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        My radiologist scared the crap out of me.  He kept saying, “I’m not trying to scare you,” and then he would say something that would completely scare the crap out of me.  Don’t get me wrong, I liked his demeanor and I appreciated his straightforwardness, but when a doctor emphasizes that you may die, it tends to scare the crap out of you.

        I’ve been having to put off this radiologist consultation because I keep having to have surgery.  He’s only in my town on Fridays, but that also happens to be the day that my plastic surgeon performs surgeries, so every time a surgery gets scheduled, I’ve had to push this consultation out further.

        As soon as he entered the exam room, he pulled up my chart.  “Man, you’ve been through a lot,” he said.

        “Tell me about it!” I responded.

        He went through my timeline: “You had the original biopsy in March, then went for the MRI biopsy, where they found more cancer than the original lump.  Looks like you had the mastectomy on May 31, where they placed the tissue expander.  Then you had a problem with the incision, so they went in and removed the tissue expander and placed the silicon implant.  You had the port-a-cath placed and then you developed some sort of infection at your incision site on your breast.  It was just a single mastectomy?”

        “Yes–my genetics were clear, so the breast doctor didn’t think it was justifiable to do the double.”

        “Pull up your chair.  I want to show you your scans.”  

        I stood up and walked over to where he was.

        “Pull up your chair!!” He almost yelled it at me.  I guess I should be sitting down for this.  I drag my chair over.

        He proceeds to show me my MRI. No one has shown me any of my scans.  I’m eager to see them.

        “This is your right breast, from the underneath perspective.  This is your left.  There’s literally no difference.  If anything, the right side looks more dense and suspicious than the left,” he tells me.

        “So you think I should have gone for the double mastectomy?” I’m starting to crap my pants.

        “Well, seeing what a mess your left side ended up being, yes, I think you should have gotten rid of both.  I mean LOOK at it!  There’s virtually no difference in the breasts,” he said as he scrolled through the layers of the MRI.  And he’s not wrong.  They look the same to me.

        “So do I need to have them schedule a mastectomy on the other side?”

        “I mean look at it!  No wonder cancer was hiding in there.  Your breasts are so dense, no wonder the mammograms never saw the cancer.”

        “All the doctors couldn’t believe the extent of the disease.  They originally thought the mass was only 4 cm.”

        “And it ended up being 7 cm–the size of a BASEBALL!” he said, almost excitedly.

        “None of the doctors could believe the lymph node involvement.”

        “And it ended up being in 13 of the 17 they removed! Scans don’t work on you.  None of your scans showed your lymph nodes.  Yep, scans don’t work on you.”

        “So do I need to have a mastectomy on my right side?”

        “I would.  But not right now.  You have to heal.  If you delay treatment any longer, you’re going to lose your life.” Okay, now I’m really crapping my pants. “You can’t have any more surgeries.  You cannot delay chemo and radiation.  No more surgeries!”

        “I don’t want any more surgeries!” It was never my idea to have all the surgeries.  I mean, I chose reconstruction, but that was before we knew about the lymph nodes.  I was a little unconscious when they discovered that 2 lymph nodes had cancer in them.  It was about 2 weeks later that the report came out about all the others.  That’s also when they discovered the actual size of the cancer, too.

        “Well, maybe it was a blessing in disguise that you didn’t go for the double.  You could have had double the healing issues, seeing as you’re not healing properly now.  Maybe it’s a blessing you only went for the single.  But after chemo and radiation, I would reconsider.  And I don’t know if you should do the implants.  Every time you augment the breast area, you mess with the blood supply.  You might want to consider just going flat.”

        “I’ve definitely been thinking about it.  I like to jog, and it would be much easier to not have to wear a jog bra.”

        “Well, you can always get the inserts to go into a bra.”

        “Or use chicken cutlets!” I piped up. He laughed at that.

