Yvonne Perry's Blog

Yvonne Perry's Blog

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Yvonne will post to this from time to time to update everyone on any projects she's working on or just to share her thoughts... Email Yvonne if you have any questions or comments regarding this blog, her website or anything else! Thanks and Enjoy!

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• A Brief Lull

  I’m in a holding pattern here. The sky seems clear enough, but there is some garbled communication coming from the control tower, so I’m just circling the landing strip until the messages from the people in charge come in a little clearer. It was a really rocky take-off, and there was some intermittent turbulence, so I’m hoping for a smooth landing to end this trip. . .At the moment, I’m happy to say, the flying is easy.
  
  It seems some of my e-mails have been passed around, and I have been lucky to hear from several amazing women whose mastectomy surgeries are looming. Others are ahead of me, and they share their stories of survival. Inspiring all. But I realize in writing and speaking to these women that I only started sending these e-mails out after my surgery, and we invariably end up talking about our diagnoses and that dreaded day when we were first told those surreal words: “You have cancer.”
  
  What was that “rocky take-off” really like? It seems like both a lifetime ago, and as if it happened to someone else entirely. I wrote about it, but didn’t want to bore everyone in this e-mail. If your interested in that part of my story, you can find it soon (with my previous e-mails) on my blog:
  www.yvonneperry.com/yvonneblog
  
  Meanwhile, I’m waiting patiently until next Thursday, when I have an appointment back at Dana Farber in Boston with a specialist in Radiation Oncology. Again, hoping for some clarity on this radiation issue. One thing we breast cancer chickees learn quickly: My breast cancer is not the same as your breast cancer. . . or your neighbor’s or your aunt’s or even that woman the doctor saw just before me. Each combination of symptoms, surgeries, and test results gets you to your own, individual prognosis. The new wave in cancer treatments is recognizing that patients need to be looked at in an individual, specialized way. There is not a blanket, one-size fits all way to treat this thing. (Imagine. . .four years ago, with a tumor my size, I’d be getting high dose chemotherapy right now. No contest.) So things are a-changing!
  
  What I am realizing, as I read and research, is that my specific combination of pathology reports is a bit. . .well, odd. Different. Not so common. C’mon, at my age, who grows a tumor as big as mine, as undetectable as mine, requiring the kind of surgery I had, and not have any spread? Turns out most Ambers as big as my Amber are not as lazy as my Amber. Amber was obese and bored. She liked to hide and not draw any attention to herself. The anti-Yvonne? Funny, in this very informative book I am reading by breast cancer expert Dr. Susan Love, most tumors my size fall in either of two categories: “Very Aggressive” - (as in “Wow, that sucker is growing fast!") - or “Patient Neglect” - (as in “How could that scared woman ignore a lump that size for so long?"). Neither scenario applies to me. Sigh.
  
  I won’t see Dr. Jeff (he’s the plastics guy, remember?) again until January 8th, when we will discuss my next surgery. . . sadly I will not be getting “Boobies by Christmas", but I’m willing to wait an extra few weeks if it means the end result will be better. Yes, sometimes I trust my doctors! Boobies by Chinese New Year! Nipples by Easter? Meanwhile, I do not miss the weekly syringes full of saline, and I’m coming to an awkward truce with my bocce balls. As I explained to some of you already, these expanders feel like I’m wearing an underwire sports bra that is two sizes too small, and I just…can’t…get…it…off!!! Pleasant, right? But this is the first time since August when I feel like my body is truly healing. . . when some doctor, nurse or test result isn’t traumatizing me weekly. . . . so I’m enjoying the lull.
  
  OK, I’m off to Rite Aid to pick up my prescription for Tamoxifen, which I start taking today. So much for my “lull".
  Check in with me in five years. . . because when I turn 47 and I get to go off that drug, I’m throwing a party.
  If I’m still alive, that is. (Some morbid humor. Bah ha!)
  
  I leave you with a warning. If the next time you see me, I grab your hand and say “Feel how hard these are, just feel it!” as I force you to touch a boob that was previously off-limits (many of you have already fallen victim to this behavior) - just try to remember that, in my own warped way, I’m only trying to get a little empathy. Or maybe to educate a bit more. Or maybe just to share my fascination with what my body is capable of enduring. Or maybe all of the above, with a dash of “That Yvonne has no boundaries!” thrown in.
  My apologies.
  And my love.
  xoYvonne
  

  
• A River Runs Through It

  Another week, another couple of needles in my chest. Fun fun!
  
  Old cleavage: Like the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. . . narrow, deep and dark.
  New cleavage: Like the Hudson River near the Palisades. . .wide, shallow and very sunny.
  
  The only thing I’m even attempting to “embrace” lately is my new reality. Big, hard, fake bocce balls where my breasts used to be.
  Remember when I couldn’t lift my arms after the surgery? Now I can’t put them down. These expanders reach well under my armpits. Bizarre.
  And since I can’t lay on my back (gravity pulls) or my sides (swollen) or my stomach (as if!) - my recliner is my new heaven.
  But I get by with a little help from my friends. Yeah. Yeah! My friends rock.
  
  Yesterday’s expansion killed, but last week was really just lovely on so many fronts.
  After a wonderful weekend away with some college girlfriends at a spa at the end of September (cocktails and compliments, gotta love old girlfriends) and a relatively painless week since I downgraded to only 60cc’s of saline per side. . .last weekend was the Race for the Cure in Albany. Over 40 people signed up to run or walk for “Yvonne’s Team - Blackbirds for Boobies"! It was quite moving and a great reminder of all the fabulous people I grew up with in Voorheesville. They inspired me to even run the 5K, which I finished in 36 minutes - woohoo! Then I did the 2 mile family walk, and then I came home and slept for 3 hours! “Overwhelmed” isn’t a good enough word to describe how that outpouring of support made me feel. . .
  (Just two examples of how my friends rock.)
  Family is pretty cool too. Case in point: My 75 year old dad walked with the girls, Mark and I, and then even partied with us that night.
  My goal is to be like him someday: 75 and not taking a pill.
  
  This week has been spent trying to wrangle an appointment down at Sloane Kettering for a second opinion on the adjuvant therapy front.
  Not sure I need to go all the way down there for a case like mine. . . so I’m figuring it out.
  I’m still a bit confused on the radiation issue, as this is the first time since my diagnosis that I am getting differing opinions from my doctors.
  Is it worth the leathered skin, brittle ribs, scarred lungs and possible heart damage just to zap any cancer cells that MAY remain, even after such radical surgery? Gotta tell you, I’m not yet convinced. So, off I go to try to see more doctors.
  The more I learn, the more I realize that every cancer is different. . . even just amongst breast cancer.
  Cancer. It’s like a full time job. Sigh.
  
