You're kidding... right?

Kijiji find. I don't even know how to properly introduce this...

Ad text reads as follows:

Date listed: 11-Jun-14
Address: Canada, La Porte, TX 77571, USA

I'm looking for help organizing my business & myself. I've doing a lot of things I would like Meet and show you everything, for you to help out. I personally can't pay you but I'm pretty sure the government will cuz [sic] I am disabled and can get soooo [sic] much from the government.

::sigh::

Do I want this to be a joke? I don't even know at this point...

Why do I read last?

Why? Why is it that the last thing I get to on my mental list each day is read?

And we're talking the ultimate last thing: after laundry, and housekeeping, and kid activities, and baking, and organizing, and gardening, and meals, and... and... and...

And everything else that would be done if the day had more than a measly 24 hours to its name.

Oh, sure, I read newspaper articles and Internet blogs, but I'm talking about books.

Fiction. Stories. Transport-me-to-another-realm epic tales. Literary fiction. YA lit. Classics. Zombie apocalypse thrillers. Smut. Anything.

Why is reading—one of my favourite pastimes in this ever-loving world—dead last?

Which means, if you're keeping score: it doesn't happen. (Gasp!)

I know, right? I'm a reader for crying out loud!

Hell, right now I'm even blogging during a rare kid-free moment instead of reading. (And as we can clearly tell that doesn't happen very often nowadays, either.)

This needs to change. My Kindle currently holds 78 unread books, and my To Read list is umpteen kilometres long (which is really long, for my metrically-challenged friends, trust).

And it's summer.

Summer. The historically relaxed time of year, when one can take the time to lounge, sleepy-eyed under an atrociously floppy hat and the unforgiving glare of the sun, and read.

So. I'm making myself a pledge to read this summer.

I will unplug. I will sit. I will—despite maintaining a schedule chock full of daycare charges—pretend I am on vacation. I will put up my feet. Keeping dishes, laundry, and lack-of-ants a priority, I will pretend our house is a cottage and maintain a minimal level of housework.

I. Will. Read.

(Wish me luck.)

The difference daylight makes.

I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Yep. That’s my big secret.

It’s why I seem to be barely trudging along some days. It’s why I get quiet. It’s why the resting bitch face surfaces. It’s why I appear burnt out from seemingly nothing for days on end.

And yes, it’s why I can occasionally be found napping in my van in parking lots and appearing hungover randomly mid-week if the sky is grey.

That’s right. My life is not all glitter and rainbows. Shocker, yes?

It’s my understanding that SAD is only tangentially related to clinical depression. I can’t speak for those who suffer from depression because I’ve never experienced it (though I was monitored for postpartum depression, I thankfully never ended up with that particular cocktail of hormones bouncing around in my brain when R was born, despite freshly grieving my mother).

And it’s my understanding that that’s what clinical depression is (and postpartum depression as its child-bearing relative): a sequence of misfired hormones that create the ultimate of unwanted chemical stews in your brain.

Some of my favourite people suffer from depression, and if anyone out there reading this suspects they might suffer from depression, please do yourself the favour of realizing it’s not your fault. Get help. Get meds. Life gets better.

Anyhow. This is not a PSA about clinical depression.

It is, however, a mini one about Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Unlike depression, Season Affective Disorder does not make me spiral with low self-worth. I do not suffer unexplained body aches. I can always get out of bed, and I can always get the big things done in my day. It’s the niggly bits that fall wayside, and all I want to do is curl into the living room recliner and doze.

People would describe me as bubbly and chatty. I’m social, but ultimately an introvert—which really just means I need to be mentally prepared to interact, and require downtime to process said interaction afterwards.

SAD brings out all my hermetic qualities.

My overall demeanor is flipped—it’s like someone switched off the light. I’ve shut down. Conversation takes effort. Remembering pleasantries takes effort. I’d much rather squint into the rain and pretend I didn’t see someone I know than expend the energy required to chitchat while waiting for our kids in the school yard.

Truth.

My birthday was yesterday.

My birthday was yesterday, and I woke up to rain.

Dreary, grey, drag myself out of bed after hitting snooze four times because my body already knew that outside those closed curtains was goddamn, motherfucking rain.

In other words: my kryptonite.

But I am not allowed to call in sick. I refuse to call in sick (to what? Life?).

Firstly, I am not sick. It’s the weather that’s sick.

Secondly, I’d have to call my clients even though I’m not ill, and I value my reliability as a childcare provider.

Thirdly, Mr Lannis was at work so I’d still have to run the morning, getting our own kids ready for school and then settling into the bleary shape of my day—what difference is made by having a couple more kids along for the ride?

So I muddled through the early morning, the kitchen and living room dimly lit by our lamps. I had no choice but to function: L’s birthday party is on the weekend and despite having a few days left to prep, the forecast is calling for rain all week and I know that a string of grey days will make me drop balls in every direction if I don’t push myself to get at least a little of that To Do List finished. So I readied the boys for school and readied myself to get errands done out of town.

This does not mean I was successful overall.

I forgot to pack granola bars and Easter chocolate in the boys’ lunches (read: all the cool stuff was left out).

I forgot the previous night’s laundry in the washer and had to rewash it this morning thanks to the funky smell.

I forgot to post links on Facebook for yesterday’s scheduled post.

I forgot to grab the insulated freezer bags for groceries (I was shopping a 45 minute drive from home).

I drove all that way to Costco and forgot Mr Lannis’ number one needed item (enough egg whites to fill a bathtub), even though it was written at the tippy-top of the god-forsaken grocery list.

I forgot to tell my kids it was my birthday (this is apparently a level of parenting betrayal that cannot be duplicated. It’s bad, folks, trust. Worst mom ever).

I dawdled through my day with my brain fogged by grey skies and raindrops. I managed to get my errands done, but drifted through them without ambition. Despite allotting time to shop for myself with the intent to spoil myself on my birthday, I wandered aisles aimlessly and left empty-handed.

My brain was dull. No spark. Nothing.

It’s not that I can’t function. It’s that I can’t function on anything resembling an acceptable level.

And I want to be clear: yes, it was my birthday, but it wasn’t birthday blues. It wasn’t just a bad day—plenty of things went right yesterday.

