Shifting Sands of Cancerland

Just when I think I’ve got my bearings, everything changes again.

Last week, when I met with the breast surgeon, I found greater clarity. My diagnosis was ductal carcinoma in situ and invasive ductal carcinoma. Right breast. Stage 1. Everything looked like I was a good candidate for oncoplastic surgery, which meant I would avoid a mastectomy. Instead, the surgeons would remove the cancerous bits plus a wide margin, performing a lumpectomy and lift that would save my nipples and most breast tissue. The reconstruction would happen immediately, and my left breast would be reduced and lifted to match. I was so relieved. I could breathe.

This was, in my view, the best possible outcome of all of this. I would avoid the more extensive surgeries, I would retain my nipples and sensation, and, most importantly, my breasts would remain familiar to me. I could envision myself in sundresses with little straps and perky breasts. I could rally behind this vision.

The catch was that all of this was dependent on the contrast MRI not revealing any surprises.

Well, surprise.

It turns out that the cancer is far more extensive in my right breast than the previous imaging revealed. So extensive, in fact, that a mastectomy is necessary.

I am losing my right breast.

This feels…awful.

I am trying to think of the Amazons, the fierce women who amputated their right breast in order to better aim their arrows.

I am trying to think of this as a sacrifice I am making in order to save my life.

I am trying to remember that this is going to be okay. As a dear friend keeps reminding me, there will be an “after.”

Right now, it just feels awful. I have choices to make about the left breast, about the various options for reconstruction, about what will feel right for me and my body.

The sands have shifted beneath my feet. I’m aware that they will continue to shift. I wonder if there will ever be solid ground again.