  I think God knew I had a break in my schedule. “Hey, the renovations are done and Yvonne isn’t in a show this fall. . . let’s see how she handles this! You know how she hates down time!”
  
  I was fighting tough last week. Feeling good, feeling good. That all you got in ya, God? ‘Cause this isn’t even scratching the surface of what I can handle. Bring it on , Bring It On!!!
  
  OK, Yvonne, 60 more cc’s per boob. Hurt much? How tough are ya now that you can’t sleep and can barely breathe?
  
  Sorry God. I’ll stay humble. Attitude of gratitude. Got it.
  
  Off to do some of Leigh’s yoga stretches to ward off lymphedema in my left arm. And nap. Oh, a nap!
  I’ll say it again. . . my friends rock.
  Peace out–
  xo Yvonne
  

  
• A Silver Lining

  Well, it’s been nine days since the boob exchange, and I’ve had some time to get a good look at the new girls. Dr. Jeff really took some time to do that sculpting I was hoping for, and I’m pretty darn pleased with the results. I can’t tell you what a difference it is not to have the hard tissue expanders anymore, and as my incisions heal more each day, I can finally envision a time when my breasts may no longer offer me daily pain (either physical or emotional). For that I am grateful.

  That said, it has definitely been two steps forward and one step back. I felt great the day after the surgery, but by last Sunday my body was most assuredly telling me to slow the hell down. I almost passed out in church. That was fun. I had to go back on the painkillers for a bit, and so I was feeling pretty dopey until Thursday. I saw Dr. Jeff on Thursday morning, and he confirmed that I probably have over a hundred stitches in me. Three layers of them! In order to address some esthetic issues I was having, he called an audible during the operation and decided to go against protocol with my incisions. So, I ended up cut, essentially, from armpit to armpit. Like two giant smiley faces under my boobs. Hello, brave new world!

  Let me backtrack and remind you that traditionally the exchange surgery happens through the same incisions made during the mastectomies. Yup, right across the middle of your boob. There is often not a lot of pain in the incisions, since the nerve endings on the skin are still regenerating. But since I was cut below, I felt it, boy oh boy! And I don’t know why I didn’t think about the fact that my pectoral muscles would be cut again, but of course, they had to be, too. So, I was back sleeping in the chair again for a week. I’m still having issues when I try to lie down flat, and I’m hoping that this part of my recovery will be faster than after the mastectomies - when it was a good four months before I could sleep without major discomfort. At least the silicone is softer, and doesn’t hurt my ribs like the saline expanders did.

  But before you throw that pity party, dear friends, let me remind you that once again I have realized something. . . in my breast cancer journey there always seems to be a silver lining in every cloud that has floated my way. Because I don’t have fresh incisions across my breasts, I don’t have to wait the standard four months for them to heal before my areola graft and nipple reconstruction. WooHoo!!! So I might not have gotten “Boobies by Christmas”, I will indeed get “Nipples by Easter”. Well before. . . March 11th, to be exact!

  Many of you have written me with confusion regarding the whole nipple issue. Where did they go? Why?

  Our society objectifies breasts as purely sexual, but their true purpose is to make milk to feed babies. Duh, right? You mean they aren’t there just to look good in a bikini during spring break? No, it seems they are actually a functioning organ that is part of a woman’s reproductive system. So, they may not have functioned in that capacity for me, (what with my babies from China) but mine still had lobules for milk production and ducts to carry the milk to the nipple, where milk is (theoretically, for me) dispensed. Then, of course, there is all that fatty tissue to cushion it all from the harsh world. In booby land, estrogen is the magic hormone that makes all the fun stuff happen. It was also estrogen that encouraged my tumor’s growth.

  Now, the vast majority of breast cancers originate in the reproductive-organ-part of the breast. . . the tumors start to grow in the lobules or ducts. . . and then burst out into the healthy fatty tissue to form tumors. I had “Invasive Ductal Carcinoma” – get it? When mastectomy becomes an option, then surgeons want to be sure to remove every aspect of the reproduction-organ part of a breast. . . since if the cancer were to come back, that’s where it would start. And yes, folks, that means the nipples had to go. And since they are gone, the next phase in my reconstruction is to get them back, dammit! Well, at least get something back that looks like a nipple. . .

  More next week. . .
  Breathing easier, I am –
  Yvonne

  
• All My Kids

  Hi all-
  In case you are interested in seeing my chest make its last professional appearance (OK- not really, I’m in messy scrubs and look like I’ve been delivering babies all night - not glamorous)–
  Anyway, the All My Children episodes I shot as “Dr. Rydell” - the new OB/GYN at Pine Valley Hospital - will air starting tomorrow:
  Thursday 9/11
  Friday 9/12
  Monday 9/15
  Tuesday 9/16
  They are fairly unimpressive from an acting stand point - I seem to remember a lot of “stand there, hold this clipboard, and look concerned” but I had a good time being on a soap set again.
  All My Children is on ABC, usually at 1PM.
  That’s it for now, but they told me I’d be back if they needed me, so here’s hoping someone else in Pine Valley gets knocked up or needs a hysterectomy or something.
  Peace out. . .
  xo Yvonne

  
• Beautiful Betraying Breasts

  Two MRI assisted needle biopsies today. That was not fun, let me tell you. Long talk with radiologist. Nothing confirmed until next Wednesday when the pathology is back from the lab. But she’s pretty sure the right breast just has a fibroid. The left, however, she’s 99% sure is cancer. Sigh. Now I need to find a surgeon, she says. Not saying anything to my family until next week’s lab results, but thought you should know. Long road ahead for me it seems. Sigh. Did I sigh already? And wouldn’t I get diagnosed with breast cancer in August when all the surgeons are on vacation? haha
  xo Yvonne

  
• Bocce Balls

  Hello to all my fabulous peeps. . .
  
  Tough week behind me, I’m not gonna lie.
  Last Thursday’s expansion left me in chronic discomfort and very Motrin-dependant until this Tuesday. But as Fernando Lamas (and then Billy Crystal) famously said, “It is better to look good than to feel good". . . which leads me to this week’s observation:
  
  People who see me for the first time since my diagnosis tend to react in one of two ways. Either they are so shocked that I don’t look wan and pale that they incredulously exclaim “Wow! You look so good!” and I feel like I should moan in pain or something so they don’t think they’ve wasted too much energy on prayers for my recovery. . .or, they see that I seem to be fine and conclude that the worst must be over and this cancer is beat. This latter reaction is usually followed by a strong hug and a change of subject.
  