I woke to a lovely hand written note from Mr Lannis wishing me a happy day (even though, at 5:30am, he probably looked out the window and dreaded my day for me as soon as he saw the weather... he married this beast and is well familiar with its turns). I went online and was flooded with well-wishes from family and friends (and via phone as the day went on), and the gift of smiles and laughter inundated me as the day went on. Two packages I’d been waiting for arrived via post. My kids were well behaved. Mr Lannis brought me roses, made dinner, and cleaned the kitchen for me.

I got to sit on the chair and doze.

It was a good birthday.

But it was one dampened by Seasonal Affective Disorder.

And I thought I’d had it kicked this year. I really did. Over our long winter—the typically worst time of year for SAD—I’d been fine. I’d been hitting the gym (exercise helps). I’d been taking my vitamins and Siberian ginseng regularly. I’d been getting lots of rest, eating well, and staying hydrated. Aside from the five day sleepless bender that was JordanCon, I’d been dry for months (thank god my liver has muscle memory!). Over the winter there was maybe one day where overcast skies dampened my mood, but nothing like this birthday gloom.

But that’s it, really: this past winter, despite record low temps, had been remarkably sunny. I’d wake to find my kitchen regularly bathed in sunshine—so much the atmosphere screamed summer and I’d itch to hang laundry on our seasonally-abandoned line outside.

I’d almost forgotten the deflating grip grey skies had on my psyche.

Until my dreary birthday.

Today it is sunny.

I woke—on my own, without the alarm—by 6:30am.

By 8am I’d gotten washed and dressed, made our bed, made the boys’ school lunches and their breakfast, emptied the dishwasher, browned three types of meat for tourtiere (that tonight’s dinner), sorted four loads of clothes and began the laundry, all while scribbling down the day’s To Do list.

In an hour and a half.

In short: I’d been reactivated.

That is the power of sunshine.

And writing this post is pretty much the only reason I’m sitting down today, and I don't even feel like having a nap! (gasp!)—there’s loads to do in prep for L’s 7th birthday party on the weekend, and the forecast is calling for rain tomorrow.

Here’s hoping it doesn’t suck me dry.

How do you lose digital photos?

So. While reorganizing digital photos, I found this:

Yeah... no real explanation, other than that the time date stamp is January 28th around 2pm.

I vaguely recall photographing this beastie for a blog post and I can't for the life of me conjure up the reasoning behind it other than that he was new at the time.

Long story very short: I was at the grocery store with four kids and the front end manager handed us a boxed set of Ray Harryhausen flicks with this guy in the box—for free. Apparently they were resorting to literally giving away the set. The kidlets immediately latched on to this friendly guy and were thrilled.

His name? Dogfaced George.

Naturally.

(He's currently keeping the corn plant company.)

Now I'm left bereft, having found this in the stash of iPhoto files, forgotten... never will we know what I was going to say...

I mean, clearly I had an epic story about him—LOOK at him!—crouched in the snow, snarling away for all his might.

Hell, I took multiple photos!

WE ARE ALL MISSING OUT ON SOMETHING EPIC, PEOPLE!

::sigh:: Curse my faulty memory...

Poor Dogfaced George...

Spring. Maybe.

It's March (thankfully).

Despite the back and forth swings on the thermometer, I believe Mother Nature has actually remembered it's March, too.

Why do I believe this?

Because just like every other March, this March is the magical time of year when we get to play Canadian archeologist in our yard.

Yes, Canadian archeologist. Or at least that's how I think of it.

Our yard. It's thawing. And relics of the past are (slowly) being uncovered.

The boys are thrilled at each surprise revealed.

Buried in the banks are untold treasures yet to be unveiled.

The steamroller? Aw, man, I've been missing that badass of the construction site!

Sadly though, as you can see, we're clearly traversing the nasty garbage snow stage that is also March.

Folks who live in areas where they never experience snow accumulation over months don't quite understand the... lack of enthusiasm that the snowbound harbour for the first vestiges of spring.

Sure, the higher temps are great, but this dreadful, half-melted, dirty mess is the least desirable part of the cycle of snow.

Gross.

And it all gives way to the spring mud season. Whee... ::headdesk::

Lonely

Crisp winter days are great.

No, really—they're not so bad as long as you don't need to go outside (aye, there's the rub).

Nice, sunny, vibrant, sear-your-retinas days of blue skies coupled with frigid cold...?

(We're talking -35c/-31F after wind chill factor C.O.L.D.)

Okay, not the greatest, but pretty darn good from a curl-up-in-a-patch-of-sunshine-with-the-cat-and-soak-up-vitamin-D perspective.

(Yo, seasonal affective disorder: We are kicking your ass this year. So there.)

Anyhow. And on these days, when I glance out our kitchen window, I can't help but sense melancholy emanating from my clothesline...

See? That's one sad clothesline.

Dude, I miss you, too. And not just because of the hydro bill, trust.

Sarcasm Lines

Not to be confused with sarcastic lines (for example: witty dialogue). Oh no...

Sarcasm lines. Trust.

As I am now ::coughcough:: over thirty years old, I’m aging, becoming more refined.

I wish I was talking about my sense of humour (nope—that inner-fourteen year old boy is still kicking around, waiting to giggle about some sexual innuendo unintentionally dropped in his path).

No, I’m talking about wrinkles. (Gasp!)

Except I really don’t like to call them wrinkles... because, well... wrinkles are on old people (and they look delightful on everyone... just not me).

And they’re most certainly not related to wrinkles’ lovely, more graceful cousin—the smile lines.

Oh no, these bad boys are the direct result of years, a lifetime’s worth of sarcastic expressions.

Yes, folks... they’re sarcasm lines.

No, that line-covered thing at the subway station is not an art installation. It is a map. GPS hasn't always existed at our fingertips. We learned how to read our maps (skillz, yo), and believe it or not, they didn't sass back at us. (GASP!)

This is my expression when I’m faced with unabashed idiocy, when my barely-there broken filter is struggling to keep back a nasty comment, or I’m frozen with disbelief that someone has survived long enough to learn how to feed themselves...

Shut up, you make this face, too. Admit it.

It's sarcasm at work.

