dear, even if that means sacrificing my breasts.

Whew! That's a lot to get off of my chest, isn't it? Get it- off my chest? Oh, you know  ol' 13's sense of humor ain't goin' nowhere...and neither are the swear words. shirfuckdamshitfuck.

xoxo,

13