  While neither reaction is my reality, I find lots of humor in the irony of both.
  
  Yeah, I guess I look pretty good. But whenever someone says I do, I honestly fight the urge to lift my shirt, expose my jagged scars and the oddly shaped lumps where my breasts used to be and say “Tell me how good I look now, why dontcha?". OK, I’ve actually done that a few times. Sorry. More often, I’ve been known to force people to feel my bocce balls (thanks to injectable saline, they’ve been promoted from Tupperware lids by now) and acknowledge how insanely hard they indeed are. I’m not proud of this behavior, mind you. And really, I’m flattered that people still think I look good. But c’mon, did you think I would let cancer be my excuse to show up to a single doctor’s visit without doing my damndest to look fabulous? I showed up to my bone scan looking like I was invited out to dinner instead of being asked to lay perfectly still for 15 minutes while a machine was lowered dangerously close to my powdered nose. Today at the plastic surgeon’s, Dr. Jeff even noticed that I’d changed my hair! I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d done it for my first meeting with Dr. Todd, my radiation oncologist who I was meeting later in the day. You heard me right. . . I curled my hair special for a new doctor.
  
  But here’s the thing. And it works. If I do my best to look good, then it becomes easier for me to convince myself that I feel good as well. It’s easier to laugh (even when you are sitting in an office being told you should do the radiation you were hoping to avoid – which happened to me today) when you feel confident. When I look good, I feel confident. And confidence is what gives me a good attitude. And my attitude is what is going to beat this cancer. And I am going to beat this cancer. . . so if I have to put on some lip gloss and wear a new outfit to get there, then that is what I’m gonna do. Because make no mistake, cancer is a real drag. It is at its best, uncomfortable. . . and at its worst, scary and painful. And my reality is that this fight is not over yet.
  
  So get this people: the other day I bought a strapless dress. A strapless dress! It’s the bocce ball bonus! I haven’t worn anything strapless since that unfortunate tube top I had back in 1978. Now my goal is to find a reason to wear it. . .
  
  Today was my 15th wedding anniversary. . . and four people have either seen or touched my chest - and none of them have been Mark.
  I’m gonna go upstairs now and see if I can fix that travesty. . .
  
  Heartfelt love to you all. Truly.
  xo Yvonne
  
  PS - If you are in the Capital District, tune in to Benita Zahn’s Health Report during the 5 o’clock news on Channel 13 (NBC) tomorrow (Friday). Earlier in the week, she was here interviewing me, Mark and the girls re: the Susan Koman Race for the Cure. We talked a lot about breast cancer diagnosis/treatment for pre-menopausal women like me.
  
  “The aim of life is to live and to live means to be aware.
  Joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.”
  Henry Miller
  

  
• Bummers and Bonus'

  Cancer Bummer: Being treated for cancer during “Breast Cancer Awareness Month” means I can’t even go to the grocery store without being reminded of my own mortality.
  Cancer Bonus: I’ve never been this trendy before!
  
  Today I got some good news: The results from a blood test I took a few weeks ago called a BRACAnalysis came in. Happily, I do not have the “cancer gene” that would make me (and my siblings) more susceptible to certain cancers. (Especially the ovaries).
  
  Cancer Bummer: When before I might’ve worried about getting cancer someday, now I’ll never really know if or when it will return.
  Cancer Bonus: If you have good neighbors (like I do) they will cook for you.
  
  Today I met with Dr. Gina, my oncologist. She’s pretty cool. Radiation is still on the table as an option. She made one call and got me in at Dana Farber in Boston for a second opinion. (I have an appt. scheduled for November at Sloane in NYC, but it’s not with the doctor I want. . .)
  Here’s how it works. Docs consider three main things before recommending radiation:
  1. Lymphatic involvement. (n/a)
  2. Good/bad margins. (mine were good, over 2 cm.)
  3. Tumor size. Over 5 cm? (Here’s my stickler. Remember, I had drastic surgery b/c my tumor was a whopping 5.1 cm.)
  So even though I didn’t have 2 out of the three problems, my tumor size is throwing a wrench in the mix. But barely. And the clinical trial numbers reflect women of any age (mostly older) and of any grade tumor (mine was low) and with any combination of the above concerns.
  So you can see where this decision can be confusing. In the end, it will be up to me. It’s tough.
  
  Cancer Bummer: Becoming a statistic can rob you of your individuality.
  Cancer Bonus: I like the attention, though. . .
  
  I had what (hopefully) will be my last expansion today. Dr. Jeff was wonderfully calm as I grilled him about the intricacies of silicone breast implants. Then I had 40ccs injected per side. Not nearly as painful as last Thursday, which left me whimpering in pain the entire night. The new pain meds don’t hurt, no pun intended. . .
  
  Cancer Bummer: Though there is a lot of information out there, sometimes you can’t find the specific answers you are looking for. Cancer research for self advocacy feels like graduate school all over again.
  Cancer Bonus: I’m learning a lot, and have met a lot of doctors. Doctors are smart people. I like smart people.
  
  I am still in physical therapy, which basically involves soft tissue massage. Several times a week I lay topless on a table and get my fake boobs rubbed by a girl named Kary. There is no longer any shame. No shame at all. But Kary says my “fascia is responding well” and I have (so far) no “capsular contractions". It’s the small things, people!
  
  Cancer Bummer: At the moment, my breasts have been robbed of their sexuality.
  Cancer Bonus: Remember that 5K I ran last week? No bra. No bra at all.
  
  On the creative front.
  Thought it would be fun to try to get on the Ellen Show in LA to tell a bit of my story.
  I submitted a short essay. If you want to lend your help, go to this link:
  http://ellen.warnerbros.com/show/respond/?PlugID=109
  If you click “Know someone who’d be perfect for this? Pass it on” and enter your e-mail, it would show your support.
  
  Wrote a monologue about this phase of my healing for a show at Russell Sage created by my good friend Leigh Strimbeck. It will be performed by another friend (and excellent actress) Shannon Rafferty. The show is called Mirror Mirror. If you’d like to see it, I’ve attached the poster! One weekend only - but there is an additional Sunday matinee on 10/26 not listed on the poster (I’ll be there then!)
  
  Finally, next Monday I have a big audition down in NYC for a lead guest star on a popular TV show.
  Since all of your karma is helping me so much, can I play the cancer card here? New mantra: “Cast Yvonne"!
  
