If I'm writing something these days, it's almost always because I'm having surgery or having an anniversary. That's maybe not the most compelling choice of subjects, and I'll likely stop altogether after this one. But one more time to shed some of these thoughts and share some more of the story.
So yep, surgery it is. Still cancer-related, 8 1/2 years out. No recurrence.
But first, I want to claim a moment of self-control and accountability. In the last 6 months, I've lost 20 pounds of extra indulgence. The surgery for hysterectomy/oopherectomy put me into instant menopause, and there is no magic hormone replacement that makes your metabolism return to that of a 20-year-old. So I struggled for a couple of years, not wanting to admit that I had to make better choices to get back on track with being in the body I thought I should have. I think there may always be an undercurrent of feeling like my body's going to do what it wants regardless of my choices, but that's not fully true. I can take control of what I can. So I did!
But in these years, I've also had a deep frustration that my recovery had stalled in the land of chronic disease management. I've dealt with lymphedema, chronic pain, and recurring cellulitis. I've had to modify my life in ways big and small.
My almost-daily compression sleeve and glove are symbols, nuisances, ugly, and so many other things. They are hot, uncomfortable, always wearing out, a pain to keep laundering, expensive, and they get in my way regularly (handshakes, gardening, patient care, wearing gloves, cooking, interacting with velcro, washing hands, biking, holding hands, getting sun on my skin, etc., etc.). They keep my arm and hand swelling at a moderate level, but not better than that. Wearing medical garments makes me feel 30 years older than I am.
My arm is a constant reminder that I can't use my body the way I used to. I used to dig holes--I had some nice guns! I used to be strong. I can't carry bags, travel, exercise, write/draw by hand, work like I used to. I carry extra pounds of fluid on one side, making all my joints sore from each finger up to my shoulder. I compensate by using my other side more, and then my whole back, neck and hips are hurting and out of alignment. Ask my massage therapist how messed up my body can be and how quickly it can get there.
I'm grieving and bitching here. I'm happy to have survived and moved on to a great, fortunate life, but every day I carry losses on me, and they are not light.
Thursday is surgery to hopefully help with the lymphedema. It will be lymph node transplant (my own from another area), lymphatic bypass to small venules, and possibly arm liposuction and scar tissue loosening. It could have a little improvement, it could have a lot. It will likely take months to find out the full extent of change. "Cautiously optimistic" is my go-to outlook.
I don't know what to do with that.
I don't know what to do if it doesn't really help, and I don't know how to be if it does really help. I'm going to be really thrown more out of balance for a while, and it's going to take hard work to even out again. The heaviness perched on my right will not just fly away. But "cautiously optimistic"...
P.S. My effed-up other burden: I feel guilty. Our healthcare system is so wrong that I feel guilty for taking resources to address my lymphedema. I feel responsible for my coworkers' premiums going up. I feel responsible for people that don't get coverage, don't get appointments when they need them, aren't offered these treatments because of healthcare disparities by race and income. It's awful. How f%@ked is that?! This is a fraction of what people have to weigh out because we still treat healthcare as a privilege instead of a right.
That's what I'm sitting with, waiting for Thursday. Thanks for reading another round.