Unfortunately, it’s left furrows in my brow, because, well, stupidity hurts, people. Clearly I am a victim.

How can I avoid making this face? Honestly now, in this world where young people are shocked everyday that the Titanic isn't just a movie, I'm virtually screwed...

Titanic. Not just a movie. Schindler's List? Shockingly also true. And possibly more historically relevant.

Cancer Bombs: Musical Boobs

[Note: The first of this series can be found here. All previous (and subsequent) installments of this series can be found here.]

May 2013.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the fact that I was surgically deformed played on my mind, until I found myself a deflated puddle lacking in positive body image.

Though I’d originally resolved not to have an opinion on the new boobs until they’d settled into their new home around the six month mark, that same resolve crumbled under the knowledge that what I had taken as swelling was in actuality an implant complication that would require surgical revision to correct.

I was deformed.

And it wouldn’t get better with time. It would only get better with surgery.

Yes, I made do and wore my wonky boobs with a smile. But it grated over time, even on a girl who subscribes to terminal realism.

Sure there are more important things, and I could focus on the daily grind and get through it, but in the quiet moments the sadness crept in. I was clinically deformed, and nothing short of being cut open and dug into again would fix it.

By the time May rolled around my body image was through the floor—despite having had magazine-worthy dress and makeup as a bridesmaid, despite winning a costuming award at JordanCon, despite managing to fit back into the wedding dress I wore almost nine years previous.

I was weary of the image in the mirror, and ready to have Dr M perform a good old swap and replace.

And Mr Lannis—bless him and all he’s put up with—was weary of my snarly attitude. It’s possible he told the hospital staff to surgically remove it (the verdict is out on that one).

The procedure to correct the ugly girls was a simple one. In a “breast mound revision” (::snort::), Dr M would go through the original incisions, release the scar tissue glued to my ribcage, and swap and replace the implants for new ones—a slightly larger pair to help stretch out the Alloderm and scar tissue.

Then she’d sew me up, and send me home. Seriously. It was day surgery, and depending on whom I spoke with, would be anything between an hour and a half and two and a half hours long.

Believe it or not, I managed to make it to my surgery date (May 23rd), though it’s questionable whether the same could be said for my sanity. I was back to breakouts and stress napping, a perpetual depressed and exhausted daily state. It was time.

My surgery was scheduled for 10am, and I needed to check in for 8:30am. Once again I drove us to the city, was poked for blood work, and doodled on by Dr M. I was in good spirits, okay, giddy with nervousness and ready to be rid of my boobs-on-loan.

Climbing up on to the surgical table, the anesthesiologist jabbed me multiple times in search of a vein on my left hand. Dr M’s eyes were wide in silent alarm, quietly asking whether she should say something about the IV, when my nervous babbling took over and I began telling the surgical team that the entire left side of my body was a jerk.

The astigmatism in the left eye, the myringotomy hole that never healed in my left eardrum, the left ear that rejected a piercing, my twisted left tit—it wasn’t the anesthesiologist’s fault for being unable to find a suitable vein, it was the assholery that is my entire left side...

Then I blurted that I hoped they were ready to play musical boobs—because I certainly was—and “Go Team!”

Then I was under, which was good, since I’m pretty sure by that point they wanted me under just to shut me up. I’m fairly certain they found me less entertaining and more batshit crazy.

(An assessment I'm familiar with.)

I woke up in recovery and probably flashed dude in the gurney across the way because I didn’t realize I wore no dressings. Yes, the first thing I did was sneak a peek at my new girls, and in my drugged state moved my gown to discover I was wearing a tensor bandage around my chest—up under my armpits and above my breasts—and nothing else.

Unless you counted the steri-strips on my incisions below my breasts.

Seriously, dude got a show. Though considering that the Jackson-Pratt twins had returned (goddamn them!) it may have been a vomit-worthy show. The JP drains are less than sexy, trust.

After being catered to by some lovely nurses, Mr Lannis showed up to announce I’d been under about three hours, but the surgery took only two. Shortly thereafter Dr M came to visit. Everything was reported as perfect, and she was counting on my stellar healing history to kick in.

The Jackson-Pratt twins were to remain in for a week, and she’d remove them when she saw me for my first post-op appointment. The tensor bandages were the only thing she wanted me to wear. No bras, no other wraps, for at the very least the first week—perhaps longer.

So much for the fancy pants post-breast-surgery bra I’d purchased.

So off we went, me to sleep in the recliner for a week, and unable to drive for a week, but otherwise far more capable than the first go ‘round. This time I was immediately able to take care of my own sponge baths and measuring drain output, but until they came out I had to hit the salon for hair washes. Heavy lifting and arm raising was out, but the mastectomy got the lion’s share of the inconvenience. This time I found myself woozy from the Tylenol 3s with codeine, and dropped to Extra Strength Tylenol on day two post-op (the bonus being the lack of caffeine meant I slept better at night).

The crux this time around was my numbness.

Numbness that stretched from immediately above my nipples down to the incision scars and from sternum to armpit. Yes, my incision scars themselves were sore, but the majority of where Dr M’s handiwork lay had no sensation. There was the transference of pressure to tissues beneath, but no surface sensation to speak of. This meant I could sometimes tell if I was poked in a numb boob because the muscles behind the implant sensed pressure, but a light brush on my skin would go unnoticed.

So Dr M had opened me up, poked around in there to cut out and loosen scar tissue, and here I was three days later with barely a physical reminder that I’d just had surgery.

I suppose the inconvenient JP twins served a purpose—they were the anchor reminding me to be careful.

That seven day post-op appointment had its share of revelations, too. Dr M quickly rid me of the wretched Jackson-Pratt twins, and got down to business.

“So,” she began. “You’ll never believe it. I opened you up, and that left implant was in perfect position. It was never twisted.”

Pardon, cowgirl? Not twisted?

It would seem that mastectomies highlight oddities of boobage. To the extreme.

No two boobs are identical to begin with, and hollowing out all the innards simply reveals every miniscule difference between what might otherwise have been considered a matched pair. Turns out my natural breasts had some discrepancies between them when it came to size and shape, and once their innards had been gutted, my surgeons had been left with two different shaped pockets for the implants.

That was why the left boob appeared so odd.

Okay, I guess that makes sense.

