The weeks after my BRCA2 diagnoses were a bit of a blur. I was in shock, but determined to tackle this in an organized and proactive way. That’s me. I decided I needed to find any and every resource to help me figure out what to do. I talked to people who had surgery and those who opted for a lifetime of vigorous surveillance, and by lifetime, I mean, until cancer is caught(early, hopefully) and ended up having surgery anyway. Yes, I suppose I’m a bit of a pessimist. A pessimistic optimist. Expect the worst, hope for the best. BUT I’m going into this cancer-free and I’m doing everything I can to remain that way.
Along with all of this talk and research came a barrage of doctor’s appointments(we all love freezing cold waiting rooms, right!). I kept joking I should get frequent flier miles for my tests (I hadn’t gone a full 36 hours without a doctor’s appointment). And naturally, yet shockingly surprising to me, a headache of unsolicited advice, because, even if someone is unfamiliar with something, doesn’t mean they can’t be an expert!
At this point only my husband, my mom and my closest friends knew what was going down or rather, being cut out.
I decided to post on a mom Facebook board I’m on where I feel most comfortable sharing. I know most of them only through the interwebs but it is far from a forum of sanctimommies. I was immediately messaged by a few members who carry the genetic mutation, and many who know people who did, along with some family members of friends. I talked to EVERYONE. I joined FORCE, an amazing recourse for those with hereditary cancer risks. They match you with a “mentor” and they share their experiences with you. Mine was great!
As I was told by Caitlin Brodnick, a BRCA+ comedienne I spoke with, and author of Dangerous Boobies, I basically get to “move to the head of the line”. The cancer test line, unfortunately, not the line at the Jimmy Choo sample sale.
The first thing I did was call my plastic surgeon, ok not MINE, though I do have one, he’s fantastic, and really BOTOX is just the best(we’re being real here, right… at least until my boobs become fake, eh I’ll still be real). I called my mother’s plastic surgeon. She had skin cancer on her nose shortly before my wedding, and had several operations to make sure everything remained perfect AND cancer free. I’ve known him for quite some time and I felt as though knowing that the physical end result would be okay would ease a bit of my mental fear and anxiety.
This is where we reach the part of the story where Emily gets felt up by a decent amount of people in NYC.
Seeing a plastic surgeon for boob stuff is WEIRD, you guys. They photograph, they measure(apparently my right nipple is about a quarter inch higher than my left), they dictate medical notes to the nurse, and use words like ptosis (droopy boobies – I always felt mine were still perky, thanks a lot, doc!). It’s not as invasive as you would think, but it’s not the most comfortable thing to be on all fours on an examining chair being felt up, in a completely sterile manner and out of its normal context(NOT THAT I WANTED ANYTHING ELSE!). He did make me feel better. He is a WONDERFUL surgeon and really, a genius. This was going to be ok. The Amazing Dr. Henry Spinelli was going to make sure of it! He makes great boobs. Yes, he said that, and yes, I believe him.
He sent me to the breast/general surgeon he works with. I’m learning now…. there’s a “remover guy” and a “make me normal again” guy. I can handle that. Sure, I’ll go let Dr. Eugene Nowack feel me up next. Why not? Then I’ll agree to let him extract all my breast tissue! Fun times!!
Then came what happens at the head of that line I was talking about before. And nope, still not awesome teal suede stiletto booties. It’s a mammogram (woohoo!). Which was not so bad. They had these lovely microsuede pink robes and played classical music versions of pop songs. For me, it was a toss up between the all string version of “Poker Face” or the ironically timed full orchestral “How To Save A Life,” made famous on “Grey’s Anatomy”. The mammogram was not so bad. Then an ultrasound. Also, not so bad. Then an MRI (my first ever). I have yet to mention in my blog that in my 36 years on this planet, I’ve never broken a bone, never had surgery, I’ve been stung by a bee once, and besides my pregnancy, I’ve never been hospitalized. The MRI was also not so bad. I was face down and I found the loud noises really helped to drown out the thoughts and voices in my head. I always try to talk to them, but they rarely talk back…
They biopsied two spots with a gigantic needle the size of my arm, that sounded at first like a drill and then a vacuum. One biopsy was 4 hours long and freezing, another was in a mammogram machine, where finding the correct position to drill into me took far longer than I needed it to. (one biopsy came back fine, the other as focally atypical apocrine hyperplasia and apocrine adenosis.) Oh that, sure, I totally know what that is. Dr. Google told me this: “In ADH, the pattern of growth of cells is abnormal and has some (but not all) of the features of ductal carcinoma in-situ (which is a pre-cancer). This means that ADH is not yet a pre-cancer, although it is linked to an increased risk of getting breast cancer later on.”
So…..Just something that leaves me at high risk for cancer they recommend removing. (well DUH!) Dr. Remover Guy said not to worry and it’s “just a sneeze”. I think that means NBD and it’s coming out anyway. Bye, Bye BOOOOOOBIES, I’m gonna miss you so….