Fallopian Farewell

Some people have Summer homes. Or tranquil getaways to a favorite vacation spot each year. 

I have the OR. Not Oregon, although that would be lovely. Operating Rooms. I find myself visiting different ones around the metro each Summer. And instead of collecting little souvenir shot glasses, I collect those plastic hospital cups with lids and straws that measure my water intake. I'm accumulating quite the menagerie. 

Cancer is that rather unique gift that keeps on giving. If that gift is a subscription to something you never asked for, absolutely detest, and isn't eligible for returns or exchanges. 

I'm off to get my 8th surgery in the a.m. 

No, my cancer isn't back. But the medicine I take to help prevent breast cancer reoccurrence, Tamoxifen, can cause uterine cancer. So every year I get a sonogram to check things out. And EVERY YEAR it shows suspiciousness lurking amongst my lining. Which means I either have to get a biopsy done, or in last Summer's case, a hysteroscopy and d&c. 

People. I am slated to be on Tamoxifen for SEVEN MORE YEARS. So after my last suspicious sonogram this Spring, my doctor said, "That's it! Everything's coming out!". Kind of like when your kids are all causing a ruckus in the very room you're trying to find some peace and quiet in for 5 minutes so you finally yell, "EVERYBODY OUT!".

I'll be adding a few more "ectomies" to my health history. A hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo oophorectomy. Boy, spellcheck didn't like that latter one. At. All. 

Tate is disappointed he won't be getting that little brother he's always longed for. I didn't have the heart to tell him that ship had sailed years ago. Not only sailed, mind you, but had gotten lost forever in the Bermuda triangle. He's now trying to convince us to trade one, or both, of his sisters for a brother.  Or a bull terrier. Either will suffice. 

At least he's actually able to talk about the surgery now. When I was first explaining what it was, he said, "Mom! That's a bad word!". To which Drue and I both said in unison, "Uterus??". To mess with him more, I said I was planning on keeping all my newly evicted reproductive organs in a jar on the mantel. 

This immediately cleared both kids from the vicinity with Drue saying, "Mom...ewww. Good-bye." Teens are too easy sometimes. 

I assigned David the most important job of all. Of course he's my ride, but after surgery, I told him to make sure I put my earrings back in right away. I got my second hole pierced recently, and although it's past time that I can change them out, they still need an earring in so they don't close up. He's already set a reminder in his phone. While he was setting that, he asked what time we needed to be at the hospital. 

"5:15am," I replied. 

"Of course we do," he said good naturedly. Poor guy can't catch a break with my first surgery of the day luck of the draws. 

When he found out I'd be staying the night he asked if he needed to take the following day off work as well. "Heavens no," I said. "Just come pick me up between conference calls or something. Or heck, send one of the other THREE drivers in our household. But not Tate. He only knows how to get to Taco Bell and back home." 

I find it kind of poetic, fitting, ironic...I'm not sure which word works best...that I'm having this surgery done at the same hospital where I had all my babies. I've come full circle. 

Oh, and I'll be able to come off of Tamoxifen afterwards and switch to an aromatase inhibitor instead. "But I thought you came off Tamoxifen last year?" you say. Or you would say if you remember reading that in my March 2021 update. And you would be correct. 

Chemo threw me into early menopause. The one and only side effect I really didn't mind. Last year, my lab work showed that, yes indeed, I was post menopausal. So my oncologist took me off Tamoxifen and started me on Letrozole. Lo and behold, I went back to being pre menopausal within a month or so. Which caused my oncologist to scratch his head, order more lab work, and put me back on Tamoxifen. So if you're keeping track, I went in to menopause, came back out, then went. back. in. How David has not walked right out the front door, never to return, I have no idea. I have been a hot mess. Literally. 

And I wasn't the most emotionally/hormonally stable person pre cancer treatments as it was. But I can't take any hormone replacement anythings because that's what fueled my breast cancer to begin with. Oy. 

Never in a billion trillion years did I dream I'd be matter of factly blogging about menopause, ovaries, my uterus, or my bosom. But ridiculously modest me couldn't have gotten ear lobe cancer. Or pinky toe cancer. Neither of which causes me any kind of embarrassment to talk about whatsoever. Nope. This Mom of three who was too shy to even say "breastfeeding" and only felt comfortable referring to it as "nursing" got breast cancer. And her coping mechanism is writing. So there you have it. I am now the epitome of TMI. 

I'm off to pack my little bag. And do a few weird nesting things around the house that I always do before surgeries. Like scrub the kitchen trash can lids and refold my winter sweaters on the shelf in the way back of my bedroom closet. You know, important stuff like that.