But I'm not sure if that's better or worse as a cosmic euphemism. Sure, I didn't have a twisted tit, but what does it mean if your zombie tits were expressing themselves artistically?

So Dr M and I discussed the revision—everything looked great—and I was to continue wearing the tensor bandage (and only the tensor bandage) for at least the next week. After that I was free to do as I pleased, but if anything seemed weird or I had any concerns, I was to revert back to the tensor bandage across my chest (with the girls free underneath), because that was all Dr M would have me do to correct anything during this early healing phase.

And it turns out that removing those blasted drains is a recipe for instant human. Seven days post-op and I was sleeping in my own bed and reserving Extra Strength Tylenol for bedtime.

It. Was. Awesome.

Yes. That was it. I was sore, but only where the drains had sat, the rest was fine.

Though I ended up wearing the tensor for the entire five weeks until I saw Dr M again. Any time I went without it—even for a few hours—my left pec began to ache. I’d push on the sore muscle near my sternum and rewind the tensor around my chest once again, taping my nipples to hide the perpetual nip-ons.

Seriously.

[An aside: if you’re ever asked to wear tensor bandages constantly, I highly recommend the name brand Tensor bandage from 3M. A dollar more than the store brands, and they lasted much longer. I had three I cycled through, washing and wearing (dryer and line drying, both), and they lasted me five weeks of constant wear. After all was said and done I only pitched one of the three for shot elastic. The store brand tensors lasted me less than 24 hours before the elastic lost its stretch, but the Tensor brand? Weeks of continual wear. A godsend.]

July 3, 2013.

The six week post-op appointment came up quicker than I remembered, though that was probably because I was more capable (and therefore less frustrated) this time around.

After six weeks of healing, Dr M had a better idea of what was going on—before the implant swap, and after. You see, my girls were still... off. Not nearly as much—they looked fabulous naked to the naked eye (heh)—but through a camera lens you could better see that the right implant sat lower than the left (that damn left side again!).

From her perch on the rolling stool, Dr M could see that they were aligned well, but the left side remained higher. The bonus was that now, six weeks after surgery, she knew why.

“You have more breast tissue on this side,” she said, squeezing my left pec.

It wasn’t nearly the eyesore it used to be, but it refused to sink down the way my pec on my right side had. I told her of the ache when not wearing the tensor bandage, and how I thought it might stem from lack-of-use (which she agreed), but now that my body had settled post-surgery, the problem was more evident.

A mastectomy is a tricky thing. No two mastectomies are identical, just as no two breasts are identical. After seeing the drop of my right breast, and being able to squeeze the flesh above my left breast, Dr M was certain the differences stemmed from the mastectomies.

When Dr D hollowed out my breasts she left a thin layer of fatty tissue containing blood vessels to maintain the necessary blood flow to my skin and nipples. It’s something done by hand, and by feel, and by skill—and because of those factors, the results of each mastectomy varies. Dr M suspected that Dr D had left slightly more tissue on the left breast than on the right. The left breast had the slightest more natural insulation to its pocket—mere millimeters more thickness—creating less stretch to the skin. That allowed it to maintain its natural shape more, instead of molding to the shape of the implant, like my right breast was doing. Also, the right breast implant had dropped sooner (an action we wanted to happen) because the thinness of the skin allowed for it to drop easier.

The left breast would get with the program, it would just need more scar massage on the incision and drain area to release the tissues and hopefully let gravity do its job to even out the last little bit.

Overall though? I’m quite happy with the results. Sure, they don’t feel the same as real breasts, but I find they look natural, and they move.

Dr M was overjoyed with the revision results—apparently at the six week post-op mark my incisions had faded and the new girls had softened and shifted with gravity such that I resembled someone at the three month post-op mark. And Dr M said if it were my twelve month post-op appointment, she’d be pleased with the visual assessment.

Dr M remarked that at this point, if I were to take off my top in a locker room, unless someone noticed the small dots of scar that are from the drain sites near my arms, no one would assume I had had surgery. And if they did see those scars, they’d likely assume it was augmentation, not a complete overhaul of the goods.

Yes, they look that great.

Mr Lannis’ opinion? Well, let’s keep it clean and say he’s pleased. (Silly digression: I was wearing a padded bra when I met him. It’s taken thirteen years and a pair of surgeries, but I’ve finally lived up to the wares I was selling that night... heh.)

Are you ready? It’s comparison photo time!

Sorry to disappoint, but they’re not topless pics. (Yeah, because that’s what the Internet needs—more topless photos... ::snort::)

What are you looking at? Well, they’re the before and after shots of my revision surgery—no, not my natural breasts, Mr Lannis and I didn’t have forethought back then. The before photo was taken days before my revision surgery, the after photo at seven weeks post-op.

Disclaimer: I should have straightened my asymmetrical shirt before Mr Lannis took the after photo. Whoops. Hindsight 20/20 and all that.

Left: before corrective revision surgery. Right: after corrective revision surgery.

For whatever reason, the discrepancies between the implant that has dropped (my right side—visible on the left side of the shot) and the one that hasn’t (the left breast, so the right side of the shot) is far more evident in pictures. In person you have to really stare at my chest before you notice it (warning: if you do that, I’m likely to hit on you because I’ll take it as a come on.)

These two collages are identical, but on the second one I added numbers so I could walk you through what you’re seeing—some of the differences are subtle.

Left: before corrective revision surgery. Right: after corrective revision surgery.

Points 1 and 2: my nipples. They moved. Okay, maybe only the swell of implant beneath them changed, but in the before photo they’re pointing south and south-east, respectively. Yeah—pretty. In the after shot they’ve balanced out, and while Dr M would prefer to get in there for a nipple tuck (they’re about 1cm lower than the ideal position, and one naturally sits farther to the outside), there’s no medical need to muck about in there any more (so says I). Besides, their appearance has improved, and I never once had a brush with not-so-fixable complications (like necrosis). As far as complications go, despite needing revision surgery, I had an easy run of it.

Point 3: My bizarre left pec. In the before shot you can clearly see my left pec jutting towards my armpit, making my breast into a top-heavy triangle. Even after surgery it remains bulkier than the right pec, but the difference is negligible.

