Holy shitsnacks. It’s been a year. In that time a lot has happened; I found out I had cancer, froze an embryo, had a port put in, started chemo, ended chemo, had my boobs removed then replaced with implants, continued herceptin, ended herceptin along with countless other scans and prodding.

So here we are, one year, one month, and a couple of days after my diagnosis, it’s been a physically and emotionally difficult time. But, I’ve been given the OK to get my port out. This is a huge step and tether to cut loose (literal and figurative).

From a purely practical perspective, I’m loath to lose my port since I have piss poor veins. I also don’t have a high threshold for being stuck multiple times, I’ve been known to pass out from time to time. It usually goes like this.

I say, “I’m a difficult stick plus I can only be stuck on my right side. My left side was my go-to but I’ve had lymph nodes removed.”

Hospital person says, “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll get this on one try.”

After the third attempt…

I say, “Wow, third time’s a charm right. Hmmm, I’m not feeling so good.”

Thud. I’m out.

So yeah, having a port, although uncomfortable at times, has been unbelievably helpful.

I’ll miss it. It was my tie to life as a professional patient and partially a cyborg. It made my life easier and for that I’m grateful.

It’s the last one. Coincidentally, it falls on the same day exactly one year ago that I had my first appointment at Dana-Farber.

I didn’t ring any bell.  I’ve heard about the bell later on. I wasn’t aware that was an option. I totally would’ve done it. It would be less of a symbolic gesture and more like fulfilling a childhood dream of banging a gong or hearing the Liberty Bell ring.

A year on, my Herceptin appointments have become part of my routine. Mary and Maggie, Josh’s aunts who feel like they’re my own aunts, accompany me during my infusion. I get to spend time with my chemo nurse Ann who clears out my port and makes getting an infusion as comfortable as possible. Despite the drive into Boston, the experience is not too bad.

Herceptin doesn’t have the same side effects of traditional chemo. Sure, you pee a lot afterwards, and it makes your pee smell weird. Not asparagus weird, more mediciney kinda weird. Also, there’s fatigue. But again, completely different than chemo and much more manageable.

I also felt a certain amount of comfort or security with Herceptin infusions. Herceptin meant that I was on a treatment with manageable side effects that was making sure cancer doesn’t make a comeback.

So, today was my last one. I’m hoping soon after it means my port is coming out too. Not sure what I’m going to do with all this free time. Just kidding, I got plenty of appointments to go.

I think this is one of many first steps to going back to life post-cancer.

Why not still dress up even when you’re 35-years-old? It’s Halloween and also my penultimate Herceptin treatment.

It’s a homemade costume since typical Costa-style I waited until the last second. I’m not terribly crafty, but I had fun. I made a few people chuckle at work and MGH. So, it was totally worth it.

It’s been a few months since surgery and my last round of chemo.  A couple of months after surgery, I started physical therapy. I can’t say enough good things about it.

Sure, it’s a pain. Who has time to go anywhere twice a week to do exercises for things you had been doing for years like buckling a seatbelt? But…I can’t imagine what recovery would be like without out. I feel like physical therapy has been a great contribution to my recovery and enabled me to regain my range of motion and start working out again.

I find it frustrating that for most major surgeries, physical therapy is a given. But, for a surgery in which you have your breasts removed and reconstructed, not so much.

Physically, I’m still tired, and my brain isn’t what it used to be. I have a couple of months of Herceptin to go. Herceptin is a wonder drug for Her 2 positive women like myself. I’m grateful that it is around for my treatment and feel sad for women years before me who went without it.

It’s not all doom and gloom. I have hair. I look less like a cancer patient and more like some badass lady who cut and dyed her hair cos she feels like it. Ha! One funny thing is people cos of my hair think maybe I’m antiauthority, a poser since I don’t have a lot of tattoos, or way cooler than I am.

Instead, I’m just a lady who had cancer and loves having some damn hair. I also want to have some fun with it. Besides, the color goes well with my color combo. So, why the hell not?

Well, it’s been almost 3 months since surgery. The road after surgery has been tough. The pain is one thing but it’s also difficult to get used to the changes your body has gone through. I guess it doesn’t help that I’m recovering from chemo and surgery.

Because of the ALND (axillary lymph nodes dissection) on my left side, I had an unusual feeling of cording on my left arm. I can best describe this as feeling and seeing a rubber band of muscle when I move my left arm. It hurts and definitely feels weird to move. On cancer.org, it states that this is common after ALND surgery.