  Cancer Bummer: For reasons both physical and sensory, it is now nearly impossible to shave my armpits. I’ve become a careful contortionist in order to not look like a gypsy.
  Cancer Bonus: Playing the cancer card. (See above)
  
  I probably won’t write next Thursday, as it is my birthday and I’ll be in NYC with Mark.
  Heartfelt love all around.
  xo Yvonne
  

  
• Cancer Math

  “To live every day as if it has been stolen from death, that is how I would like to live. To feel the joy of life. . .To separate oneself from the burden, the angst, the anguish that we all encounter every day. To say I am alive, I am wonderful, I am. I am. That is something to aspire to.”
  From The Art of Racing In The Rain by Garth Stein

  Who misses February, raise your hands, now? Anyone? Anyone at all?
  Me, I’m sitting firmly on both of my hands. No wait, I’m typing with them. But they are definitely not raised. February Stunk with a capital S. And I’ve gotten so many nice e-mails wondering why I haven’t written in so long, and the short answer is “Well, I didn’t feel like whining. . . who wants to listen to me whining?” (Amazing how quickly a “good attitude” can abandon you when you are in constant pain.) So as it was, poor Mark and my Mom bore the brunt of my misery, though anyone who ran into me last month will attest that I gave new meaning to the words “spontaneous weeping”.

  Well meaning friend: “Hi Yvonne! How are you feeling?”
  Whiny Yvonne: “Oh, OK I guess” (cue weeping) “Well, my rib fucking hurts and I can’t sleep and I can’t poop and I move at the speed of a 90 year old and why oh why did this happen to meeeeee?”

  Suffice to say it just wasn’t pretty.

  In the end, it seems the bruised rib I last wrote about was some badly torn intercostales muscles under my left implant. It hurt like a mother for three solid weeks. I’m pretty sure it happened one night at a rehearsal less than a week after my exchange surgery. Lesson learned: give yourself time to rest after surgery, you idiot! But no, I had arranged to begin teaching again at UAlbany and rehearsing a staged reading for Theatre Voices the same week, and I just kept re-injuring myself. I spent February break lounging on the couch, and it wasn’t until then that my body finally started to heal.

  Some cancer treatment math:

  Inability to recline + lack of sleep = physical exhaustion (A)
  Torn rib muscles + chronic pain = emotional exhaustion (
  Numerous sedations + drug interactions + paralyzed peristalsis = bloody bowels and an emergency colonoscopy (C - that was fun, let me tell you)
  A + B + C = spontaneous weeping

  But now it is March, and my rib has finally healed (No more pain, but still moving slow. . .) and I can lay flat again (Hello, my dear bed! How I missed you!) And I don’t have colorectal cancer (Welcome Dr. Carla to my list of healthcare providers. . .) and all is nearly right with the world again.

  Another reason I haven’t written: though I have obviously shown my lack of boundaries when it comes to discussing the details of my various “breast issues”, I learned that I draw the line at sharing details of my “butt issues”. I do have some boundaries after all! Aren’t you all proud of me? And glad I spared you? Glorious side effects. Collateral damage, if you will.

  So now I come at last to the remaining surgical step to my reconstruction: areola graft and nipple reconstruction. Some of you have even asked me “Yvonne, they took your nipples too?” Yes, they take the nipples too. And it just makes sense. . . if breast cancer starts in the lobes or the ducts, and the lobes make milk and the ducts transport the milk – where do you dispose of the milk? Nipples, of course – they are all part of the reproductive organ of the breast. And if the cancer has spread into the fatty tissue of the breast (as mine did) and the whole shebang is sensitive to hormones, just like your tumor. . . .well then, it all has to go!

  No breast tissue left + no recurrence = CURE
  That’s the kind of cancer math where I want an A+

  Now lots of women are just fine with spending the rest of their lives as nipple-less as a Barbie Doll. Hey, they even make nipple prostheses. If I wanted to, I could have had a mould made of my old nipples before the mastectomies. Yeah, ummm. . . that didn’t happen. So instead, I will have a slice of skin removed from my upper thigh. Dr. Jeff will then shape the skin into two circles and graft them onto my new boobies. Then he will do something called a “modified star flap nipple reconstruction” to simulate the bud of a nipple.
  No, I said “simulate”, not “stimulate”. Sadly, those days are over. Geessh!

  This is happening on Monday afternoon. It was supposed to happen on the 11th, but being the surgery-delay queen that I am, I postponed it so I could go to an audition in NYC on Wednesday.
  In the end, I decided that after nearly seven months without nipples, what’s five more days?
  The phone call I did not force my agents to make:

  Yvonne’s agent: “Hello, ABC primetime casting? Yes, our client has a previously scheduled nipple reconstruction on Wednesday. Can she audition for your sit-com pilot some other time?”
  ABC Casting: “No.”

  So, my recuperation regimen for next week is to wear very loose clothing and not get my graft wet. No shower until the stitches come out. That should be exciting. Looking forward to it. Sigh.
  Oh, and plenty of Metamucil.
  Yours in boobage,
  xoYvonne

  
• Cancer Update

  Hi ya’ll!
  Lot’s of good news this week:
  Bone scan and CT scan were clean for malignancy spread. WooHoo.
  And my bloodwork and hormone levels are all good, too.
  More pathology came back reinforcing that my tumor cells are Grade 1 and non-aggressive and have a “low proliferation rate". Yay!
  Bad news is the tumor is large, invasive and infiltrative - meaning it has no clear margins. So, mastectomy is really the only way to go for me.
  Hold me in the light on August 27th - that’s when I have my first surgery. We are all hoping that my lymph nodes will be clean, which I won’t know until after the first operation. If this is the case, I have a small shot at NO adjuvant therapy - which in English means. . . maybe no chemo!
  Then let the re-building begin!
  Thank you all for your wonderful e-mails and calls!!!
  Big kisses-
  xoYvonne

  
• Deja Vu

  It’s 3:00 on Wednesday as I write this, and by all counts I should be under the knife right now getting these uncomfortable expanders removed and replaced by my silicone implants. Obviously, I am not.

  Wait. What? Deja vu, or what? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?

  Mark and I are in the car this afternoon, five minutes from the ambulatory center where I’m to have my surgery. I am make-up less, nervous, and very, very hungry. Again. I have not even LOOKED at a piece of gum. And my cell phone rings. It’s Dr. Jeff’s office.

  “We’re sorry, Yvonne, but we have to postpone your surgery today because we realized we don’t have the right implants. It was a clerical error.”
  Clerical error?

  “We called all the area hospitals and no one has your implant in stock for today.”
  I guess Mentor, Smooth, High Profile, 450 cc Silicone is not in high demand. These are reconstruction girls. Stick those babies in during a simple augmentation procedure and your patient will wake up looking like a stripper. I liken my implants to a “whole boob” implant, not a “partial boob”, if you get my meaning.