        “At least you’re laughing and joking!”  I love how many times medical staff has said this to me.  I know they’re used to anger, depression, hopelessness, sadness.  They don’t know how to handle my sarcastic goofiness.

        Then I asked him about the actual radiation.  He explained to me how the lasers work.  Then he showed me my CT scan.

        “Gosh, your heart is right up against your chest wall.”  Awesome.  Some hearts are further away from the chest wall, making radiation easier and less likely they’ll injure the heart.  Not mine.  My heart is forward, snuggled right up against my chest wall.  “We’ll have to be extra careful not to injure your heart.  But gosh–there’s your right breast again.  I mean LOOK at it!  It looks more dense than your left breast did.”  Thanks for reiterating.  

        He wrote down a to-do list for me.  Number 1 was “Heal.”  Number 2 was “Chemo.”  Number 3 was “Radiation.”  He told me chemo will be 3 months long, then I’ll have one month off, and then radiation will be 6 weeks long.  We won’t get to the radiation until next year.  Then he told me when all of that is done, then I can think about removing the right breast.  

        He also asked me how much I can lift my left arm.  “A little,” I replied, and I showed him how far I can raise it.

        “Okay, you’re getting there.  I’m going to refer you to Physical Therapy.  And to Infectious Diseases.  We’ve got to figure out why you’re not healing.”  Finally, I feel like we’re doing something.  You can’t just tell me to “heal.”  Obviously there’s a problem.  He also is going to order an x-ray for my right heel (speaking of healing), which has been killing me for about a year and a half now.  I’ve just ignored it, chalking it up to plantar fasciitis, but seeing as it’s not getting better while I’m recovering, I think it’s an actual injury.  

        The very next day, on Saturday, my culture from my last surgery finally comes in.  It’s a bacterial infection called pseudomonas aeruginosa.  I’ve been on antibiotics for almost a full month, but none of the oral antibiotics even touch this nasty critter.  Thank goodness I’m being referred to Infectious Diseases because I’m going to need intravenous antibiotics.

        On Monday, I call my plastic surgeon and tell him about the culture results.  He, too, refers me to Infectious Diseases, which I think it’s the exact same doctor referral as the radiologist, because there’s only one ID doctor in my town.

        The ID doctor’s office calls me on Monday and gets me scheduled for an appointment on Tuesday.  But it’s telemed.  I imagined them saying, “Ew…we don’t want that pseudomonas aeruginosa in our office!  Don’t bring that in here!”

        My plastic surgeon appointment is Tuesday morning to get unwrapped from my last surgery.  I get the new nurse again.  She unwraps me, and my incisions look good.  They’re not green or yellow or black or red.  They’re just skin-colored.  Thank goodness.  My breast doesn’t really look like a breast anymore though–it’s all sunken in and shriveled up with big train-track stitches up the front.  I’m so glad to see the normal color, though.  The new nurse looked me dead in the eye and said, “I LOVE your positive attitude.”  There they go again.  Medical staff surprised by my goofy demeanor.  I don’t think they know how to handle me.  And if she only knew that I get a little chagrined when they give me her.  I guess she’s growing on me.  Like this bacterial infection.

        When I get home, I tell my 16 year old that I have an appointment with the ID doctor, but it’s telemed.  We laugh about the idea of having a telemed appointment for an infection.  We talked about if he would need to see my incision, and she called me a Discord Kitten.  I had to Google what a Discord Kitten is.  It’s basically like an old-school phone sex situation, but it’s over the app Discord, where they can use video chat.

        When my appointment time comes, I set my phone up on the little table in my bedroom, propped up against my water bottle.  The doctor gets on and asks how I’m doing.  This is such a loaded question.  

“I’m hanging in there like a hair in a biscuit!” I respond.  He laughed.  He has a really impressive afro, and with his headset forming an arc through his hair, he looks like a DJ.  Then he tells me he’ll need to see my incision.  Here we go.  I have to remove my shirt and open my bra.  I’m officially his Discord Kitten.