The Slow Lane

I am one of those New York commuters who gets irritated when people stand on the left side of the escalator, blocking my way as I climb the steps. If it’s rush hour, I will even say something. (But nothing ruder than “excuse me” – I am from Iowa, after all!) I cross before it says “Walk,” leap over puddles, nip into the street if the sidewalk is full and run for buses in high heels. I move quickly.

But not right now.

Since returning home on Friday afternoon, I have to concentrate on each movement. I am not supposed to use my arms to lift anything over five pounds for the next few weeks. I use my core muscles to lift myself from lying down to sitting, then swing my legs to the floor to get out of bed. Michael, Mom, Dad and Matt are pressed into service to bring my laptop to me, set it in my lap, and then take it away again when I finish. Gentle movement is good for my recovery, so I do little laps up and down the hallway in my apartment, from the bathroom, past the bedrooms, through the living room and into the kitchen. Turn. Repeat.

It is painful, but my progress is encouraging and my tolerance for discomfort fairly high. My range of motion is increasing every day – I knew I was better this morning when I could apply my own eyeliner. I can open my sock drawer (and even put my own socks on!), but the lower, heavier pajama drawer still requires assistance.

The “straight to implants” reconstruction technique means that my profile is also heartening. Rather than the partially-inflated balloon that expanders resemble until they are filled over a period of weeks or months, my new breasts are already at their final volume. Still a bit swollen, they will continue to take shape over the next few months, helped by time, supportive bras, and a distinctly uncomfortable piece of three-inch-wide elastic I have strapped under my arms and across my sternum, pushing things into place.

The four drains that carry extra fluids away from the surgery site are still in place and will remain until at least mid-week, when my doctor will remove them. These are what have so far prevented me from leaving the apartment – the combination of the strap across my chest and the drains hooked to a belt around my waist make me look lumpen when hidden under one of Michael’s old shirts, and like a terrorist in my own clothes.

Michael reassured me that the drains could be mistaken for the waist-pack water bottles worn by runners in Central Park. I don’t think anyone would be convinced. But even a few days of inactivity has left me longing to join them in laps around the Reservoir – an impatient patient, I am anxious to be on the move again.

24 hours

Just over 24 hours since Courtney came out of surgery and she's doing great. Off the drip and oxygen, managed to eat some light food and did a couple of laps of the hospital today (admittedly a rather small hospital). Not too much pain (though we've been told it will probably get worse before it gets better). Sorry that's note the witty prose you've come to expect from this blog but I think we were woken up about every 90minutes last night in the hospital and i feel like i've done a redeye flight.

24 is also the name of the excellent TV series we started on today. All of season 1, all 20hrs of it, awaits Courtney over the next few weeks (though she's under strict instructions not to leave me behind). So any of you that have already seen it or are up to date please don't spoil the plot for us!

Courtney will be back in NYC by midday tomorrow (we hope), recuperating under the expert care of family and friends.

Michael

Awake and talking (unsurprisingly!)

Please excuse the bad grammar, spelling and construction, this is Michael writing.
A quick posting to say that Courtney is awake and talking in the recovery room and we should be able to see her soon. The surgery went smoothly and both surgeons were very happy with the procedure. Do i hear a big collective sigh of relief. I'm currently sitting in the doctors office updating this blog so i'll keep it short and sweet. I'll try to update tomorrow.

D-Day

1. Military. The day, usually unspecified, set for the beginning of a planned attack.

2. June 6, 1944, the day of the invasion of western Europe by Allied forces in World War II.

3. Informal. Any day of special significance, as one marking an important event or goal.

Okay, so Definition 2 doesn’t make a lot of sense in this context, but definitions 1 and 3 certainly apply. In my case, however, the day is not unspecified – my surgery is this coming Wednesday, April 25. I do love the image of the “planned attack,” as I am ready to destroy this tumor and restake my claim to my body. And there is no question that this day marks an important event or goal. Although perhaps, given that I get to choose the size I will be, maybe we should call it C-Day. Ahem.

