I haven’t posted publicly for about a year (not-so-coincidentally, that was about the amount of time it took to plan and have out wedding). Naturally, lot of things are different now! I have a new husband, a new last name (albeit not yet “officially”) and we will (hopefully soon) be moving into a new rental property, with the goal of finding a house to settle down in in the next few years.

I passed the two-year anniversary of my mastectomy quietly, and began seeing an integrative medicine doctor for help with my food allergies and overall health. I removed myself from all prescription medications and began taking supplements to help heal my immune system and my “leaky gut”. I tested positive for a boatload more mutations, all of which are indicative of malabsorption of vitamins, and have been working on figuring out how to compensate for those losses directly. It has helped, but only minimally, and has been really hard to stick to a grain-free sugar-free diet since the wedding cake took me so far off course!

Still, with all those changes, I am in pain. Constantly. Sometimes so much so that I am depressed for my own life and the life of my new (wonderful, supportive) husband. Will I ever be able to have kids? Will I ever be able to walk the dog without a nap afterwards? Will I ever feel “normal” after eating again? I’m hanging in there, and I’m so, so grateful for everything that I have and all the things that are in store for us as a newly-married couple, but I do wonder how much I will be able to enjoy.

My cat is not well-behaved. He’s not well-behaved at home, on Prozac, so let’s just paint a picture of what he’s like at the vet:

Imagine, friends, a ball of fur/teeth/claws/psychosis zipping from corner to corner and making the most (admittedly comical, although they weren’t at the time!) obnoxiously loud screaming noises – NOT a happy kitty. Unfortunately, he was a kitty that needed his shots… but if I had known what the cost of getting them would be, I would have never taken him there in the first place.

Unfortunately, after a few minutes of trying, and complete refusal of my insistence that I could handle him just fine (and my willingness to sign a release waiving my right to keep my limbs…), the vet gave up and informed me that he would have to be sedated (“boxed”) in order for her to get a blood sample (because they told me he was underweight – which he absolutely was not), give him his shots and clip his nails. Since he lets me clip his nails like he’s getting a manicure, I was already pretty perturbed that they thought this was necessary, but I wanted him to get a good exam, so I relented.

Apparently, it’s common practice to sedate “difficult” cats by shoving them into a Tupperware container and gassing them until they pass out – do they monitor heart rate? Nope. Do they check vitals to see the affect anesthesia might have on them? Nope. They label them as troublemakers, shove them in a box, and turn on the gas. That vet = Hitler.

Needless to say, I was a wreck, and when she called me back to see him, I was ecstatic. It was then that I saw my cat’s almost lifeless body laying on the table. “He’ll wake up in a second,” she told me. 10 Second went by. 20. 30. Then she started shaking my limp cat, and talking through gritted teeth at him, saying “you’re scaring your Mommy, kitty. Wake up….” and looking slightly concerned. She then shoved him in his cat carrier so hard that his head hit the back of the box and handed him to a vet tech to “prepare him to go home” – all the while chastising Jason and I for rescuing a dog that doesn’t really get along with the cats. It was pretty much my worst nightmare, but it didn’t even end here!

Eventually, he DID wake up, but he threw up a bunch of times, he couldn’t walk, he tried to jump on the couch but fell … it was a mess. I called the cat vet’s office and asked if there was anything I could give him to stop the vomiting, and they said I had to bring him back in… imagine my surprise when he acted like a psychopath during the return visit – can you blame him? Anyway, after all that, the vet didn’t even make time to see him, and another vet, after attempting to give him a shot for his nausea, settled on giving him OVER THE COUNTER pepcid. Yes, exactly what I asked for over the phone. I hate these people, and will not be going back.

Thankfully, after a day of disorientation, lethargy and nausea, Fionn is on the mend, and will soon return to terrorizing J, his brother, and his new favorite thing to torment: Otto.

Dana Kollmann – former professor, fellow deviant (in a legal, only slightly unhealthy way), and troublemaker. She was the beginning of this adventure, and we will forever be indebted to her for bringing us this goofy, wonderful ball of joy. It all began when I saw this post on her Facebook wall:

After seeing Dana’s post, I emailed J, who was, of course, exceedingly practical in saying: “he’s too big and our house is too small”. I continued pleading with him though, because I had a very strange strong GUT instinct that told me that we needed this dog as much as he probably needed us. We were each going through a lot of personal struggles, and settling into a fairly unhealthy/sedentary lifestyle, so a dog was one solution we discussed to get us moving (and J had wanted a dog badly for as long as I had known him). I reminded him of this, and he relented, allowing me to email the woman who posted the initial plea. Below is the email exchange with her:

The following day, much to our surprise, our landlord agreed to let us add a dog to our already very full house (for a VERY reasonable pet fee of $20/month) – we were almost positive that he would not agree because he had seemed so adamantly opposed to dog ownership when we signed the initial lease, but very thankful that we were wrong! I enthusiastically updated Dana, and thanked her for sharing the post.