Point 4: The fit of my shirt. The stretch of the elastic strap on my sport top is a great comparison marker to show how my pecs had bulged outward thanks to the pair of errant implants sitting too high. (Yes, I’m aware I’m not standing identically in each shot, thank you Peanut Gallery. Sheesh.)

Other notes:

Thanks to the shine of the flash in the before shot you can see the swell of my breasts sits uneven and far too high on my chest.

The line underneath my breasts indicate where the fullness—or bottom—of my breasts sit. Here you can see how Dr M released the band of scar tissue effectively lowering where the implants sat on my chest by almost 2”. Her incision lines never budged, and are basically where the line is sitting in the after shot—a 5" long pair of scars that hide in the crease under my breast, virtually invisible.

Overall, I’m thinking not too shabby. Especially since my opinion-making has been forbidden until six months post-op (so says Dr M). That’s late November 2013, if you’re keeping tabs.

So. What’s left of this story? Well, there were a few things I missed in The Nitty Gritty post that I deliberately set aside because, well, they had less to do with the specifics of living post-op mastectomy, and more to do with, well... whining.

Yes, it’s time for downsides.

I’m an avid non-complainer. Ranter, yes. Complainer? I try not to. But this series wouldn’t be complete—the image of how life-changing this journey is—would not be complete if I didn’t highlight a few downsides...

The Complaint Department

- Implants aren’t real breasts. They don’t move like real breasts, or handle like real breasts, and they don’t weigh the same as real breasts. Gravity is an asshole while your body adjusts, trust. Implants are like breasts, but it’s as if the makers of Dr Scholls gel-heels designed them. Yeah... Dr Scholls... the gel-boob edition.

- Numbness. From nipple to incision, stretching from sternum to armpit. And the problem with numbness is that it’s so forgettable. If I bend over the recliner’s ginormous arm to reach something on the floor I get frustrated with my short reach—but unbeknownst to me I’ve hit the arm of the chair with my numb breast. (Oops.) It’s like I’m wearing a super-padded bra—even when I’m not wearing any bra at all. It’s implant.

- Many complications are possible. I was lucky, mine was surgically repairable. Some aren’t as easily fixed (see: necrosis. Aside: never ever ever run a Google image search on tissue necrosis. You've been warned).

- No reaching or raising arms. No angling your arm upward at the shoulder at all. Seriously—this is a complete and utter pain the ass. No ponytails for six weeks. Sounds easier than it is, trust.

- No heavy lifting. And the definition of “heavy” kept changing. Immediately post-mastectomy that meant a can of pop—I could barely carry my purse because my arms would drop it (as in: this is not a conscious choice, it’s a physical impossibility). Immediately post-revision surgery I could carry no more than 5lbs, but it was far better than after the first surgery. It’s a sad day when you’re ecstatic you can pick up your cat—especially when your cat weighs less than most newborn babies.

- Sleeping on the recliner post-surgery. After the mastectomy I slept there for six weeks, after the revision surgery it was only necessary until the drains came out. Envisioning rolling mid-slumber, tangling myself in tubing and popping biohazard fluid-filled bulbs gave me nightmares. Now you can share them. You’re welcome.

- No driving. Another pain in the ass for anyone use to using a driver’s license for independence. I was curbed for four weeks post-mastectomy, and seven days post-revision surgery. Every second sucked my soul.

- Drains. The Jackson-Pratt twins are a necessary evil, and the worst fashion accessory ever.

- Deformity. It goes under complications, yes, but the psychological effects ran deep, in part due to having made the conscious choice to undergo a prophylactic mastectomy (second-guessing a life-altering surgery takes a toll on your psyche).

- Waiting for swelling to go down. It can be a long road, and much like when you begin painting a room and wonder “what the hell was I thinking?!” the swelling, bruises, incisions and scabby nipples all look far worse than you can imagine before they begin to take on their new appearance. Patience is a virtue, and also a rare find. Just breathe.

- Permanent nip-ons. Yes. They’re permanent. As in: always there to some extent. Yes, my nipples react to cold/touch/whatever-odd-element-that-makes-nipples-decide-to-cut-glass-out-of-nowhere, but they never go as flat as they used to pre-mastectomy. That’s okay: nipple stickers exist for a reason.

- No hugs. Possibly the worst downside ever. I was unable to hug my children post-mastectomy. Post revision surgery it was tentative hugs only. But post-mastectomy it was at least three weeks before it was okay. And you feel like the shittiest mother ever when you can’t hug your boys on Christmas day. Offering them a thigh to squeeze isn’t the same thing, though it lightens the mood...

- It hurts to laugh (obviously this disappears slowly post-mastectomy). On Christmas Day, while watching Swiss Family Robinson with the family, Mr Lannis and I enjoyed acting as the Peanut Gallery, picking apart the less-than-gender-equal Disney classic (what?! They discover she’s a girl and suddenly she can’t walk down a hill and needs help? Are her legs are broken?!). I would not recommend this activity. Your pecs will not appreciate it.

- Forever feeling like they’re not mine. Nope. They’re no longer my boobs—my boobs are gone—and they took whatever ownership I once had with them. It’s a freaking miracle I’m wearing a sports shirt in those pics. Thank Mr Lannis for that. These boobs are government-funded, and arguably owned by anyone who pays taxes in Ontario... heh.

- Sub-muscular implants do tricks. Truth. When my pecs clench the implants are pulled up, lifted in a way that resembles when guys clench their pectorals. This also means that whenever I do any activity that clenches my pec muscle, the implant lifts—so raking the lawn? yeah... an observant bystander might wonder what is up with my freaky tits—haha!

- Sneezing sucks immediately post-op. If you’re lucky enough to get a heads up, cross your arms and hold on to the girls tight. Even with that your sternum will probably be sore for a few days afterwards. This gets better the longer you’ve healed after surgery. At six-weeks post op it’s gone.

- Strangers. Get used to a number of people manhandling your goods. The people who touched my breasts (who weren’t Mr Lannis) from May 2011 to May 2013 are as follows:

• Dr H, our family doctor (1)
• mammography technician (2)
• ultrasound technician (3)
• Dr A, general practicioner through the genetics department (4)
• two MRI technicians (5, 6)
• Dr D, the general surgeon (7),
• Dr M, the plastic surgeon (8),
• two hospital nurses (9, 10),
• at least three home care nurses (11, 12, 13),
• a handful of surgical attendants for two separate surgeries. 

