Greetings from the pit of despair

Four days ago, I started taking anastrazole, an aromatase inhibitor.

Totally different AI than is all over the news.

I feel like aromatase sounds like a police weapon. Like, "We aromatased him. He's still armed and violent, but now he smells like warm vanilla and amber."

Anyway, the oncologist had told me that the side effects of these drugs, which block estrogen so that any possible little breast cancer buddies have nothing to eat, are hot flashes, muscle and joint pain, and osteoporosis—although you get an infusion every six months to help with your bones.

I was like, oh, it'll be fine. I had all the hot flashes, so if I have a few more, they won't be that bad. And my hips already hurt, so I have that covered.

And I asked what I could do for those. (Like maybe was there a joint pain infusion, too?)

She said, "Exercise, especially yoga, is really helpful."

Oh. Yoga. I should try that.

I sleep with a fan blowing directly on me all the time. And my hips are screaming. Will this improve with time? I have to ask.

And now I have a headache all the time.

I've been thinking that surely I can't have a headache for five years...can I?

So I was kind of primed to fall into a pit of despair yesterday when I started reading in depth about invasive ductal carcinoma.

Prior to surgery I wasn't googling—Maude stayed up way too late and did that for me one night. She gave me the highlights of invasive lobular carcinoma.

I didn't know what lobules were before I was diagnosed. They're the glands that produce milk, and then the ducts carry the milk to the nipple.

It's the second most common kind of breast cancer. The most common kind is invasive ductal carcinoma.

When the breast surgeon drew the picture of the breasts to explain, the lobules looked kind of like broccoli. I had cancer in my broccoli.

So I knew that it was the second most common kind, and I knew from Maude that I was super duper lucky that the radiologist caught it so early. Because this kind grows in a linear sort of way, whereas the ductal kind causes a lump.

So this cancer of the broccoli is typically not caught until it's quite advanced and palpable.

Lucky lucky lucky.

Yesterday I started googling ILC and radiation to see what I could find.

Basically, thought it's the second most common kind, it hasn't been all that extensively researched. So when doctors are telling me they don't know the best thing to do, they really fucking don't know the best thing to do.

Also, it's more likely to recur than ductal. Typically years out, but sometimes sooner than five years. So maybe in a couple years or maybe in a lot. Also, this kind has more places it likes to go.

Because of it's particular characteristics, including being fed by estrogen and progesterone, it's well treated with endocrine therapy like AI. 

But! This kind also likes to become resistant to these therapies.

Fuckity fuck and more fuck.

This feels the opposite of lucky.

Why can't I be a normie?

So yesterday my OK/Terrible scale tipped all the way past terrible into a viscous pool of abject hopelessness.

I sat around looking at yoga clothing on my phone and trying to breathe deeply.

But the weird thing is, I'm well trained to look for the funny when things feel very bleak.

I think it must be training. Or maybe it's genetic.

I can't find the post, but somewhere in my archives is a story about visiting my dad in the hospital several weeks after a suicide attempt.

He'd been intubated for a while, then they made a hole in his throat for him to breathe, because they didn't know if his trachea had been crushed, and wouldn't know until the swelling subsided.

When he started talking again, it was in a whisper.

At one point, he had a roommate who only spoke Spanish. And he was waiting for the translator to come to help him communicate with the doctor.

I asked my dad if he wouldn't like to just translate for the guy. He shook his head.

And he whispered, "He's crazy."

This is just how it is.

There are always going to be funny things. Like, in an hour, the time changes. 

Sunday morning I'm going walking with a friend. She texted to confirm. "9 am? And remember, the clocks change tonight."

I thought about texting back that 9:00 would be 8:00, but then I didn't want to be confusing. And actually, the new 9:00 is actually 10:00.

This is the week I drive Nick particularly crazy.

So there's shit like this to fixate on, because the world still moves forward.

But the truth is also that it's very, very scary to think about. I think about pain, possible treatments and loss of function, and actual life or death.

I know that even when things are truly, brutally awful, I still more forward, one foot in front of the other. Even doing silly walks. It's just who I am.

So I know I can do hard things.

But why do I keep having to?