  “It takes a few days to special order them, so the soonest we could get you in is next Wednesday.”
  I have to wait another week? Hello? Fed Ex anyone?

  This time, I bypass the tears and go straight to “pissed off”. (Life Rule #11: Try never to give bad news to a starving woman.) I’m five minutes away, and no one noticed until now? And wait a minute. . . .on Friday I was in the gown and about to be put under when the anesthesiologist pulled the plug on that surgery. There was NO mention of having the wrong implants. So what if I hadn’t had that piece of gum, and things had gone ahead? At what point would they have checked those implants? After I was under? After I was cut open and deflated? Ever?
  What if they had the right implants on Friday, but gave them to someone else? Is she walking around with the wrong implants? Or, were they used on purpose and no one thought to re-order?
  The scenarios abound.

  I think I even said something like “Hey, I know I messed up your schedule on Friday by having that gum, but I don’t have surgery every day – I’m pretty new at this. But this is your job. You guys do this all the time. Do you think maybe there’s a problem with your system?”

  By the time I hung up the phone, I had moved on from pissed to laughing. After all, things are getting a tad ridiculous. Once again, the stars were not aligned. OK, I get it. When I got so upset on Friday, others kept telling me that there was a reason for the delay – a reason I may never know, but a reason none-the-less. Well, I got my answer today. That gum may just have saved me from an extra surgery, or a lawsuit, or both. Then I looked at Mark and he was like “Are you KIDDING ME?” Yeah, this time he was even more pissed than me. He hadn’t moved on to the laughing stage yet.

  Let’s face it, the ugly underbelly of cancer is not the pain or the drugs or the lost hair or the inevitable loss of dignity. It is, quite simply, the nightmare of having to re-schedule your life to make room for doctor’s appointments, sick days and surgeries. It is the juggle to keep everything else in order while your life spins out of control that is so hard. Mark, God bless him, really wants to be there for me. . . both physically (even if it means canceling some important appointments) and emotionally (even if it means smiling when he could easily collapse). My parents and kids want to be there, my friends and neighbors want to be there. And so, my juggle becomes their juggle. When the schedule changes, my entire circle of support has to change with it. . . lots of energy needs to be re-aligned. . .and it’s hard for everyone.

  So, here’s the situation, my circle of support. My phone rang again a while later, and Dr. Jeff’s office had a miraculous cancellation on Friday. It seems they can, after all, overnight mail the correct implants. (No! Really?) Will it actually happen on Friday? Will it still have to wait until Wednesday? Will I have these expanders in my chest until the end of freakin’ time? People, I just don’t know.
  However it plays out, it seems me and the bocce balls are going to have some more time together.
  But here’s hoping the third time’s the charm. . .

  xoYvonne

  
• Devil Dodge

  Two thoughts:
  WHEW! and
  THANK YOU!
  
  The WHEW is because today I found out that I had a, yes folks, a LOW Oncotype Score!
  The THANK YOU is because all the chanting, praying, visualizing and general good vibes out there focused on my recovery are so obviously helping. Thank you!
  
  So, My Oncotype score was an 11 out of 100. Remember, I was shooting for a score less than 20!
  Basically, an oncotype score is reached by testing the expression of certain genes within my specific tumor. It provides an individual, quantitative assessment of the likelihood of disease recurrence. . . and is helpful in determining if the stress of chemotherapy on my body would be worth it. Would doing chemo affect the likelihood of systemic recurrence for my type of tumor? The answer, a resounding NO! WooHoo!
  
  Turns out I had a big, dumb, pretty tumor!
  Big: why it necessitated a mastectomy. . .
  Dumb: it hadn’t yet figured out how to become lymphatic and kill me. . .
  Pretty: It looked a lot like normal cells (Grade 1) which is why it could hide for so long.. .
  
  (Thank God it wasn’t smart and ugly, trust me on this. . .)
  
  I’m thrilled in a cautious way - I will still go down to Sloan Kettering for a second opinion. And I will still have to go on a drug called Tamoxifen for around 5 years. Tamoxifen is an estrogen blocker, (an orally active selective estrogen receptor modulator, to be clear) as my tumor needed estrogen to grow. The goal is to starve out any remaining “rogue” cells.
  
  I still look like a science project has gone awry on my chest, but it is thrilling to know that there is an end in sight to the wonkiness and general discomfort.
  New mantra: Boobies by Christmas! The hard, Tupperware lids I’m sporting right now are simply not acceptable. . .yuck.
  
  Bless you all. . .
  xox Yvonne

  
• Dumb Gum

  The good news is that when you share what is happening during a stressful situation in your life, people come out of the woodwork in support. That has certainly been my experience.

  The bad news is that when there is a setback, you have to explain to the masses.

  It’s 3:15 on Friday as I write this, and by all counts I should be under the knife right now getting these uncomfortable expanders removed and replaced by my silicone implants. Obviously, I am not.

  No food or drink for 12 hours before surgery, right? Even water. Everyone is told that. I was even told to go off my vitamins for a week. Check. But I still had to take my Tamoxifen this morning, which I did with a dash of water. It got stuck in my throat. And stayed there. It’s STILL there. In the car while I ran a few errands around noon, I popped a piece of gum in my mouth to try to work that damn pill down with some saliva. It didn’t work.

  And then at 2PM, as I was going over forms with Neil the nurse (only I would score a male nurse before breast surgery), I casually mentioned my five minutes with a Peppermint Eclipse. Guess what? It was a deal breaker. It seems gum can be worse than food before anesthesia . . . something about working up gases in your stomach. And with my horrible reaction to the anesthesia after my mastectomy surgeries, they wouldn’t take the chance. All my diligence and research and I missed the golden no-gum nugget. I was in the gown, no make-up, starving and nervous and excited, and Dr. Jeff walked in and told me I had to get dressed and go home.
  So here I am, sitting with my expanders still in, surgery postponed until Wednesday.

  I’m Pissed with a capital P.
  I know, I know, it’s not the end of the world. I’m alive and nothing went horribly wrong.
  But I am so very, very pissed.
  So thanks for all your prayers and good wishes. Hopefully you haven’t run out, and will still think of me, the idiot gum-chewer, on Wednesday. Please don’t call me, I’m liable to rant or cry. . . . and all those thoughts about my “good attitude” will fly away.
  Crap crap crap.
  xoYvonne

  
• Feelings, oh oh oh feelings. . .

  So today in the car, driving back from my appointment at Dana Farber Cancer Center in Boston, I was talking to Mark about. . . well, we talk about everything, but basically about how I was feeling. Because when it comes right down to the next phase of my treatment, that’s going to be the big question: How’re you feeling about this, Yvonne?

