Boobs or no boobs, that is the question

If there was a stronger word than hate, I'd be using that word right now. Well, maybe there is...how about detest, abhor, or loathe? No, hate says it best. I hate, hate, hate going to the doctor, but today I had an appointment with my primary care physician so I had to go. Boo! So, I got up early and got a shower. I don't know why I made such an early morning appointment...note to self, don't do that again!

After my shower, I got on the scale. I wanted to see how much I weighed before I actually had to get on the scale at the doctor's office. First, I weighed without clothes and then I weighed with clothes. I was surprised to find a 2 pound difference with my clothes on. Next, I had to decide which shoes to wear. I wanted to wear some lightweight ones. I had two pair from which to choose...Crocs and leather sandals. Before putting them on, I weighed the shoes...yes, I know, a little obsessive but hey, we do whatever we can to keep the numbers on the scale as low as possible, don't we? The Crocs were the winner at just under a pound. I got back on the scale. Hmmm... with my shoes and clothes on I was up almost 3 pounds! Now, the real dilemma - should I wear my boobs or shouldn't I? I wasn't trying to be overly sensitive about my weight, but I knew my lightest weight prostheses weighed over 2 pounds. If I chose to wear my C cups, I'd be adding more than 4 pounds to my current weight. Decisions, decisions...what to do?

The last time I was at the doctor's office, he chided me on my weight. I hadn't gained anything since my last visit but he was encouraging me to try to lose weight. His reasoning was "Excess fat produces excess Estrogen in your body and the excess Estrogen feeds cancer cells." And since my specific type of cancer was fed by both Estrogen and Progesterone, I didn't want to take any chances on my body producing excess Estrogen. Since he'd given me that information, I'd become a little more concerned with watching the numbers on the scale and I'd started restricting my diet. Although I'm not currently presenting any evidence of disease; I haven't been declared cancer free. But for the next few years, all of my medical team will be watching me closely.

I put my scale back in the closet. I'd made a decision. I chose not to wear my prostheses to my appointment. Not only would I weigh less, I would be much cooler. The silicone breast forms warm up quite rapidly against my skin and make me feel uncomfortable. I don't like going sans breasts because I'm very self conscious about my appearance. But doing so would be far easier than trying to explain my dilemma to the medical assistant. I could just imagine her rolling her eyes as she held the clipboard and looked at the scale as I cleared my throat and said, "By the way, you are going to deduct 4 pounds for the weight of my prostheses aren't you?"

Why do we let our weight define us anyway? Is there really a perfect weight? Medical doctors have specific guidelines we're supposed to fall into based on our gender and height, but how many people actually fall into those ranges? In America, where food is plentiful and TVs constantly barrage us with commercials of tempting morsels, aren't we all a little overweight? If not, why do so many people slip off their shoes when it's time to get on the scale at the doctor's office? I rest my case.

© bonnie annis all rights reserved

Sometimes I just want to pull my hair out

Sometimes I just want to pull my hair out, especially when I read a friend's blog post and I just can't wrap my head around it. This morning, I was reading a post from a fellow breast cancer survivor. She said her cancer has returned and is growing in her spine. As soon as I read the words, I burst into tears. I just didn't understand! We'd been diagnosed with the same type of cancer in the same year. How could it be that her cancer had returned and mine had not? And what made it even more difficult to understand and accept was the fact that she'd chosen to go the traditional treatment route. I'd opted not to do that. She'd endured chemotherapy, radiation, and the anti-hormone therapy afterward. I'd refused chemo, had done 28 rounds of radiation, and had only taken the anti-hormone drugs for a couple of months. It just didn't compute and it certainly didn't seem fair. But that's what sucks about cancer. It doesn't follow the rules.

Cancer the gift that keeps on giving - the high cost of cancer

There's a basket of bills sitting in the corner of my bedroom. I try not to look at it as I enter the room but I know it's there. Its contents spill out onto the floor whenever my husband stuffs another bill into the basket. Usually, when the mail comes, he gets it first so he can filter what I see and what I don't see. Since he's the only one working, he takes care of our financial responsibilities and while I'm thankful for that, I'm not ignorant about our mounting bills. Cancer is expensive. Even if you've reached maintenance phase, it's costly. There are always tests to be run, blood to be taken, doctors to see. It never ends. Just knowing this will be a continual process for the rest of my life frustrates me and the alternative, death, will be my only way out. It would be nice to know that cancer could be a once and done kind of thing but that's only wishful thinking. Everyone knows cancer is a long and very involved illness. I had no id

Annual checkup yields good news!

Yesterday I went to the Cancer Treatment Centers of America for my annual check up. For those unfamiliar with the cancer treatment center, it's an integrative facility that provides services for the body, mind, and spirit. My day began in the survivorship department. While there, I met with the doctor and was asked about how I'd been feeling both physically and emotionally. We talked for about half an hour. The doctor and I had a few laughs and it was probably the most pleasant visit I've ever had. Instead of making me feel that she was the doctor and I was the patient, I felt like we were old friends just having a good chat. It was refreshing and I left her office feeling very optimistic. Next was the port lab where I have my blood drawn. It's always a challenge there because I always have to explain about my lymphedema and why it's necessary to have blood drawn from my hand instead of my arm. You'd think, after 4 years of being a patient there, they'

Journey Out of Pink

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