In an effort to regain my range of motion and make sure I’m not hurting myself, I started physical therapy with a wonderful PT named Jane at MGH Waltham. She’s worked with breast cancer patients and understands the unique situation we face especially those with lymphedema. She’s also so kind and supportive which I really appreciate. It’s a vulnerable time.

I’m also still getting used to what my chest looks like. I knew that I wasn’t going to have what I had before. But, it’s hard to get used to what I have now.

The asymmetry is a story for a different post. I have to underscore how difficult it is to see the asymmetry plus the discomfort.

I know a lot of folks are under the false impression that breast reconstruction is a boob job, nothing could be further from the truth. The only two things are in common are that some reconstruction types use implants and that the surgery is on your breasts. After those two things, breast reconstruction is nothing like a boob job.

I’m grateful for living today and that there are different options for reconstruction. But, ultimately, it’s an attempt to recreate what you had. It’s not perfect. It is not an exact replica of what human breasts look and act like.

The implants used for reconstruction weren’t initially intended for that purpose. They were intended to be used in women who still have breast tissue. When you have no breast tissue, the physics of an implant are odd.

There are things that make it better. Anatomical implants are being made more widely available in the U.S. and those implants are better at replicating a natural breast, lookswise. Feelwise, not so much. But it’s all about give and take, right?

For women who weren’t able to keep their nipples, there’s now 3d tattooing done by professional tattoo artists. There’s also nipple reconstruction but it seems results can be mixed.

Anyway, despite all the options and types of reconstruction, it’s not a walk in the park, it’s not consolation prize for having or preventing cancer. Reconstruction takes time and recovery. And, I don’t regret it.

It’s just something you do cos you feel it’s the right choice for you.

I’m getting stronger each day. My hair is on it’s way back, even though I look like I shaved my head last week. One of the goals I had during the dark days of chemo was to get to Schroon Lake this year along with my sister, her husband and her husband’s family.

The Massimos are generous and kind enough to let us spend time with them in the beautiful and peaceful Adirondacks. During the most difficult times, I would just picture the smell of the summer, the feel of the sun, the coolness of the lake’s water. I would think about the overwhelming beauty of the night sky where you could see the Milky Way and feel lost in the awesomeness of space.

Having these visions of summer, it helped me find my happy place where I could ignore the anxiety and pain I was experiencing.

On our drive to Schroon Lake, I was reminded of how the solution to heal people (other than bleeding them or cupping) was to send them to the country away from the city and its ills. I used to think that it was silly to think someone with something like TB is going to get better after being around some trees. Whether or not it “cures,” after so many months of being sick, getting away to be surrounded by summer, I finally had a chance to just be.

As much anxiety as I felt about the prospect of surgery and the pain I associated with it. Having gone through it, it’s amazing how fuzzy my memories are from that time.

I’m sure that the combination of heavy narcotics plus being emotionally and mentally tapped out from chemo has a lot to do with the lack of clarity. It makes me think of those memories you have from childhood that you have but you’re never quite sure if they’re real or something you’re kiddie brain made up.

To sum up the particulars of what makes surgery suck: pain, numbness, drains and weird-looking boobs. Plenty of women mention how much drains suck and they are not wrong. It’s weird to have them hanging out of your body plus you get the joy of cleaning those suckers out.

The other thing other women have mentioned is the numbness you’ll feel. It’s different for everyone but in addition to being numb in the chest region, I was also numb in my armpits and the backs of my arms (triceps area).

I figured going into surgery that as good as plastic surgery can be, it’s not going to be as good as the real thing. I also didn’t anticipate how long shit takes to get back to looking somewhat normal. I did have the added surprise of the girls not being even since my surgeon thought I’d be getting radiation.

After waiting a couple of weeks for my pathology, the good news is that I don’t need to have radiation since I had a pathologic complete response (pCR) to the chemo. This means that the there was no evidence of residual disease which is freaking awesome. The chemo as brutal as it was, did the trick.

Of course, there’s the bad news, with uneven boobs, it means I’ll definitely have to have another surgery.

Yup, sonofabitch….put one in the win column and it has to be followed up with putting one in the what the fack column. Although the prospect of another surgery is daunting, I do feel a sense of relief that chemo did as good a job as it did. It doesn’t take away the paranoia that maybe some rogue cell was missed.

But, I let myself think about it a little and then move on. Otherwise, I’d spend all my time freaking the hell out. Besides, I still got 10 more Herceptin treatments to go. I also have to get back to not moving my arms like a puppet.