Tag Archives: Birthday

Well, it’s been over four weeks since my mastectomy!

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I apologize for not writing for some time. Life has been busy! But busy in an oddly normal way. Aside from the slight difference in my appearance, most everything seems to have returned to the way things were before my surgery. I went back to work last Tuesday, I’ve been going to class, and I’ve been out and about with my friends and family. The only thing is that I’m feeling fatigued and I want to know WHY! (More mention of that towards the end of the post.)

On Wednesday the 4th my sister Wendy visited us from Boston with my niece and nephew (ages 13 and 15, respectively). It was awesome seeing them. I have six nieces and nephews (and I love ’em all!) but have always regarded Matthew and Nicole as my younger siblings. I lived in Boston when they were born and I grew up with them.

Thursday the 5th was my 22nd birthday. I had work and class, so instead of rushing out to Redondo Beach after class at 8 pm to try to get dinner with my family, I decided to go out in nearby downtown Los Angeles with my friends. It was really great: not only did I enjoy everyone’s company, I also felt so normal! Danielle let me borrow a really cute crop top and I paired it with a black high-waisted skirt. No one could tell that I had recently had surgery.

Here’s a pic of B Boy and me on my birthday. We started the night at the rooftop bar at the Standard. Please note Marissa photobombing in the background.

During that awful weekend before my drains were removed I was concerned that my drain site was infected. Maria from Dr. Festekjian’s office said she might put me on antibiotics, but I cautioned her that my birthday was later that week and that I would prefer not to be on medication. Luckily I didn’t have an infection, so I was OK to drink on my birthday! My friends bought me some pretty delicious drinks (birthday cake shots and mojitos, anyone?) All in all it was a very successful night.

On Friday evening my parents, sister, niece, nephew, Bryce and I all went to the Melting Pot in Torrance to have a birthday/pre-graduation celebration. My birthday was on April 5th; Bryce’s 23rd birthday was on April 10th; and my nephew Matthew’s 16th birthday is on April 14th. We’ve got an abundance of Aries! Dinner was delicious but very filling.

Last night (April 10th) we went out to dinner for Bryce’s 23rd birthday.

The next day we met up with the Berkeley Cuzzins who had driven down the night before to spend time with fam. The cousins are: Marc, Naura and their two kids, Julia (16) and Charles (14). All of the kids (Matthew, Nicole, Julia and Charles) descended on USC on Saturday morning so I could show them around the campus. They’re starting to think about college, so it’s important that I brainwash them and make them want to go to my alma mater.

They really liked USC, especially the tour of the Frat Row…why am I not surprised? After USC we visited Venice Beach, a place I affectionately like to call the Berkeley of the Sea. Venice Beach is amazing. I love to see the reactions that people have to it. The boys LOVED it–they thought it was hilarious. The girls, on the other hand, were slightly weirded out by it.

After Venice Beach I was exhausted. Really, really, REALLY tired. I’m not sure if it was because it was hot outside (about 85 degrees) and we were walking around all day, or because I’m not as recovered from surgery as I thought I was, or both. The next day (Easter) I was still pretty tired too. I went to Bryce’s house for a late lunch and by 7 pm I had passed out upstairs.

So that leads me to the point of this post: when will everything be back to normal? Not to toot my own horn, but I look great after surgery. I feel chipper and if you ran into me on the street, you might never know what had happened. But there are times when I just feel exhausted! And I don’t know why. Are the activities I’m doing really that tiring, or is my body still in recovery mode?

I am itching to get back to my spin classes. I almost went to a class yesterday afternoon at YAS in downtown LA. At the last minute, I decided to email Jeani at Dr. Festekjian’s office to ask her opinion. She talked to Dr. Festekjian and told me to hold off on spinning until I see Dr. Festekjian again and can get his blessing in person.

I was disappointed…I really need the cardio workout! I feel like such a slug. But at the same time, I don’t want to rush it. What if my fatigue really does have to do with my surgery? Spinning might make me feel great for a few hours, but I would feel awful if something happened to jeopardize my tissue expanders and I knew it was because I had pushed myself too hard, too early.

Tomorrow morning at 10 am I have an appointment with Dr. Festekjian to get my first tissue expander fill. Hopefully he’ll give me the OK to go back to spinning. I think I’ll also post some “before and after” pics from my fill (rated G, I promise!)

I’m looking forward to getting the show on the road, but I hope the fill doesn’t hurt. Does anyone have any advice for making it as comfortable as possible?

Check out these ADORABLE cake pops that my friend Kate sent me last week! So yummy and so cute.

 

I think it’s time to deal with the big bad question:

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Why? Why would I have a mastectomy, as a perfectly healthy 21-year-old?

I’ve been avoiding this post for a while–not because I didn’t want to answer the question, but because I didn’t know where it would belong. It seems like something I should have written about a long time ago, before my surgery. And I did write about it, for myself, to justify the decision. But now I want to “go public” with my thought process, because people are right: removing all of my breast tissue at a young age is absolutely ludicrous.

This time last year I was driving home from work, anxiously awaiting the debauchery that would be the following evening: my 21st birthday. At that moment, I was just a normal college student. I was so excited to finally be free of my crappy fake ID, but before that magical first legal drink, I would have to make sure my camera was charged, my hair was straight, and my clutch was packed with the necessary lip glosses and eyeliners.