 Conservative estimate puts the tally into the late teens now, but who knows...?

Once again—and never to be forgotten—regardless of the downsides listed, regardless of the length of the list, regardless of the fact that I got to second base with a remarkable number of people (heh), considering the upside is dropping my genetically predisposed as high risk of breast cancer to less than any woman walking this Earth’s natural risk of breast cancer... well...

I tally this a win.


[Note: The next installment of this series can be found here.]

Something different...

Today, for the very first time, after months and months of hemming and hawing and reasons why the timing isn't perfect, and despite the very real fact that I'm not allowed to get sick right now, I am... (ready? this is B.I.G... big...):

Volunteering in my son's class this morning.

Yes. I know. Me.

Me. Who, despite appearances and evidence to the contrary, is NOT A JOINER.

Me. Who, for all intents and purposes, could win awards for her impression of a hermit on just about any given day.

Me. Who covets her rare days when both boys are in school for housework, errands, writing, appointments, costuming, reading, napping, and dicking around on the Internet... (any and all of the above, really...).

Why? Why am I giving up this blessed peace?

Well, it's rather simple: it means so much to him.

And I believe in the power of hand sanitizer.



[Bonus funny: my niece calls it hanitizer... get it? Hand sanitizer = hanitizer? Hi, Mar Mar! Love you, my sweet girlie!]

Lessons from JordanCon

[Note: I swear I’m reaching the end of Con stuff... at least for this year... heh.]

Last year I returned from JordanCon to epic burnout.

Like, couldn’t get off the recliner, was sick for weeks with a mystery illness that eventually (thanks to blood work and other tests) solidified into viral laryngitis...

Picture me swinging a makeshift light saber (read: half a pool noodle with a duct tape grip) in frustration while my kidlets dance about me, because they think it’s great awesome the best post-con present EVAR that Mom can’t speak...

For. Days.

Yep. After rounds of non-working antibiotics and then semi-working steroid, it turned out all I needed was to wait out said virus by dozing my days away (in the living room recliner, so I could keep a close eye on my children, natch), (relative) quiet, and R.E.S.T.

What did I learn?

Well... that I should probably avoid the communal Kraken flask, for one...

(Just kidding, Richard.)

But really? The doctor who treated me claimed I hadn’t contracted this mystery virus at the Con... surprising, yes?

No, what had happened was I burnt myself out at the Con, and my poor ragged body was so run down that my immune system had no fuel left to fight off an everyday virus.

I guess a sum total of 14 hours sleep over four nights’ll do that do you.

Especially if you add copious amounts of alcohol. Heh.

(If I recall correctly, I was so close to passing out that I was literally swaying on my feet while volunteering at JordanCon 2012. April, my Mistress of the Art Show, had to send me to bed... at 2pm. Exhaustion had given way to nausea, I was that tired... and said nausea kept me from falling asleep. I called Mr Lannis in tears, in part because I felt so ugly I needed to hear him, and in part because he’s my grounder and if he tells me to go to sleep, I will. Um, except this time—apparently.)

Hey—when I call it a five day sleepless bender I’m not using hyperbole.

Jump forward... back home a month later and I was maybe back to normal.

This year, well, this year is much better. (In the interests of full disclosure, I’m still weary in the aftermath, but it’s not something I haven’t dealt with in cycles for months now, and this past month has been very incredibly psychotically hectic for us. The point is that I’m far better than I was this time last year.)

Why? Because I learned something last year... and now I’m going to share it with you... (you’re thrilled, I can tell...)

Food. Water. Sleep... They're the big three.

You can only sacrifice one.

As history has proven I’m unlikely to get much sleep at JordanCon, I decided that this year I would focus on eating well and keeping hydrated.

I avoided fried foods, I ate my veggies. I ate regularly, and sensibly.

I carried around a refillable mug for water, and filled it often.

During daylight hours I drank water constantly. At dinner, well, that’s when the alcohol began...

But as I’d front-loaded my day with proper hydration, I hardly suffered from indulging come evening night time to put on the drunky pants.

And I’m no expert, but I’m going to guess that eating well and being hydrated had something to do with my lack of indigestion and the complete turnaround in my ability to sleep...

So I’m passing this lesson along: Food. Water. Sleep. Choose one.

Of course, this raises another question... what did I learn this year?

Well, this year I learned not to mock my travel-savvy roommate for carting along five pairs of shoes for five days from home. Runners, flip flops, flats, blue suede jazzy things... I was ::thisclose:: to taking a pic of her shoes in order to tease her...

Whereas I packed my gold ballet flats for costume purposes, and wore a pair of cute wedges the rest of the time.

Wedges which are normally comfortable, but (if you can gather where this is going) are now waiting in the garage for a decent opportunity to sacrifice them to some unknown god who enjoys the ritual burning of footwear...

Yeah. My feet will never forgive me if I ever attempt to slip those bad boys back on... over a week later and they’re still worn raw in spots.

And to be incredibly frank, let’s just say I’m sure my airplane seatmate would thank me (if he’d known) for having crumbled and splurged the $10 USD on a pair of socks to wear on the plane ride home because the funk coming from those heels were making ME suicidal...

You’re welcome, unknown semi-professional dirt-biking kid from Brampton who trains in Tulsa during Canadian winters (I never did catch your name).

And you’re welcome, too, dear readers, that I am passing on this valuable lesson. (And be thankful, too, that the Internet has no smell-o-vision. Heh.)

Now go... learn from me... don’t create reasons to burn perfectly good footwear. It’s sad...

The Eyelashes of Doom

This past weekend I had the honour of being in the wedding party of two of my favourite people.

It was beautiful, a fairy tale, an elegant soiree (nothing I put here is going to do it justice)...

Oh, hell, it was goddamn magazine-worthy dress, decor, and meal, yet a down-to-Earth celebration—exactly what Princess (the bride) wanted, from crystal chandeliers, swags of organza and bling, and clusters of red roses everywhere, to a late night buffet of Tim Hortons donuts and a poutine bar.

