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This space could use a little jolt of happy, wouldn�t you agree? I had my first post-op appointment with my surgical oncologist yesterday. Remind me to stop scheduling things in the afternoon. Waiting around all day turns me into a strung out lunatic. By the time we were ready to leave, my stress level had surpassed its breaking point. Paul drove. I cried. Perched on the examining room chair, I fidget with the ties of my pink cover-up. My doctor pokes his head in the door, smiling. Smiling is a good sign. I like smiling. We talk about how I�m feeling. He takes a look at my incision. He decides it�s time to remove the sutures. �I�ll be right back. I�m just going to run and grab a suture removal kit, ok?� Ok. But um, like -- do I still have cancer? I love my doctor. He�s the best. He�s brilliant. And sometimes brilliant people are�slightly scatterbrained? Or eccentric. So I forgive him for not launching into my pathology results the moment he walked in the door.  As he�s pulling...

In case you were wondering, here are ten ordinary tasks that are impossibly hard to do after a mastectomy: getting out of bed  getting into bed getting comfortable enough to sleep in said bed  opening the refrigerator  opening pill bottles  opening anything  staying awake for more than a few hours at a time  putting on t-shirts  sitting on the same couch as a squirmy 3-year-old  updating your blog, apparently Things went fine on Monday. As fine as these things can go. No complications, unless you count a bout of nausea so severe it made me reach for the call light. I LOATHE using the call light, so yes, it was that bad.  No skin grafts were necessary for the wound closure. Thrilling news! We are so, so pleased about that. By Tuesday afternoon, I was home. I�ve been sleeping ever since. I wouldn�t be surprised if Ingrid equates adulthood with perpetual naps and constant doctors' appointments. Because that is what the adults in her life do: sle...

I was not in a good way last week . This Monday didn't help (does it ever? What a jerk.) We kicked things off with my (super genius) plastic surgeon. He filled us in on some things. Like the terrible (but super genius) stuff he is going to do to my body. Paul: "I don't know if it's my super low hemoglobin or the description of your surgery, but I felt really lightheaded in that appointment." You and me both, dude. I don't do gore. Put on an episode of Game of Thrones and I see maybe 20%. The rest I mostly spend with my face covered, shrieking, "no no no no no no no no no stop stop stop stop stop stop." But surgeons don't mind talking about blood and muscle and great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts. It's their thing. They like   it. And thank God they do. I'll spare you the parts that had my head spinning. Basically, this is what's going down on Monday September 11th: My surgical oncologist will remove the implant in my right...

It's been a not good week. I've stalled on this post for a couple of days now. I didn't want to write it. I had to let the thoughts swirl around my head for a bit like glitter suspended in a snow globe before they settled into a more decipherable pattern. Also, I needed to be able to type without tears blurring my vision (oy vey). I can do that now, so no more dodging the subject. I got some bad news from my surgical oncologist on Tuesday. After quickly checking on my incision sites he sat with his head down and said, "We need to talk." (up there with "I want a divorce" and "we're out of cheese" as one of the most stressful 4-word sentences in the English language.) WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE NEED TO TALK?! What is there to talk about aside from how I'm winning at this whole mastectomy business and look I can almost raise my arms above my head and could you excuse me for a minute because I'm going to go throw up now, thanks. "I'v...

Surgery was a smashing success, then. If I were more mobile, I'd be celebrating with some version of a happy dance like these hooligans: To sum things up: They removed ALL traces of cancer (are you  happy dancing, at least?) Mediport was removed through the incision in my left breast. Meaning: one less cut on my already battered torso (woot!) Plastic surgeon was able to go straight to implants, bypassing the expander stage. Meaning: one less surgery down the road (double woot!) According to my surgeons, things look beautiful. According to me, things look...a touch macabre? It is funny (and maybe awkward) how they admire their handiwork. "I have to say, I mean wow. It looks beautiful." Um, thank you? I never know how I'm supposed to respond to this. "Thank you" sounds like I'm taking credit for something that's not intrinsically my own. Plus, it makes things rapey as heck. So I just nod and smile in agreement and say, "I'm happy with them....

4 days until surgery. The madness Richter scale is rising. I'd say we're at a 5. No, 6.  6 and mounting steadily. I recall informing people during the early stages of my treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flip here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here. If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy. Of course, timing is everything. My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like... a rabid runaway train heading full-speed towards a...

Life after Paul's HIPEC surgery was good. Real good. He was considered 'NED' (no evidence of disease) and required no further treatment beyond quarterly CT scans to make sure things stayed that way. I'm likely romanticizing those first two years of marriage (there I go again), but most of my memories look like this: Super Fantastic Explosion of FUN!!! We camped and took roadtrips in my old Volvo wagon and met interesting hippie folks at festivals and visited vineyards and had lots of bar-b-ques and hiked and watched Dexter . We also made this exquisite creature: Ingrid Philomena Coleman - born July 29, 2014 In August, with a proud, springy gait that is the hallmark of new fathers, Paul went in for his routine scan. That's what his CT scans had become to us: entirely ordinary, unremarkable check-ups. Just part of our routine. At that time I was, for some reason, extremely...I don't know. Naive? Yes. Silly and naive about what we were dealing with here. Mesotheli...

Honestly, I could kick myself for not having kept a better record of those first days. I mean, I write down everything. I have an obscenely heavy suitcase stashed in my bedroom closet that holds piles of old journals. Remember those plastic-bound diaries with the the mini locks on them that were just about the most glorious thing an 8-year-old could ever possess? No? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? I was a strange bird. Diaries were my lifeblood. Still are. Though, I no longer refer to my rabid, sometimes drunken, usually useless scribblings as diaries anymore. I'm a grownup now. And not one who's half as amusing as Bridget Jones, so we just call them "journals" now. Or even more to the point: "notebooks." So forgive me if I can't recall much of the details surrounding the days leading up to Paul's first surgery. This was, after all, over 5 years ago. Surgery # 1: Tumor Removal What I do remember is how weak he looked. I remember how I cried every time I e...

Let's do this properly and start from the beginning. Or the point in time that I'm now designating as the beginning : Friday February 3, 2012 - 2 AM My phone rings. "Liz I wouldn't ask, but the pain. It's not going away. Can you drive me to the hospital?" I can't remember the last time I was in the ER. No, I can. My college roommate had gotten food poisoning from some bad meatballs. This will be like that. They'll hook Paul up with some fluids, prescribe him some meds, and send him on his merry way.  But this is not like that, and he's not fine, and we won't be sent home anytime soon. And just like that he's draped in a too-small hospital gown, retching into an equally too-small receptacle. When the puking stops we make ourselves comfortable and look forward to what has just become an extended weekend. Word! We laugh and take grainy photos with our flip phones. And then some doctor spoils our fun with the words "emergency surgery,...