I’m five years out from the whole breast cancer thing. So far, so good. Cheers to that!

Since I’m five years out, I recently got permission to stop taking Tamoxifen. Hip hip hooray! After the past few weeks of not taking it, the near constant pain in my legs is diminishing more and more every day. Woo hoo! I also no longer want to cry every five seconds. What a relief! They had told me in the beginning I might have to take it up to 10 years? Nah man, I’m good. Especially since I’ve recently read taking Tamoxifen for an extended time increases the risk of endometrial cancer and uterine sarcoma. That does not sound fun.

I’m no doctor, but given my experience, I feel comfortable saying if you’re on Tamoxifen and feel like crying more than normal or your legs are stiff and hurt more than usual, you’re not crazy. There’s a strong possibility it’s the meds. It was difficult to figure out at first that the meds were toying with my emotions because chemo was rough and threw me straight into menopause and then I started taking the Tamoxifen and close behind all that was a world-wide pandemic. It felt ok at first to be a little emotional — over time, not so much.

Breast cancer was such a weird journey. Although super common, it felt kind of hush-hush to me. Breasts are not a normal topic of conversation in my circle of friends, especially with the guys. The repercussions of a double mastectomy needed to be a personal discussion for me and my husband to wade through together. It was a sobering conversation. On the flip side, I found my breast doctor and nurse to be more than a little desensitized on the subject matter. It didn’t seem to occur to them in any way that, though they deal with it everyday, this was my first time to contemplate lopping off a part of my body.

They were nice and said all the right things, but … ugh, I don’t know how to explain. I didn’t need them to cry with me or anything like that, but, though they tried to mask it, they seemed faintly annoyed that I didn’t immediately jump on their plan of action. The attitude came across to me as of course you should do it, why wouldn’t you? Duh. 

It’s a bit of a punch in the gut. Just give me a minute to adjust, ok?

I was losing a part of myself. A rather large part, not gonna lie. While I had often hoped for a reduction, actually getting rid of the girls wasn’t on my radar. So would it be too much to ask you to be a teeny tiny bit more patient with me as I process the enormous amount of information you’ve overloaded me with? I got more than a tad angry at the whole thing one day and wondered aloud to my husband, “How would the doctor feel if they told him he had to chop off his penis?”

Don’t act like it doesn’t matter. My body parts are not unimportant.

After I sifted through all the options, I decided to go ahead with the double mastectomy/reconstruction. It was the best choice given all that was known. I was high risk for getting breast cancer a second time and didn’t want to go through it all over again. It was not an easy decision to make, but I’m assured it was the right one because that chemo business was too much. Definitely would like to avoid that a second time.

The only issue I have with the mastectomies/reconstruction even five years out is that 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, I feel like I have a tight bra on that I can never take off. The plus side is that I don’t have to wear an actual bra if I don’t want to. There are always trade-offs, I suppose.

I lied. That’s not the only issue, but I don’t want to talk with anyone about the other significant issue all that surgery brought or I’ll start crying. So let’s move along, shall we?

The thing I found weird, especially when I did chemo, was how often I was asked if I wanted Xanax. They’d offer it, usually a couple times before each sit, and every time I said, “No, I’m good,” I was met with “Are you sure? We can give you some.” “I’m sure. Thanks.” It reminded me of going to frat parties and not drinking. Unheard of, I know, but there I was not doing that. At least not that night, don’t get me wrong.

For me, the actual act of sitting in the chair getting infused was no big deal. Truly and honestly. It didn’t hurt. They gave me Benadryl. I’d drift off to sleep. After a couple of hours it was over. All in all receiving treatment, to me, was nothing (the after-effects were a different matter). I do understand that we all react to similar circumstances in varied ways. Some may need the Xanax — there is no shame in that. I don’t want you to think that I’m saying you shouldn’t take it if you need it. I just found it strange to be asked so often if I wanted it.

Oh, I just remembered this other thing that didn’t make sense. At least not to me. I had to have a shot the day after each of my first four chemo rounds. It was to help keep my body from being completely depleted of white blood cells or something like that. Each shot cost somewhere between $5,000 – $6,000. Here’s the kicker… if I received the shot at the hospital, insurance wouldn’t pay for any of it. Not one cent. If I gave myself the shot at home, insurance would cover all of it. I’m curious, how does the cost of a medicine change that much by location? I’d given myself shots before, so no biggy. Plus, I didn’t have to go to the hospital two days in a row — that was a relief. But still, how does where I receive a shot change whether it’s all covered or not-at-all covered?

Despite the irritation of these things, I’m grateful for all the work done on my behalf to get me better and cancer free. I did receive good care overall and on the whole was treated well throughout the journey. I don’t imagine the jobs of doctors and nurses involved are easy, so I could give grace when necessary even though I wanted to scream a couple of times. But I totally didn’t (scream, that is). LOL.

Statistically, one in eight women will develop breast cancer. Get those ta-tas checked, ladies. Early detection could potentially save your life and a lot of hassle.