Yes, you read that correctly.

It was glorious—a fabulously classy party. With poutine.

(Princess has always been known for keeping things real with elegant style.)

In fact, I wish we could do it every weekend, because it was that much fun, except we'd all suffer burnout pretty quickly in a nanosecond ( <- that's a computer joke for Princess' new Mr... Yes, it's lame, but he's smiling, trust... though that could be because after all his grinning on Saturday night, his face just froze that way... heh).

Anyhow. Being in the wedding party, a couple of things happened...

One: I had my makeup professionally done, something that has only happened once before—at my own wedding—and two: I wore false eyelashes for the first. time. ever.

Now there's a reason I've never worn them before. Notably that my lashes aren't all that bad on their own... I have issues choosing sunglasses because my lashes occasionally brush the lenses when I'm not wearing mascara.

Yes, ladies, you have the go ahead to hate me now, but know this: I have a high tolerance for pain, and nothing crumbles me faster than a twisted lash and it happens. Often.

With great lashes comes great responsibility irritability (or something like that).

Anyhow, for a wedding it's all over the top glam for photos and video, so I had no problem conceding to wear these fabulous lashes.

In fact, I was pretty excited to see how they looked, these extra girls.

Until I looked in the mirror and choked on my tongue.

It's true. My initial reaction was, um, let's just say less than gracious. I feel pretty bad about that, because our makeup artist wasn't only extremely talented and professional, she was also really nice to hang out with while she did her thing.

So I feel like a heel. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself—I resembled a china doll in truth: all my pores had been air brushed away, and well, my lashes were trying to eat my face (and everyone else's, for that matter).

Beautiful yet horrifying, yes?

I wish I was kidding. I was afraid to bat my lashes too much for fear I'd fly away.

I'm not that chick who wears a lot of makeup. Way back when I used to cocktail, sure, I'd glam up the face a bit for show, and it was fun. Mind you, I was a lot younger then, and it was part and parcel of the job, and for the record, I always did feel like I was pretending to be someone I'm not.

This time, though, every glance in the mirror reminded me I was wearing someone else's face.

And while I received many compliments (thanks, folks!), and felt like Bridesmaid Barbie, and loved being blessed with the ability to share in my wonderful friend's day, every once in a while those lashes would brush against my brow line and I'd remember I resembled one of those dolls that closes her eyes automatically when you lay her down to sleep...

Yeah, because that's not a creepy thought (ha!).

So I had to take the above photo. It reminded me of something I'd seen before, but I couldn't quite figure out what... then a friend of mine nailed it.

My son.

Last year for The Mrs blog I published a photo of his drool-worthy lashes in a post about how they're his secret weapon (and how he has the cutest unibrow ever).

Can you tell we're related?

Studying this collage has made me realize I have unleashed a very real set of these lashes on the world, currently sported by an almost-six-year-old charmer.

Run, ladies. In these luscious depths I foresee the doom of mankind, one not-so-innocent bat at a time...

We're all screwed.

Sundry Musings

March break... she is done. Yes, today the kidlets go back to school, and I get to enjoy a string of uninterrupted hours cleaning the house without distraction.

Which is fabulous, because I swear there's a correlation between consecutive days off school and the how rough the kidlets play... they beat the crappit out of each other, but when I tell them to stop they insist it's fun.
 
(I'm becoming more and more convinced that ovaries hold all common sense...)

Other than that, March break was... long. We did some running around, did some socializing, got some costuming done, discovered Hamster had to leave us...

Did you know it costs $50 to euthanize a hamster in this town?!

He had a tumor between his forepaws and the poor jerk (shut up, he was jerk. I explained it all here) was walking like he'd had a beach ball strapped to his chest, and had stopped eating and drinking.

But it's par for the course, really... hamsters live 2-3 years, and his second birthday was on March 10th. (Yes, we celebrated. Who doesn't mark the calendar for their hamster's birthday? Pfft... he totally appreciated his extra chews and the rendition of "Happy Birthday" disturbing his daily slumber sung mid-afternoon).

Sorry, dude. You had a good run for a rodent.
Believe it or not, you'll be missed. (Antisocial bastard.)

Anyhow. Agonized over the decision on that one, because (let's face it) it's a $13 hamster and a $50 vet bill. I'd be lying if I said Mr Lannis didn't consider quick and humane "creative alternatives." Unfortunately there wasn't a lot of time to ruminate on said alternatives, as he was clearly done... (this holds true for both Hamster and Mr Lannis...)

When it gets down to the nitty gritty, though, I'd rather neither one of them suffer...

In other news, my apologies, as on Friday I discovered the Disqus comment system I'd installed was holding out on me, and when I went to tinker with it so it wouldn't behave so inanely in the future, I accidentally dumped all the comment love my readers had left... (thank you, Disqus! But thank you more, people who actually read my dribble!)

To recap: Disqus is the douchebag responsible, I just work here.

The Migraine

A migraine ate my weekend.

This might look like a complaint, but it’s not.

I’m not known to be a complainer—or at least, I don’t regard myself as one, and I doubt others would label me so. I’ve eaten my share of shit sandwiches in my life (some I’m still chewing, trust), but I like to cut through their fat by adding a dash of realistic perspective and a twist of self-deprecating humor until they don’t taste so... well?... shitty.

(How’s that for a metaphor?)

In regards to this migraine: I’m grateful.

Yes, grateful.

I’m one of the lucky ones (if any of us migraine sufferers can be classified as “lucky”) who receives a visual aura immediately before the migraine, and if I can manage to pop my blocker (good old over-the-counter Advil liqui-gels—honey of the gods, lemme tell you!) within the 20 minute window of warning provided, then I’m functional.

Functional meaning light-and-sound sensitive (read: squinty), tired, slow-of-thought, and generally enduring the sensation of a too-tight helmet squeezing the bejesus out of my head all. day. long.

The alternate choice is to not take my blocker and suffer the consequences. Suffer being the operative word here... migraine derails. It’s the definition of the lack of function.

Your head pounds. No, it doesn’t pound, it explodes. There is no room for thought, only pain. Every inch, crevice, and particle of your brain is stuffed with pain...