On Saturday, April 20^th, we drove to Middle River, MD to meet Otto. We met Missy and her husband in the parking lot of McDonalds down the street from Otto’s original owners’ house. From there, we followed them to the house, all the while feeling both apprehensive and excited to see this big boy.

When we arrived, the two men that had been “taking care” of Otto brought out a shaggy, skinny, sad-looking dog and I thought my heart was going to burst into pieces – he walked right up to me, licked my hand, then continued past me to Jason, on whom he rested his head, and leaned his (obviously) weary body. The men loaded him into their SUV and asked us to follow them to a local park so we could “see him out in the open” (we now think that this was an attempt to hide Otto’s living conditions from us so that we would not report them). Upon reaching the field, they unloaded him and we sat under a pavilion and talked to them about Otto’s story – most of which we have since determined was one giant lie.

We were told that he was a 5-year-old purebred Shiloh Shepherd, a rare breed thought to be a cross between large German Shepherds and possibly a Malamute line. They explained that he had undergone K-9 police dog training, but unlike his father and brother, had not been selected to be a police dog because he “lacked a prey drive” (these people were idiots – just ask my poor cats about his ‘prey drive’!). They went on to say that their father had retired from the police force after suffering from complications related to Lyme disease, and since both the father and brother had been killed in the line of duty (we are still looking into whether this part of the story is true), they had no desire to keep Otto as a pet – they only wanted working dogs.

Meanwhile, while they were telling us about him, Otto was desperately searching for water on the ground (he was clearly extremely dehydrated), climbing on the picnic table (apparently his go-to sleeping spot in his “habitat” in their back yard), and endearing himself to each of us individually in various different ways. By the time the massive impending thunderstorm hit, both J and I were already telepathically communicating (mostly via pleading looks at each other and Missy/her husband), and we agreed with the two men to come back and get him the next day. After they left, Missy and her husband climbed into our car and we finalized the plans to bring him home with us. It was everything J could do not to follow them that very night and beat them to a bloody pulp – but Missy and I both felt that it was best not to antagonize them until we had him in our possession.

After we left them, I realized that I didn’t take any pictures, so I quickly sent a text to Missy, who replied with (the above) photos. We continued to text back and forth, and discussed how to get his vet records – we were very anxious to remove him from this terrible situation!

Yesterday, Sunday, April 21st, we brought Otto home. He was neither afraid, nor even remotely hesitant to get into the back of our CRV, and perhaps I am making him a bit anthropomorphous, but to me, he looked relieved. Of course the “crate” they said they would provide was rusty and disgusting, so we met my mother at the Catonsville PetsMart to buy him a new crate. He had a very unpleasant accident in one of the aisles after eating a can of dog food after going probably several days without any real food or water, but my Mom and J helped the employees clean it up, and we got him some new things and packed him up to go home.

Today, we took him to the vet, where we learned that he only weighs 83lbs (grossly underweight – according to breed standard, he should be at least 120lbs!), and that he has a skin infection, fleas, worms and probably other issues as well. He did, however, test negative for heart-worm, so we are saying prayers to the puppy powers that be that he will be able to thrive given some TLC (and lots of expensive tests and antibiotics). He’s also still “intact”, so we’ll likely need to get him neutered once he’s healthy.

Welcome home, Otto!

Repost from Facebook:

Just finished Couch to 5K week 1 run 1 with Get Running. Distance: 2 MILES!

I haven’t run in exactly 1 year and 21 days, I have gained 20 lbs and I’ve spent a looong time on my ass on the couch…and yet, I just started at a pace that I had only reached towards the end of the program last year. The human body is an amazing thing. I don’t think I’ve been so proud to be in pain in my entire life.

Update (6/25/13): Aaaand…. haven’t run since. Doh.

I wasn’t excited about this visit – hell, I almost didn’t go, but I was unprepared for what transpired.

The first thing that happened was a lot of unnecessary fussing over my blood pressure. I hate doctors, and I am in constant pain…why do you think my blood pressure is elevated?! When I finally convinced them that this wasn’t the end of the world, they took me in a treatment room and there I waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, in came my breast surgeon, who I had not even spoken to since the nasty email exchange (to be posted in Terri’s “Letters to Doctors” book), and the look of shame was written all over her face. Apparently, she had been following up, just not with me. The first words out of her mouth were a jumble of apologies and statements of disbelief, but it seems that she believes me now. It only took 14 months.

We discussed all 35,000 treatments and supplements and drugs and therapies I had tried and she finally handed me a piece of paper with Dr. Denney’s name and number on it. “One last pain doctor to try?” she offered. I took it, because I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. We discussed options and then she dropped the bomb.

“Why haven’t we done a breast MRI?”

*beat of complete silence*

“Have you considered having then removed?”