  There were no definitive answers to be found at Dana Farber. As I sort-of expected. The doctors I met (Dr. Rachel and Dr. Ian) were lovely and smart and patient and gave me lots of their time. What should I do as far as adjuvant treatment? Tell me, I wanna know! But here’s the thing. With my specific pathology, there’s no real, definitive answer.

  I wouldn’t be crazy to want to do chemo.
  But I wouldn’t be crazy not to.

  I wouldn’t be crazy to want to get radiation.
  But I wouldn’t be crazy not to.

  I wouldn’t be crazy to want to stop my ovaries from producing estrogen.
  But I wouldn’t be crazy not to.

  Do I attack, guns-a-blazing, or do I stay calm and “First, do no harm.”

  The only solid thing I do know is that I would be a bit crazy not to take a five year dose of Tamoxifen. But Dr. Gina and I’d figured that out already. Remember, my tumor was classified as ER/PR positive. In laymen’s terms, that means that my type of tumor needs certain hormones to grow - primarily estrogen. The side effects of Tamoxifen are usually pretty benign.

  Here’s a brush-up course:
  1.) Breast cells have special receptors on their surface, and these act as the eyes and ears of the breast cell. When something binds to them, the message tells the cells to turn something on or off.

  2.) Many breast cancer cells have receptors to the hormones estrogen (ER+) and/or progesterone (PR+).

  3.) ER+ and PR+ cancer cells like to have those hormones around to grow. In essence, the hormones can spur them on. . . allow them to duplicate and “do their thing” - like take over!

  4.) Hormone therapy is a type of systemic cancer treatment used to treat hormone sensitive breast cancer. Tamoxifen is a drug called a SERM, or “selective estrogen receptor modulator.” SERMs work by blocking the message center of the cell so the hormone can’t get into the cell. If the hormone can’t get inside the cell, then it is hard for the cancer to keep growing. We then hope any rogue cancer cells shrivel up and die, bitches, die!

  Now, there is another group of drugs called AIs, or “aromatase inhibitors". These are better for post-menopausal women, as they pretty much stop the body from producing estrogen altogether. No hormones there to block, get it? (To simplify: a SERM blocks the absorbtion of certain hormones. An AI stops the hormones from being produced in the first place). Only for someone my age, no hormones means. . . Hello! Early menopause! I’ve already gotten fairly personal in these e-mails, so I won’t get into those lovely side-effects. We’ll just stick to the above the board topic of bone density loss. If you’re really interested about menopause and just looking in the mirror doesn’t do the trick, I’m sure you could turn to any woman of a “certain age” and get down and personal with her. But me? I’m not crazy about pushing that particular envelope.

  So here we are back to “How do you feel, Yvonne"?
  The answer to that, before my diagnosis, was a resounding “Better than I’ve felt in years!”
  The answer to that today (since the cramping from my last expansion has stopped and I’m learning how to sleep in a bed again) is “Better than I’ve felt in two months!”
  And how do I feel about treatments that I know will affect my quality of life right now, but may (there’s the key word - may) improve my chances for no recurrence? Because basically, I could go nuclear on myself right now, and still get a recurrence. No guarantees. Or I could do the minimal and get no recurrence. No guarantees. They just don’t know.
  How do you feel, Yvonne?

  You know, I’ve never been one to over medicate. That’s just me. I don’t do drugs. I don’t drink to excess. I don’t even manage to take a vitamin regularly. When I look in that mirror, that’s the woman I see. I’m the anti-hypochondriac. Maybe that’s why Woody Allen won’t cast me? I dunno.

  So, I’m thinking on it. I’m thinking on it.
  Blessings,
  xoY

  
• Freaky Friday

  Is it weird that I’m looking forward to this coming Friday like a vacation in Hawaii? Is it weird that I’ve been counting down the days as if at the end of my vigil I’ll be rewarded with a plane trip to paradise? Is it weird that I want my chest sliced open again about as much as I’d love a frozen drink on a hot beach?
  But it’s true. I simply can’t wait for Friday.

  Last week I met again with my plastic surgeon, Dr. Jeff. We hadn’t seen each other in two months, and (oddly, it seems) I missed him ferociously. I needed him. He’s the man responsible for bringing me one step closer to the “normal me” that got so disrupted back in late August. When I opened my gown and showed him how my scars have healed, I swear to God the first thing he said was “Wow, they do look like two bocce balls!”
  I swear to God.
  And I said “Yeah, they do. Now get these damn things out of me!”

  Then Mark, Dr. Jeff and I picked out my new boobs. Ladies and gentlemen, Friday I will be the new owner of Mentor’s High Profile, Smooth, Cohesive Gel Silicone Implants. 450 cc’s each. We played around with the 500 cc’s (bit too big) and the 400 cc’s (tad too small). We held them up to my naked chest and dangled them there. Mark kept holding one in the palm of his hand and let it bounce there a bit. Getting the feel, I guess. And then we decided that 450 would be just right. It was a surreal moment in my life, in retrospect. “I’d like to order these boobies, please.”

  “And while you’re in there, Dr. Jeff, could you move the left one out of my armpit?”

  After my doctor appointment, I went to a luncheon at a friend’s new home. She had hired an astrologist to give readings. As I told this woman my birthday and she looked up my chart, one of the things she said was “You have an energy about you that encourages people to share their innermost feelings with you.” OK, kind of true. People do tell me things. Then she went on. “But you yourself have secrets, and you hold them close to you and hesitate to share your deepest thoughts with others.”
  I could barely keep from laughing . . . from not saying “Ummm, have you read my blog? I pretty much vomit my personal life on any person who shows the slightest interest.”

  Even Dr. Jeff, who had read my last e-mail, commented on my lack of boundaries.
  To which I replied “Hey, I haven’t yet written about my Tamoxifen hemorrhoids, but I could share the bloody details with you right now if you want.”
  He said no thanks.

  I know I haven’t sent an e-mail out in a while, but it’s not because emotions aren’t still swirling around in my head. I think maybe I’ve just gotten used to the madness. But also, this present moment seems infinitely calmer. I’m no longer waiting for test results. Most of my major decisions have been made. I’ve regained some sense of control. It’s much better now.
  I feel like one of the lucky ones.
  Honestly, when I look back on last fall, I sometimes wonder how I got through it.
  Then, I realize that when I truly started to deal with things was when I started to write about it regularly. Writing helped organize my thoughts. This “no-boundaries sharing”. . . well, it’s what got me through.

  And an unforeseen bonus happened. When I was lucky enough to speak with someone who had read my blog, we were often able to start at a place of mutual understanding and get straight to the deeper stuff. We were able to skip a lot of the basics and get right down to the details. Questions got asked, questions got answered. Openly. Let me tell you, I learned a lot.