I’ve laid on the thinly carpeted basement floors of an empty house, with windows closed and blinds drawn, TV on but brightness down (it was only to show the inexorably slow progress of time, after all—when you’re suffering through the apocalypse inside your skull it’s helpful to know that time has not abandoned you...).

I’ve been too hot, too cold, alternately bundled in blankets and naked, in an attempt to still the misfiring flashes in my wiring...

I’ve twitched and cringed at the sound of the cats' footsteps. The CATS' footsteps. Hell, I’ve cringed at the sound of my own breathing...

I’ve laid, nauseous, panting, counting seconds with the pulse beating behind my eyes, begging the watery accumulation and the weight at the back of my throat to dissolve into nothing with the next relentless throb—because if writhing on the floor while your brain is attacked by an invisible aggressor sounds like a good time, well, the idea of fiery vomit ripping a torrent through your skull while you hug a porcelain bowl makes it a goddamn party...

Thankfully I’ve never actually vomited. (Knock on wood.)

And of course, through all this torment, I’ve prayed, prayed, prayed for it to stop.

It always goes on for hours. Hours. Six. Eight. Sometimes it continues until I crawl into bed and give up on the day. Food? Who cares. Water? I scoff at water—there’s no drinking. Drinking’s not for migraines... pffft.

And forget medication. Once it strikes, there’s no going back. You either manage to gulp down that blocker while the swirl of colourful aura takes a swipe out of your vision, or you suffer the consequences—there is no in between, and once the colours have faded, you’re fucked. Take anything else you want, hell, try voodoo for all I care—it won't help you.

And the longer you wait to take those meds? The worse the ordeal.

This was my downfall on Saturday. I walked out of a store and mistook the speck of my aura for sunshine glinting off a windshield in the parking lot. My auras track across my vision similar to an afterimage from bright light, and I often panic and mistake one for the other.

So I waited.

I shouldn’t have.

It was probably five minutes later when I realized my aura had grown to eat the left side of my vision, and if I hadn’t been on my own street, I would have pulled over and abandoned the thought of driving. I dug into my purse for my meds.

It was too late.

An hour later found me in the recliner, blinds drawn, blankets tucked, and cringing at the distant sound of my kids playing in the basement, while Mr Lannis tried valiantly not to clank utensils and dishes as he prepared a dinner I wasn’t going to eat.

Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as it could be. I was hit hard for the first hour or so, but the next four were better... I was functional, but barely. And then it was the blessed respite of bedtime.

I can’t remember the last time I’d come this close to a full blown migraine. Yeah—this was nothing next to the real thing.

Aura-migraine sufferers are paranoid by nature. We religiously carry our blockers (if we have them). We’re usually known for having pain meds on us at all times, but dole them out sparingly, lest we leave ourselves with nothing in the event we fear most: the cranial apocalypse that is the migraine.

Speaking for myself, I tend to pop my Advil liqui-gels at the teeniest speck invading my vision. I’ve probably consumed entire bottles of unnecessary medication, a single gel cap at a time, in the effort to stave off that avalanche onslaught of pain.

And I won’t stop. It’s terrifying, the idea of missing that vital medication. Yes, heart-stoppingly terrifying. Anyone who’s had a true migraine—not a headache they’ve blown into a migraine through hyperbole, but an actual migraine—understands.

The sources of my migraines? Plenty. Could be a weather system moving in, perhaps too much sodium, maybe hormones, or stress, dehydration, extreme bright light, exposure to perfume (my allergy), or any combination thereof...

In short: who knows?

So why am I grateful?

Well, this is the first almost-full-blown migraine I’ve had in years. In my blocker-pill-popping paranoia I’ve managed to dodge a lot, many, my fair share and more.

I’d forgotten the wear it has on the body, I’d forgotten the migraine hangover—which is exactly what it sounds like: a hangover. Sunday I lay on the same recliner feeling on and off energetic then exhausted, fine then nauseous, all. day. long.

I napped. A lot.

When I say it ate my weekend, it’s no lie. Two days gone. Poof!

Yet it made me realize: I am blessed.

I am blessed because it hit on a weekend, and I had nothing pressing to do.

I am blessed because my children are well behaved and if Mr Lannis whispers that they need to be quiet for Mom, they do so, without question or complaint.

I am blessed to have Mr Lannis, who lets me tag out and collapse on the recliner.

I am blessed that this catastrophic monster doesn’t hit every week, or every month, or even once or twice a year.

I am blessed that my blockers work—when I get to them fast enough.

I am blessed. Yes, my brain wanted to explode, and during that time I had difficulty piecing two words together to bear a coherent thought, but it served as a timely reminder...

I am blessed.

So yes, I’m grateful.

To Blog or Not to Blog...

Not a huge question to some, but I’ve wavered for a while. See, I used to blog periodically on The Mrs, but my partner in crime has since decided to shut down her show—completely her decision and justified, no ill-will here. I’ve also been known to write a book review or two over at Post Whatever, but content has been... lagging... for a while. Life interferes, especially with voluntary projects.

So do I open my own shop? Start writing my own blog? By running my own show I’d have a lot more freedom of choice—not that the previous partners were restrictive, but in principle, by calling the shots I only have to answer to myself...

(HEY! I can curse ALL I FUCKING WANT!)

So I lean towards doing it, but... but... but...

The thing is: it’s a lot of work.

To decide a topic, to write the post, to gather a corresponding image (the internet is a visual beast, after all), to grab a minute to put it all together and upload it for public consumption... And that’s just a single post...

What about subject matter? A focused blog? What shall I write about? Anything in particular? Or just all the rambly shit tumbling in my brain?

What about anonymity? Do I keep myself completely anonymous and let it all hang out? Or do I take a marginal step back, shield my family from strangers, but still share my posts with family and friends who know us? Blatantly labeling our family for the whole wide internet goes against my better judgement—but sharing a bit under the veil of partial obscurity, well, I could probably handle that (again).

Really, though, I wonder... do I want to commit? Do I have TIME? and if I do, does something else suffer?

That, then, is when I hit the truth...

When I was blogging on a weekly basis with The Mrs, I was highly productive in my personal writing. Now? Well, I have lots of edits that I keep putting off. Perhaps blogging would be the kick start that resets my internal mechanism into perpetual motion?

Here goes...