I actually did a dramatic teen eye-roll here (a la the divine Ms. Tina Fey) and heaved a great big sigh as I answered her question with a quote from a previous phone conversation: “I wouldn’t know what kind of MRI to order – you need to see a specialist.” At this point she got that I was irritated and apologized again, explaining that “she’s never had a patient like me before” and “she’s been reading everything she can find for months”. She blinked a few time while I just side-eyed her in my paper gown, and then repeated her question:

“Have you considered having them removed?”

Yes, I told her, and many times I’ve come VERY close to removing them myself. I explained about my new-ish plastic surgeon, and re-iterated that if the other surgeon’s name was even mentioned, I’d strangle her with my hospital gown. She looked vaguely afraid of me by the end of the appointment, but rightly so. She should be afraid. Very. Afraid.

But, I did leave the appointment with a pain doc appt (since they keep ditching me) and an MRI scheduled. It seems that the universe really needs a kick in the ass to jump start it, lately…

UPDATE: My MRI has been cancelled 3x. Still haven’t had one. The medical community’s un-ending bullshit NEVER fails to surprise me.

Somehow I thought this moment would be exhilarating – like getting off of a roller-coaster and looking at your partner and saying “whew! wild ride!”… but, sadly, I’m still on the kiddie rides, whining “go faster, go faster!”

This is not the celebratory day that I wanted it to be, but I have managed a few accomplishments in this less-than-pleasant year:

• I’m coping with the pain without narcotics, and I’m not discussing the pain anymore (with anyone except my doctors, my mother and J – if he really wants to know) – mostly, I’m just excusing myself and breathing through it.
• I’ve learned a HELL of a lot about boobs. Like, a lot. Way more than I ever thought I would have.
• I’ve managed to remain attached to the most wonderful man in the world. If I haven’t chased him away yet, I think he’s in it for the long haul.
• I’ve tried: injections, narcotics, topical painkillers, pain patches, special diets, herbs, essential oils, chiropracty (is that a word?), physical therapy, every exercise I’ve ever found in any mastectomy reconstruction book, meditation, screaming, stomping, yelling … and none of it has worked.

Here is what I wrote on Facebook – the very first time I acknowledged (openly) my surgery, my experience and spoke honestly about it with people who may not have known:

“There’s no place like home”

Fashion is passion.

Sleeping beauty.

Super Healer

From Mom’s POV

The responses were surprised, supportive, caring and thoughtful. It was a very heavy day, but I managed to find some bright spots (and let’s face it – turning your life into a fairy tale is what everyone does when things suck, right?). Here is what my Facebook friends said:

No matter how bad things seem, someone always has it worse. 

I need that tattooed backwards on my forehead, I think, although I am beginning to get to a place where I can stop, take a breath and remind myself to be grateful for the life that I have.

J quit smoking on Saturday, and I am over the moon about it…. but I am really struggling to help him get over his withdrawal. He’s mean and tired and grumpy (all legit, and to be expected), but ever since he admitted that he doesn’t want to tell me when something’s wrong with him because what I’m going through is inevitably worse (which is sad, and I don’t want him to feel like that) I’ve tried to pretend I’m okay anytime he’s been feeling ill.

Yesterday, though, I totally overdid it and I feel like crawling under my desk and dying. I barely have the strength to pick up my arms, let alone use them in any functional way. I just want to scream “OOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” but instead, I will continue (quietly) to do the dishes until my arm is numb, and chop vegetables until I can’t hold my arms above the counter anymore. I know it sucks for him, so I will say nothing to him… but to you guys, I say: O.U.C.H. Only three more days until I see my “palliative care” doctor (another post forthcoming) and find out if he can diagnose me as RSD.

As for J, I am so proud of him – quitting cold turkey is very, very hard, but he’s so damn stubborn, I know he’ll be able to do it. If he can quit, then maybe we really will be able to grow old together – me with no boobs, and him with clean lungs.

Signed,

Exhausted, Hurty Puppy

Finally saw Dr. B this morning, and he agreed with my subconscious: further trauma to my body seems like

• unnecessary pain
• could result in further issues
• may not have any positive benefits whatsoever
• could insight infection

So, Dali boob is here to stay. BUT, as I was just saying to my mother (about all my doctor dumpers), Dr. B did the “good doctor” thing: he gave me a referral to another pain specialist, and also gave us two names of nerve surgeons (one in Baltimore at Union Memorial – who pioneered a lot of nerve surgeries – and his protegee at Georgetown) who he assured us were top notch.

The big relief was that right now, there’s nothing “wrong” (meaning the implant being out of pocket is not going to hurt me), and my right implant has not capsulized as much as I thought (although the scar tissue is much worse).

So… same ol’ same ol’ for right now. Time to call the new pain doctor and see what he/she says (the name “Loren” threw me for a loop!). Fingers crossed for the next steps forward.