A Weeping Breast

When I woke up this morning, my camisole and my nightgown and the little pillow my daughter lovingly sewed for me yesterday were wet. Not soaking wet, but enough that I figured I fell asleep with my ice bag under my arm. Except there was no ice bag. I went to look at my breast in the mirror, and it still didn't seem infected. It did look very full, though, perhaps fuller than my right breast. It's the seroma; it filled in the space where the tumor used to be to the extent that it is now leaking. I raised my arm over my head. Sure enough, no more dimple. It's that 'better cosmetic result' my surgeon's NP was talking about. What a thrill; I so often go around topless with my arms raised above my head. LOL.

Ever since yesterday, I have felt like crying pretty much all the time. Now even my breast is crying. I feel like a zombie. Emotionally, this is the worst that I have felt in a long time. After my initial diagnosis, I had a few scares here and there, but ultimately, everything ended up being good news. Small tumor, early stage, not super aggressive, low chance of recurrence. What more can you ask for besides not having cancer at all? But now I have this extra beast of DCIS, which won't kill me, but can turn into something that does kill me. The trickiest part is that it didn't show up on my mammograms or MRI, so even though I will certainly be super vigilant from here on out about checking my breasts and going in for regular mammograms, it might not matter. I might only catch it after it becomes invasive. Maybe it is all over my breast. Maybe it is all over both breasts. I am trying to wrap my mind around this possibility, and think rationally about what my next steps should be. I was just settling into my post re-excision plan, getting advice on teaching through radiation, and starting to read up on how to best manage the side effects. Mastectomy was not even on my radar, but now it has been thrown down in front of me like a huge monster, rearing its ugly head no matter which path I imagine going down. My mind is mulling over so many different options right now, I can think neither clearly nor logically. I feel numb.

I desperately want to talk to my surgeon, but she won't be back until next week, at which point I will be gone on what was supposed to be a relaxing and fun, pre-radiation break. I at least need to talk to someone who knows something, and can lay out some options. I know there will be no clear-cut path for me, so it will be my decision, based on my gut feeling. At the very least, I can spend my vacation mulling things over, and Googling. That said, tomorrow is going to be one heck of a day. I have an early appointment with a radiation oncologist, which I planned a while back, just so I would know what to expect once I got back from vacation. After the appointment, I need to race up to work to interview a candidate for a search committee I'm on. At 1:30, I have an appointment with Dr. M. I'm not quite sure why, other than I need some hand-holding, and they were able to work me in. Unfortunately, I have to be back at work by 2:30 for another interview, so I'm not sure how that is going to work out, but I really don't want to leave for vacation without a frank conversation about What This Means. Am I reading into this too much? Or are my fears reasonable from a scientific point of view? Either way, knowing is better than not knowing, so that when I drown myself in thoughts over vacation, hopefully they are at least rational thoughts.

I also scheduled a consultation with a surgeon up at University Hospital for the Wednesday after we get back. I love Dr. L, but I feel like my case has suddenly gotten more complicated, and I'm definitely not going to consider having one or both of my boobs lopped off without a second opinion. As much as I don't want to have a mastectomy, if I think about it logically, there are advantages to it that I don't have the energy to go into now. It is like when my son was born. My water broke, so they attempted to induce labor. Unfortunately, without the padding of the amniotic fluid, he couldn't handle the strength of the contractions, which caused him great distress. As much as I didn't want to have a C-section, there was a certain point at which my stress over getting him out safely outweighed my desire to not have a C-section. Ultimately, I didn't end up needing a C-section, but by the time it was all over, I honestly couldn't have cared less one way or the other. I feel like I'm approaching that point of resignation now. I'm not sure I fucking care anymore.