  So the fact that I’m not writing as much right now? Well, I’ll take that as a good sign.

  My next surgery is referred to on most breast reconstruction blogs as my “exchange”. As in “When is your exchange scheduled?” “How many weeks did you have to have the expanders in before your exchange?” “Did you feel better after your exchange?” I like the names some of you came up with a lot better than boring “exchange”, but whatever we all call it, the general consensus seems to be that I’ll feel a lot more comfortable after this Friday.

  I can’t wait.

  xoYvonne
  “You can’t be brave if only wonderful things happen to you.” -Mary Tyler-Moore

  
• Funky Flashes

  News Flash: Hot Flash!
  Yup, think I had my first hot flash today. I was sitting innocently on the floor of my guest room trying to organize some Christmas presents (big families are both a blessing and a curse around the holidays!) and I suddenly had the urge to rip my sweater off and open a window. I was like “Wha??”
  And then, whoosh, it was gone, and I was back to my regular “I’m freezing all the time” self.
  I walked into the kitchen and looked at Mark strangely (he’s used to being looked at strangely by me) and said “I think I just had a hot flash.”
  Then he just hugged me, because he’s that kind of guy.
  Thank you breast cancer and your hormonal sidekick Tamoxifen, for adding a weekly element of surprise to my life. What’s next?

  Attended a really interesting Upstate Independents meeting this week, and shot a few more Taft commercials and then lunched today with two of my favorite women. . . and generally added a whole bunch more people to the list of folks who have been forced to touch the un-natural wonder that is my set of bocce balls. They are just so bizarre and I can’t seem to help myself. Sure, they look OK (from a distance) but the feel of them, I tell you, it just freaks me out! It’s not an end-of-the-world kind of freak out, mind you . . . more of an I-really-can’t-believe-this-is-my-life-right-now kind of freak out. Here’s the usual run of events:
  1. I accidentally touch my boob(s).
  2. I start to laugh, because they are so hard it is just silly.
  3. I look around for someone I trust, so I can make them feel how silly-hard they are.
  4. I hope said person won’t think I’m clinically insane.
  I’ve been trying to do some self-reflection about my behavior, and I’m thinking maybe it’s that if I don’t treat them like they are a real or personal part of my body, then I don’t have to really “own” them.
  I don’t want to own these things.
  They pretty much suck.

  But, only six weeks until silicone, and counting! I’ve gotten some very funny responses to last week’s request to name my next surgery. I won’t list them all, but here are some of my favorites:

  Jiffy Boob (The first, and still one of the best – thanks to Michael Frederic)
  Double Stuff Areolas (David Gordon with a food reference)
  De-rocked by Dr. Rock (Yes, my surgeon’s name is Dr. Rockmore. I kid you not.)
  More Rocks from Rockmore (hopefully not)
  The Grand Teat-On (that one from a set designer, go figure)
  As You Like Tit (Thanks, Sophia – why not some Shakespeare?)

  And then a list of fabulous names from the witty Terry Field, including:
  Bocce Ball Bustin’
  From Balls to Boobs
  Fun Bags, the Sequel
  Surcharging Silicone Valley
  Giving the “Girls” More Give
  And the classic: A Nation Rejoices: The True Story Behind Rebuilding the Twin Towers

  Also this week, seeing/talking/writing to friends both old and new, (you know who you are) - I was often reminded of how many spectacular people I have in my life. Thanks again for coming on this journey with me.

  Blessings-
  Yvonne

  
• Halleluiah!

  Great news this morning!
  My lymph node biopsy reports came in this morning, and my surgeon has informed me that they were all CLEAN! This is great news because it means the cancer has most likely not spread to the rest of my body, or metastasized elsewhere.
  Other (sort-of) good news was that my tumor was nearly double the size they originally thought (a big honking 5.1 cm - did my boobs do anything on a small scale???) so I definitely made the right decision with the mastecomies. Whodda thunk I could hide a tumor that size for so long, eh? OK, get your jokes out now…
  I must now wait a week to meet with my oncologist, and get something called an Oncotype DX test (http://www.breastcancer.org/treatment/chemotherapy/new_research/20060126.jsp)
  to determine if Chemotherapy will help me or not. The size of my tumor is still a concern in determining my adjuvant (meaning: post surgical) therapy.
  Obviously, I feel like all the positive energy out there is helping me keep a positive outlook here. . . so again - THANK YOU for your concern, thoughts and prayers!
  Meanwhile, I feel better daily - hoping to get these annoying drains out soon so I can dress normally again!
  xoxox Yvonne (& family)

  
• Have I Ever Been This Busy?

  HI everyone.
  It’s Sunday night - my first day off in a week - been rehearsing 10-6 daily for the New Play Festival at Proctors. (What do my kids look like again?) My head is often spinning, but happily, we’ve been getting lots of press - in the Times Union wknd. section Thursday, and a big photo of the cast was in yesterday’s Schenectady Gazette. I have especially been enjoying the work on a new play called “General Desdemona". The playwright, Egan Reich, has been very collaborative with us and the director, Kevin Maguire. Cuts, re-writes, changes in character and blocking. . . wow, we’ve all really had to stay on our toes! But I do believe it has shaped up into a really powerful play. I am especially impressed with my cast-mates, they have really raised the bar for me. Everyone is so good. . .
  Please visit the Proctors website for tickets and information, and do come!
  www.proctors.org/events/1460
  I have a smaller role in “Battles of the Band", and it has been a completely different experience in every way! Contemporary language, and a band right on stage. . . never had to play a scene over a rock ‘n roll band before. . . feels like college all over again. . .But there are some younger actors in that play that are really stepping up their game.
  Looking forward to hearing from any of you who manage to catch the show(s). We are open through April 27.
  Best-
  Yvonne

  
• Hello from Webmaster

  Hello Everyone and welcome to Yvonne Perry’s blog. This is our test post to be sure we’re in fact up and running…

  Email Me with any questions or Email Yvonne

  
• Hey Michelin Man!

  I woke up this morning screaming in agony.
  Alright, perhaps that sounds a bit dramatic. Let me try again.
  I woke up this morning writhing and moaning.
  Now, wait. That almost sounds kinky. There was definitely no kink involved.
  Hmmm.
  Lamenting?
  Too poetic.
  Alright, Webster’s tell me that “groan” means a “strong, deep throated sound emitted involuntarily under pressure of pain or suffering.”
  OK, groan it is.
  I woke up this morning groaning. Strongly. I’ll skip the deep throated part, because that gets me back to kinky again. But I was certainly groaning.