Celebrating my 21st birthday last April. From left to right: Marissa, Danielle, Rachel, Katy.

Six months later, everything was different. I felt nothing like that girl who was excited to go out to bars with her sorority sisters to celebrate another year. My BRCA test results were in, and it seemed that I would never be the same again.

I was suddenly resentful of my body. I felt so betrayed! My relationship with my body had never been perfect; there were certainly a wonky few years during high school. But since starting college, I’d finally become comfortable being me. And then, when things seemed to be going great in life, my body just threw me under the bus. “Oh hey! You’re gonna get cancer!” No, I guess it wasn’t my body–it was my DNA. That’s what made it even worse, at least at the time: the very essence of my being was flawed.

Oh no…not an awkward photo from high school!

No one could see that I was broken, but I knew it. I just didn’t know when it (cancer) was going to strike. My breasts were–you guessed it–ticking time bombs (oh so that’s where the name comes from!) Every time I caught a glimpse of them in the mirror while changing, I shuddered. I hated them. I didn’t trust them. What if there was a cancerous cell lurking in them already?

The BRCA test results felt like a death sentence. But maybe that’s the wrong way to describe it…I never thought I was going to die…but I never thought I was going to live, either–at least not happily and cancer-free. It was a death sentence for my normal, relatively simple life. It was a sentence for cancer. I read up on the numbers, and I knew how BRCA had played out in my own life: my mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer twice. The fact that I, too, was BRCA positive meant that I was going to get cancer. There wasn’t hope that it would skip me or that I could diet and exercise my way out of it. No. If I lived long enough and had enough breast tissue, I was going to get breast cancer.

These two thoughts–resentment toward my body and belief that I would eventually have cancer–were what drove me to my decision to have a prophylactic mastectomy.

I really hate being depressed. I hate hating myself. I wanted, so badly, to get back on track with my self-esteem and self-image. You can only truly love someone if you love yourself first, and I really hated myself last October when I found out about my BRCA mutation. Imagine how poor Bryce felt?

It’s true that I could have waited one year, five years, ten years–any period of time, perhaps–before having a mastectomy. And I think that if I had waited a few years, I still would have been doing it by choice, not by necessity. But I know that I would have felt so much self-loathing during that time. I was not prepared for those feelings. The drama of my teenage insecurities was hard enough; I did not want to repeat any of that. The sooner I got on with my mastectomy, the sooner I would have reconstruction. The sooner I would have reconstruction, the sooner I would love my breasts–and myself–again.

A mastectomy and reconstruction would give back what the BRCA mutation had taken: my self-esteem. But it would also give me peace of mind. Many women who are at high-risk for breast cancer opt for the surveillance option instead of surgery. They are diligent about their mammograms, MRIs, and breast exams and join special hospital programs for high-risk women.

This was certainly a choice I could have made, but it was too passive. Yes, I could screen the heck out of my breasts, but that wouldn’t stop a tumor from forming. And let me tell you: I’m a worrier. If something hurts (my eyes, my ears, the space between my toes), I go to the webMD Symptom Checker and diagnose myself (and it’s always terminal). Imagine me at a yearly MRI or mammogram? I just know I would be freaked out for days waiting for the results.

Remember when I thought I had esophagus cancer? Thanks, webMD Symptom Checker.

And the way I saw it–again, based on the numbers–was that eventually one of those MRIs or mammograms would come back with a spot. I would get the spot biopsied, and then a doctor would tell me that I have cancer. The doctor, knowing that I have a BRCA mutation, would then strongly suggest a double mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy and maybe radiation.

I would not get to pick when this happened. Cancer would not care if I had a career and children to think of; it would just strike. I would have to halt my life for surgery and a very difficult treatment; I would have to explain to my family what was wrong with me. My mom didn’t get to pick when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It just happened to her, and at a really sucky time.

When I found out that I had a BRCA mutation, I was given a choice–the choice my mother never had. I could choose when my life would be inconvenienced. I could decide if I wanted it to be because of cancer, or because of me. I decided to stop my life for a few weeks because of me–because of a decision I made myself. If I had decided against a prophylactic mastectomy, I would have to have one at some point, anyway…and it wouldn’t be prophylactic anymore. It would be because I had breast cancer.

My brother Michael put it best in an email to me a few days before my surgery: “Doing this [a mastectomy], or not doing this, are each big decisions.  One choice is potentially fatal, and one is just fucked up.  You chose fucked up, which is clearly the right choice.”

He’s right. It is “fucked up.” It’s ridiculous. It’s upsetting. I was distraught for weeks before my mastectomy, and sometimes now, even after, I get angry and sad and insecure. But it was the right choice. I didn’t cause the stop codon that screwed up my BRCA2 gene. Nothing I ate, drank, said, watched or smelled affected it in any way; it just happened. I couldn’t control it. But now I am in control of my body and health again, and I have my prophylactic mastectomy to thank for that.

I know blogs are supposed to be concise…and that certainly wasn’t. But I hope it made sense. I hope that at least one person out there understands my decision a bit more…I hope it doesn’t seem so crazy and extreme.

I want YOU to get tested for the BRCA mutation in 20 years so you can take control of your health again, future self!

Tomorrow’s my 22nd birthday, and I’ve given myself the gift of life! So cheesy, and so true.