An improvised life

My oncologist is over the moon about my tumors’ response to chemotherapy. It was clear from physical examination that my tumors shrunk, and an MRI last week indicates my largest cancerous lymph node shrunk from about 2.5 cm to 0.8 cm. The masses in my breast are also reduced. Conclusion of radiologist: “Right breast: Marked response to chemotherapy, with much diminished residual tumor.” My oncologist added a hand-drawn smiley face and this comment: “Awesome! Strong work. Very nice response thus far.” I have two more taxol treatments, which I find slightly less abhorrent than the adriamycin-cytoxan cocktail. It’s gratifying to know that the poisons are having some effect beyond stopping up my excretory system and making my eyes and nose leak. Still, tumors are kind of like dandelions--the roots are tenacious. Chemotherapy is whacking back the tumors but, as with dandelions, only with constant application of force (or, say, Roundup) will the weeds stay at bay. The hop

Waiting two weeks to update the blog is a bad idea! There is now too much to write, so I plan to break it down into a series of theme-based posts. I may also need to institute a regular publication day: the ultimate inspiration is the deadline. Today’s topic is breasts: real, fake, cancerous, cadaverous and gone. I’ve been ruminating on what to do with the space left by my soon-to-be-missing right breast. In June when I went back east for a consultation, I was told I would foreclose the possibility of reconstruction if I did not get a tissue expander [i] at the time of my mastectomy. After radiation—which begins about a month after surgery and consists of six-and-a-half weeks of daily zaps with some kind of atomic energy to the affected area—the skin will be too taut too stretch. So I was told. I said I really didn’t know yet about reconstruction; I am constitutionally inclined toward less medical intervention and my breasts are pretty small anyway. “But you’