The first time I had to step back from a television show for my health was duringSamantha Who?As early as 2001, one of my doctors noticed that there was a pattern of cancer in my family. This was before the medical profession really knew much about mutations in BRCA1 and BRCA2, the genes that, when they work correctly, suppress tumors. When they don’t work correctly, well, they don’t suppress shit. My doctor insisted I start getting mammograms well before the suggested age, which back then was forty, so I started getting tested regularly.
My breasts were too dense for regular testing, and, as the doctor put it, they were also “cyst-y.” He ordered up MRIs for me instead. The first one I took provided a false positive for cancer in one breast, but two months later the news was bad: the scan had indeed found cancer, this time in the other boob. There was only one option for me: a double mastectomy.
I was no stranger to cancer by that point in my life; I had lived through my mom having the disease.
DIAGNOSIS
I kinda knew what the diagnosis was going to be. So much so that I put off calling the doctor back for a few days. I remember sitting in bed and making that call. “It’s positive.” My heart was racing, but I had no time to cry. Just immediately asked what I should do. What’s the stage? Who do I call? [The doctor] kept saying, “Ductal carcinoma in situ.” I think I asked her five times what the fuck she just said. In fact Rachel had to call her back a couple of times just to double-check what the fuck she just said. And to have her reassure me that I wasn’t going to die from this. She said they remove it and you move on. Yeah, right. Regardless of what stage or nature your cancer is, you still feel frightened and feel like the walls are closing in on you. I called my mom and said I had cancer. I couldn’t breathe, and when she got there, I collapsed in her lap. It was one of the few times through this process I felt mothered by her.
I immediately made changes to my life to try to get ready for whatever was to come, but whatever changes I made, I wasn’t ready to face the truth. I quit smoking and went on a macrobiotic diet, but still I was told by a breast surgeon that because the cells were “microinvasive,” I’d probably need a double mastectomy.
In early August, my friend Mary Kay, knowing how much I loved to keep a diary, gifted me a brand-new journal ahead of my surgery. She had intuited, rightly, that this was the beginning of a significant and potentially very painful phase of my life, and she wrote a simple but profound inscription.
Christina,
For all of your thoughts, feelings & reflections during this time. Much love.
The following are extracts from that journal, extracts that tell the tale of my lifesaving surgery. I share them with scant comment, except to say that it’s poignant to me, years later, to see the tiny steps of progress—“Walked to the window,” “Went all the way down to the end of the carpet”—which acted as important signposts in my recovery. I compare those achievements to how I now face MS, an illness that only ever gets worse, not better. There are no mileposts of improvement in my current situation. I have good days and baddays, but I’ll never enjoy good months, good years. Those kinds of months and years are gone.
It was a hard time in my life, but I’d like to be her now, to keep her company, to borrow some of those tiny steps.
August 2008
DAY ONE
I wasn’t particularly frightened the night before. At this point it’s all a blur, really. But there is a “get down to business” mode I often snap into when faced with something that is beyond challenging. Went to the hospital, snuck in through the emergency room. I could feel the anxiety from everyone except me. Although I’m sure I was fucking losing it… I went to pre-op, did the basic shit. Vitals, tons of questions. Begged for something to calm me. Had [Dr.] Slate draw on me. All the while I was still in good spirits. Prayed… then asked for the drugs again, and my dad. And that’s all I remember. The surgery was about seven hours long. An earthquake of 5.5 actually went down during my surgery, of course. Basically I felt NO pain. I was on the drip and Martyn and I watched a documentary.
DAY TWO
Barely remember. All I know is I couldn’t move. I was peeing into a catheter. And I was on the drip. Still won’t look under the gown.
DAY THREE
I think I sat up this day. But really more of the same. Too many visitors.
DAY FOUR
Sat up again. Sponge bath humiliation. So gassy. That was funny!! Walked to the window.
DAY FIVE
Walked the halls. Went all the way down to the end of the carpet and thought I was a major BADASS! Then I turned to go back and started to dance and immediately had to get a wheelchair. What an asshole. The rest is foggy… Not sure if I looked [at my body] I think I did. But then of course the rumor was out and everything really exploded… Still haven’t had a BM though which is really bad.
DAY SIX
Am truly a walking fool. Discovered the dude with the sore ass [the sign on his door said “NOTHING PER ANUS” so we would walk by with random items like a pen or an apple, and wonder out loud, “Not even this?,” and the other person would say, “NOTHING PER ANUS”], hospital hallway races… a lot of laughter. At this point I’ve looked. It’s very sad… I look weird, deformed; the skin is numb, and feels totally different. Also at this point it all hits me like a ton of bricks. I still haven’t stopped hurting: Lee, all of it. Sad. So sad… But I feel physically better. Stronger. I can really move my arms, sort of… can really sit up by myself. The catheter is gone as well as one of my drains. Which really weren’t so bad. I guess everyone had the one thing that sticks out to them as the “scary” thing. To me it was the way I looked… But the drains didn’t bother me. We called them my grenades. Six-shooters. I think that all of thekidding around and the laughter make this whole thing a tiny bit easier to deal with.
DAY SEVEN
Home!! I didn’t want to leave because they took me off the drip and the transition to oral was challenging for me. For everyone I guess it’s different. Some people just push through the discomfort. They didn’t have to dance on a broken foot. Therefore, I am so damn sick of pushing through the pain… Oh, and I’ve been on every kind of laxative there is, with virtually no success. The perks of opiates and surgery.
DAY EIGHT (WEDNESDAY) TILL NOW, DAY FIFTEEN
Each day easier yet harder. I’ve gone to the bathroom. I’ve showered. But can’t shave under my arms. I’ve had sex. Which surprises my comrades in boobs. I guess I’m lucky. But I think I’m just a goal setter. And I’m insanely turned on by my boyfriend and really couldn’t deal. What we all want is someone who will accept us for who we are and what we have become. It’s sad to hear these women talk about their boyfriends not wanting to look. Or being single and fearful of what the next person is going to think. I’m not sure how I lucked out, but I think I have a pretty good idea. I’VE BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH!!! The universe has kicked my ass and I deserve some good. No, some fantastic! Some miracles, joy peace success elation passion and love. Because really, I couldn’t take another fucking thing.
Oh, right, the boobs. So at this point, I’m pretty freaked out about tissue death and the feeling never coming back and the factthat [Dr.] Slate won’t let me keep them on the small side… My back has a sharp weird pain (most likely my rib) as well as the front right underneath the expander. Yuck, I hate those things. The shape is so strange and yucky. They hurt, like as if you took a basketball and deflated it, put it under the mattress, and had [a fat person] lie on top of that. All the while trying to inflate the ball. My chest wall/sternum is really sore and the skin feels chalky. My armpits are swollen. And part of my back is numb. Really this sucks.
But with all shitty things there is a counterpoint, an opposite. And there is where the good reveals itself. I am going to change the way young women look at breast cancer and how they can protect themselves from it. This is my charge. I have never felt so sure of anything. My whole world makes sense right now. Yes, I’m sad, yes it’s uncomfortable, yes I hate it. But I have to see the blessing here. If I don’t, I won’t survive. If I don’t I will just be one big pity party!