In the end, I have chosen to go with a plastic surgeon who specializes in immediate, or “one-step,” reconstruction using implants. Dr. Salzberg pioneered this procedure, which allows women to skip the step of expansion, which can be painful and requires an additional surgery to exchange the temporary expanders for permanent implants. It also means that when I wake up on Wednesday, my new breasts will be in place, albeit under bandages and slightly swollen and bruised.

Switching doctors does mean that I have to go to the hospital with which he is affiliated, which is a small (50 bed!) community hospital in Dobbs Ferry, NY, about a 30 minute drive from our place in Manhattan. It feels slightly ridiculous that, despite living within 2 miles of 4 of the nation’s top research hospitals, I am having surgery at a place that is probably 1/20th the size of Methodist Hospital in Des Moines, Iowa. I just keep reassuring myself that this is the procedure in which they specialize. As long as Mom and Michael remember that the café’s opening hours are only from 9 a.m.-2 p.m. and bring provisions to make up for that, we should be okay.

The doctors predict that I will only need to be in the hospital for one night. Since I should be home by Thursday, we are asking that people not come to visit at the hospital. Michael will run visiting hours at our apartment over the weekend, so please give him a call or drop him a note if you want to stop by, in order to make sure that I am not asleep or insane from the pain meds (one woman I spoke with ordered multiple pizzas in the 72 hours following her surgery, but recalls none of them). I will be recuperating for several weeks, and am planning to be off work until May 21.

Thanks to everyone for your supportive calls, notes and comments. As I have told many of you, I am not scared about the surgery – I am ready. I look at this as the next big step toward my healthy future. Although I will have a few additional things to take care of in the coming months (I never thought I would type the words “nipple tattoos,” but here we are…), I am done with chemo, I don’t require radiation, and I will need no other major surgeries related to this cancer. When I wake up after surgery on Wednesday, I will officially be cancer-free. And that sounds like victory to me.

Painted Lady

Eyeliner and mascara were never major tools in my cosmetic arsenal. Concealer for my undereye circles, bronzer to appear less ghostly in midwinter and lipstick to complement my mood or my outfit were my desert island essentials. No longer. Nearly five weeks out from my last chemo session, I am down to five eyelashes on the bottom of my left eye, and eight on the right. That count will probably go lower half an hour from now when I remove my painstakingly applied eye makeup.

About two-thirds of my upper lashes are still hanging in there, although I am not holding out much hope for those either, as I watch them wash down the drain or rub off onto a towel each night. I’ve also developed eyebrow bald patches, although admittedly I had some to spare. If I thought I was hopeless with eyeliner before, an eyebrow pencil was an even more laughable idea. But thanks to my friend Gretchen the makeup junkie’s generosity, as well as several makeup companies’ official participation in the “Look Good Feel Better” program for cancer survivors and the day of beauty St. Luke’s, I have amassed an impressive collection of pencils and wands in various shades and have started experimenting with creating some approximation of normal. If that doesn’t work, I can always hide behind Wanda’s long bangs. I only need the lashes and brows to make it through the end of this week, my last week of work before next Wednesday’s surgery, after which I will have a few weeks off to recuperate and regrow (to clarify, I'm referring to hair here - they're surgeons, not miracle workers) before I regularly present my public face to the world again.

The irony is that as the hair on my face is disappearing, the hair elsewhere is making a comeback. I had to shave my legs yesterday for the first time since January, and I’m at half an inch and counting all over my head. Texture and color are still TBD, but I’m holding out hope for straight, and resigning myself to mousey. Needles in my scalp have become part of my biweekly acupuncture routine – who knows if I would have had the full-head stubble coverage I am sporting now without it, but I see no reason to take chances. But despite the fact that the lack of lashes bothers me more than the bald head, I think I’ll venture to Sephora rather than Chinatown for help in that department.