  Why, you may ask, was this morning so painful? Turns out I had too sound a night of sleep. You see, in the recovering-from-a-double-mastectomy-and subsequent-reconstruction world, if you are lucky enough to fall asleep quickly at night, you often pay the price in the morning. Laying still (even sitting still, but lying is worse) for long periods of time leads to a condition I’ve come to refer to as “stiff boobs”.
  Stiff boobs suck, let me just say.
  I’ve got muscles in my boobs now, and they don’t belong there. They get stiff.

  It’s like I now have the anti-boobs. Before, my chest was comfortable at rest, and unwieldy at play. Now, they are just the opposite. Sure, I can now enjoy a myriad of activities, both simple (running up the stairs) and complex (sledding down a steep hill, and trudging up after with both a kid and sled in tow) without strapping down my breasts or constantly trying to get them out of the way. But lying prone pulls the skin in my fake cleavage taut, and it hurts. Lying on my side? The saline bags don’t get out of the way. Hurts. Lying on my stomach? Fuggetaboutit. When I move around it wakes me up, and when I don’t. . . well, I get stiff boobs.

  Hey, remember when you were a kid and you had that Barbie doll? (Or your sister did?) And you inevitably undressed the thing? And her boobs were hard, plastic, perky and nipple-less? That’s me, that’s me! I’ve got Barbie boobs!
  Poor Ken. Barbie boobs are no fun to hug, trust me.
  Husbands are often unsung heroes in the world of breast cancer. Not only does Mark have to listen to me groan in the morning, but the guy can’t hug me properly.

  You know, I’ve been thinking about that day back in July when I went skipping into my annual physical. It was sunny outside, I was happy inside, and I literally never felt better. But I quickly learned that cancer can be like a snake in the grass. A venomous snake, that – if you are lucky – you notice before it can strike. I spotted mine, and cleanly decapitated it. As it turned out, chemo and radiation would have been akin to pummeling a headless snake with a big stick. I firmly believe my snake is dead, no added aggression needed.

  But now I’m stuck with (if you’ll permit me another metaphor) these donuts. Donuts of the temporary, replacement tire sort. They look odd and don’t work very well. I’m biding my time with them, just driving to and from work. I know they will never be factory direct again. But maybe the new tires I have on order will offer me more speed? Better handling? Hey, I’ll settle for increased safety and a more comfortable ride!

  Sometimes at night, I lay there and have imaginary conversations with my plastic surgeon. I want to make sure he remembers, once January 16th finally rolls around, to pay just as much attention to his sculpting as he does to his suturing. My scars have healed up beautifully, but the shape, the positioning, the profile. . . it’s all wrong.
  I wish, I hope, I pray, that some of the bizarre-o land that is presently my chest – that some of that wrong gets righted.
  And then I want my nipples back.

  Yours in boobage,
  Yvonne
  PS – Merry Christmas!

  
• Indeflatable Me

  I’ve decided to name my fat, dumb blonde tumor “Amber". And no, I’m not trying to offend any Ambers out there (though it does sound appropriate) . . .but did you ever see that jewelry made from yellow rocks with pre-historic bugs fossilized inside? That’s amber. That’s also what my MRI looked like on the day I first realized I had something large and spindly crawling around in my breast tissue. Fat Amber, the dumb blonde tumor. More on cancer Amber later.
  
  Thursdays seem to be the days I visit a certain Jeff Rockmore, MD - plastic surgeon extraordinaire . . . who also happens to be a HS friend of mine. As luck has it, he’s one of the most talented breast reconstructive surgeons north of NYC, and I think I may have actually danced with him at my Junior Prom. Now I tease him that his Voorheesville reputation is on the line, as he is the man in charge of making my chest look presentable again. Dare I ask for fabulous? I’m asking.
  
  Some of you have expressed a bit of confusion regarding some of my treatment references in previous e-mails, so I thought I’d clear a few things up. If you aren’t interested, feel free to stop reading (fair warning) and know that I’m progressing nicely.
  Cari, my physical therapist (also originally from Voorheesville - what was in the water out there?) has told me I’m a poster girl for mastectomy and reconstruction recovery. But most of you know I’m a bit competitive. Just don’t ask me to do any yoga moves yet. Up dog, not. I digress. .
  
  Anyway. What’s with the “Tupperware lids” comments, you may wonder. Well, I’ll tell you.
  My surgery 4 weeks ago had two main parts to it.
  
  First, (Hello Dr. Suzanne) I had a modified radical mastectomy, including the removal of 6 lymph nodes, on my left side. This is where Amber lived and grew. This is where I am still swollen and numb. F%$@ you, Amber! On the right, I had a prophylactic mastectomy. My biopsy on that side revealed only a benign fibro adenoma. But I did have cysts and other stuff growing over there that gave me pause. So buh-bye.
  
  Second, I had the first stage of my reconstructive surgery. (Hello Dr. Jeff!) This involved cutting into my pectoralis and serratus muscles to create a pocket for my tissue expanders. The tissue expanders look sort of like a bigger version of a deflated implant. They have a magnetic valve in the front. Their job is to slowly stretch out portions of my muscular wall and remaining skin so that eventually ("Boobies by Christmas", remember?) I will be able to hold an implant. This is the aspect of my surgery that made it hard to breathe when I woke from my anesthesia. Turns out you need those pectoral muscles to breath right. Who knew?
  
  Sounds comfy, doesn’t it? Wait, it gets better. Now I go see Dr. Jeff every Thursday and get what is called “an expansion". Today I had my third expansion. This intriguing process begins with a nurse using a miniature stud finder to find the magnet in the valve of my expanders. Once she finds the valve, she comes at me with a gi-gundus syringe filled with saline. I try not to look. After 90 ccs of saline are injected into each side, it’s like fast-forwarding through 4 months of puberty. I’m back to a c-cup already! Too bad they are shaped like deformed footballs and are hard as rocks. Motrin is my very dear friend. Say it with me again, people: Boobies by Christmas! I’ve taken to fantasizing about sleeping on my stomach. Oh, remember those days? Again, I digress…
  So, after my 6th expansion, I will have to live with my fun rock boobs for 2 months or so until my muscles lose some of their elasticity. Then I get my second surgery when Dr. Jeff will work his magic and give me my silicone implants. Hopefully they will look and feel a tad more natural than my tupperware.
  
  Did that sound gross? Little bit TMI? Make ya squirm?
  Well, I haven’t even mentioned the nipples yet. . .(OK, I’m gonna stop!)
  
  Meanwhile, if you see me. . . hug me gently!
  Fondly fondly fondly-
  xo Yvonne

  

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